A.D. 30

by Ted Dekker

  But I refused to show my fear.

  The tetrarch lowered his silver goblet and glanced briefly at Judah and Saba behind me, but his eyes returned to me immediately. I thought wine might spill to the floor for the way he let his cup dangle from his fingers.

  “And tell me, queen where there is no queen, what brings you to this godforsaken land?”

  I was taken aback.

  “Hmmm? An old dagger that appears to be from the Roman governor who handed me this razed city? That is why you have come? To give me what is mine?”

  “No, my lord. I come for audience with you.”

  “An audience? Rami sends his daughter from so deep in the desert as a gift for me? To what end?”

  “Not as a gift. Only to present his word.”

  “And yet Rami doesn’t present himself. You think I don’t know the way of the Bedu? A sheikh would never send his daughter to do his bidding unless he had no other choice. Or is it that your father thinks so little of Galilee?”

  “He thinks of you only in the highest terms,” I said. “Or I would not be standing before you after so many weeks of travel. You misunderstand who I am.”

  For a moment I thought I might have offended him. But then a coy smile twisted his lips, and he approached slowly.

  “Is that so? Then tell me more about yourself, Queen Maviah. I know all about your father’s valiant efforts under the command of Aretas, who served Varus. And as you can see”—he spread his arms—“I have not wasted his victory. Tell me, do you like my city?”

  He spoke in a different way from those of the desert, more like the Romans, I thought.

  “As you say, you haven’t wasted my father’s victory.”

  “Nor has your father wasted his bravery. You know, I assume, that Aretas is the father of my own wife, Phasa.”

  “Yes.”

  “As I understand it, he repaid Rami well. Your father now controls the great trade route through Dumah, living comfortably on the taxes he imposes.”

  Herod stopped not three feet from me, studying my face and my shoulders with eyes that saw through me. I could smell the luxurious ointments that bathed his skin. He lifted his hand and ran the back of his fingers over my cheek. I immediately thought to withdraw, but I dared not.

  “I had no idea such beauty could come from so deep in the desert,” he said softly, as if speaking to himself. “With a proper bath and a little care, my slaves would transform you into the most stunning woman in all of Palestine.”

  He lowered his hand.

  “But we were discussing why Rami would send his mysterious daughter, not to Aretas, his advocate, but to me, whom he does not know. What business could your father possibly want with me, other than to woo me?”

  I did not know Herod’s full history, only what Saba had told me. Whereas this tetrarch’s father, also called Herod, had been a tyrant, Herod Antipas was by comparison a gentle man who had caused no great trouble. And yet among kings even the gentle might be ruthless.

  I had expected a display of power, not such a smooth tongue.

  He glanced over my shoulder in Judah’s direction. “And he sent you with a warrior who doesn’t like me touching you. Tell me, is it common among Bedu queens to so easily love common Jews?”

  Whether he was mocking us or merely playing with us, I didn’t know, but I could imagine the storm boiling in Judah’s veins, and my instinct was to protect him.

  “My slave is none of your business,” I said.

  He lowered his hand. “No? Now you misunderstand me, Queen. You see, everything in Galilee is my business. Not the least of which is the presence of such a beautiful woman in my courts.”

  He looked at Judah again. “You are a Jew. I am your king?”

  Judah answered slowly, only to keep peace.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then you know your place.” He addressed me, mirth gone. “Now, let’s stop playing games. Tell me what has happened in Dumah to cause Rami to send a slave to do his bidding.”

  He knew that I’d been a slave? My anger fell from me, replaced by dread. But of course he knew. Herod was as shrewd as any sheikh. If I had felt humbled before, I now stood as if naked before him.

  I found that I could not speak. The full reality of my true identity had been exposed before not only his eyes, but my own.

  He turned his back to me and walked to the window. “Join me, Queen.”

  I glanced at Judah, who offered me a slight nod and an encouraging smile. His self-restraint made him as strong as Herod.

  I crossed to the window and my gaze followed Herod’s. Below us lay the large theater. Its rows of seats sloped up to a covered colonnade that faced not grounds for battle, but a stage with tall columns and arched entrances from the side and the back.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “It is a wonder to behold.”

  “I built it after the Theater of Marcellus in Rome, designed by Marcus Vitruvius Pollio, architect to Augustus, the same architect who designed the waterworks under Rome.” He looked at me. “Did you know that I was educated in Rome when I was young?”

  “No.”

  “No. But then you hardly know me at all. That must change if I am to trust you.” He nodded at the arena. “Tell me, have you ever seen good hypocrites on the stage?”

  “I’ve heard of them.”

  “There is no finer entertainment in all of Galilee. Only the best of all hypocrites may take my stage. They take their roles seriously and perform perfectly, so one forgets that the role they play is not who they truly are.” He paused, then spoke softly. “You, on the other hand, are not the best of hypocrites. But I like you, so I will accept you as a queen.” He looked at me. “Fair enough?”

  “I am grateful.”

  He reached up and slipped my mantle off my hair so that it rested on my shoulders.

  “If you are here to play the part, then you must look like a queen, my dear. These clothes will not do. And we must have you properly bathed.”

  “Yes.” I was mortified and attempted to say what I’d come to say so that I could leave. “My father—”

  “Did you know that my mother was a Samaritan? An outcast in the eyes of most Jews.”

  He put his hands on his hips and stepped alongside the window, gazing down at the workers who slaved to repair the massive waterwheel behind the arena.

  “Forgive me, I did not.”

  “My mother was a Samaritan and my father was a monster who killed more Jews to maintain his seat of power than might die of natural causes in any year. My wife is a Nabataean. So you see, I am ruined from the start.” He turned to me. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Herod’s words sought to trap me, I thought. Or perhaps he was only looking for acceptance from someone who, like him, wore the cloak of shame among his own. I decided to offer grace to the man.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know the problem with most Jews, Maviah?”

  “No.”

  “They are terrified of being unclean. Even my insistence that you bathe is a part of the curse of my religion.”

  “I too would bathe,” I said, hoping to move past his confession. “Is it so wrong?”

  He ignored my question, for Herod heard only himself.

  “Our God demands the highest forms of cleanliness. To be unclean is to be cursed and punished by God himself. He judges the unclean and commands his children to resist any who want to take his Holy Land. It is said that any illness or misfortune is God’s punishment for uncleanliness. And do you know what makes one unclean?”

  “Only what—”

  “Many foods are unclean and cannot be touched. No food may be eaten without first the washing of hands. Breaking bread with sinners and the unclean also makes one unclean. All foreigners are unclean and must not be touched. Menstruating women are unclean. Anyone who touches a menstruating woman is unclean. Women who have given birth are unclean—forty days if they have a son and eighty if they have a daughter, because
daughters are not as valuable as sons, it is said. Anyone who touches a corpse is unclean. Anyone who touches someone who’s touched a corpse is also unclean. Anyone with a rash or fungus or skin disease, all such conditions which they call leprosy, is banished from the household and forced to wear rags and walk about crying, ‘Unclean.’ The laws are endless. For a rich man to follow them all is difficult enough; for the poor it is nearly impossible. What do you make of this?”

  I chose my words carefully, because I knew that Herod, as well as Rome, was responsible for that poverty.

  “I think that perhaps the Jewish god is the most demanding of all gods. Better to have the choice of many gods so as not to be victim of one who offers so little mercy. And yet the Bedu, too, resist any who take their land.”

  He raised his brow. “So the queen is as insightful as she is beautiful. You see? It is always this insane fear of one god or another that precipitates conflict. If the Jews weren’t enslaved to their code of conduct for fear of their God, they wouldn’t harbor such vitriol at this Roman occupation. It would make my life so much more simple. Truly, they are more enslaved to their fear of God’s disfavor than to Rome, which occupies many lands that don’t hate it so much. Rome builds roads and provides security and opportunity in exchange for a simple tax. Still the Jews insist on rebellion for fear of God.”

  “No man takes kindly to being under the fist of another,” I said. “The Bedu must remain free or they die.”

  “Yes, the Bedu. And the Jew. And you, Maviah, for you are a woman under the fist of all men.”

  I felt unexpectedly appreciative of his insight and this attempt to find a common ground between us.

  He sighed. “But take courage. I don’t take the way of the Jews so seriously as their religious leaders. To touch a foreign woman does not sentence me to suffering but to passion.”

  He smiled at me, then walked to the table that held his wine.

  “Now… tell me about your father’s problems.”

  Judah and Saba stood still, hearing all of it without any outward reaction, for they too were hypocrites now. Their presence gave me courage.

  I stepped to the room’s center, glanced about to be sure no one else had entered, and saw that none had. My audience included Herod, Judah and Saba, the guard Brutus at the entryway, and the silent servant by the table. I could not allow his wife, daughter of Aretas, to hear what I was to say.

  “Go on, Maviah.” Herod waved his cup at me. “Don’t be shy. Play your part.”

  I ignored his barb.

  “You know that my father’s control of the trade route was sealed with his marriage to Nashquya, niece to King Aretas?”

  He eyed me and took a drink. “Those crafty Nabataeans—always with the upper hand. Of course I know this.”

  “Did you also know that Nasha took sick and has passed?” I said. “And that the Thamud accepted Aretas’s blessing to attack Dumah for control of the trade?”

  He stilled with the revelation.

  “And Rami?”

  “Is taken,” I said. “But he is sheikh of all Kalb and would have his honor restored.”

  “Then you’ve come to the wrong king. Petra is your destination.”

  “I do not come for Aretas. I come for Rome.”

  He spoke after a long pause, cautious now, for there was no end to backstabbing among rulers.

  “A slave asks for the world,” he said.

  “As you said, we are all slaves. Giving Rome what she has always wanted would not be without its reward. With Rome’s help, all the Kalb under Rami will regain control of Dumah and the trade route. Together the Kalb and Rome would conquer.”

  He paced to his left. “And Aretas?”

  “If the Kalb and Rome were to join in the desert, no force could stop them, not even Aretas. He would accept the loss to protect his other interests in the west. Furthermore, you would not be harmed. I seek only an audience with Rome.”

  I could tell that the idea intrigued him, but Herod was shrewd.

  “You underestimate Aretas,” he said. “He is a worthy adversary with more wealth than he knows what to do with. Why do you think Rome keeps going back to him for assistance?”

  “Perhaps you underestimate the Kalb, who are as worthy. It is clear that Rome has ambitions beyond the Nabataeans. Perhaps you do as well.”

  I could not read him.

  “This was Rami’s plan or yours?”

  “Both,” I lied. “As you said, though slave, I am queen.”

  A voice cut my thoughts short.

  “A queen?”

  I turned to see a woman walking into the chamber, dressed in a long white gown with a golden mantle draped over her shoulders. Her arms were accented with gold bracelets. She wore a stunning pearl necklace over her breastbone and a band of pure gold about her forehead—appointments that made my own appear as if they’d been drawn from a river. Her skin was olive, betraying her Nabataean heritage, and her eyes were brown, set in a kind face. I thought her to be at least twenty years younger than Herod.

  “And who is this beautiful queen gracing Herod’s court?” she said, eyes twinkling like Judah’s stars.

  Herod quickly set his goblet down and walked toward her. “My dear Phasa. You brighten my day already.” He swept his arm toward me. “This is Maviah, queen of Arabia.”

  Phasaelis glided to me in slippers strapped to her feet with golden ties. “I had not known there was a queen of Arabia as of late.”

  I dipped my head. “I am from the Kalb, as far as Dumah.”

  “The Kalb. I have heard of no queen among the Kalb. But the Kalb are friend to my father and so friend to me. It is my honor to know you.”

  I had to tread carefully. “The honor is mine.”

  “What then brings you to this pit of despair called Galilee?” she asked.

  Herod caught my eye. “She comes with a gift from her father, Rami.”

  “A gift?” Phasa studied me, then let her eyes linger on Judah and Saba before looking at her husband. “For me, I hope.”

  “Of course… if you wish.” For a moment I thought she meant Saba and Judah, but Herod set my mind at ease. “She brings the very dagger that Varus gave him when he aided Aretas in driving the Zealots from Sepphoris thirty years ago.”

  “I see. A dagger. And to what end is this… gift?”

  “To the end that Rami knows how valuable my relationship with your father is,” Herod said. “And his ties with me as well. To the end that we be a family of kings and queens to rule this godforsaken desert.”

  Phasa approached me, speaking to her husband without regarding him. “Don’t be silly. You’ve shown no interest in me or my family for years. I doubt that a dagger will change that.”

  He stood still, unwilling to challenge her directly in our hearing.

  “Please, Phasa… be a good wife and prepare our guest,” he said. “Maviah has traveled many weeks. Tonight we would dine and show our appreciation for her.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  I was as surprised by her offhand dismissal of him as by his tolerance of it. She struck me as a woman who accepted but had not yearned for her position here. She, like me, was trapped in her role as a bond maker.

  Phasa touched my face with long, slender fingers, perfectly manicured. She smiled. “My dear, you have such fine bones and skin. Don’t you worry, I will make you shine like the stars. If my husband intends to enjoy your company, then I will as well.”

  She took my arm in hers and steered me toward the side entrance. “You will see, Maviah… we have the most beautiful baths.”

  “And what of my slaves?” I asked.

  Herod turned to Brutus. “Take them to the stockade for safekeeping,” he said. “See that they are watered and fed.”

  I stopped and turned, horrified by the thought. Saba stood unmoving, as he had since entering. Judah only nodded at me. At their side, Brutus’s smirk expressed a measure of contentment.

  “Don’t worry,” Herod said,
brow raised over a whimsical grin. “I’m not going to kill them. Only keep them safe.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PHASA, DAUGHTER of Aretas and wife to Herod, proved to be a delightful woman, far more intelligent than her cavalier attitude suggested. She flitted about with a goblet of wine always close at hand, thoroughly embracing all the advantages she enjoyed as Herod’s wife, seemingly uncaring of anything political—not for lack of understanding, I suspected, but because such matters would offer her nothing but worry.

  Rather, she seemed determined to enjoy her wine, and her gowns, and the lavish palace, and the servants who waited on her hand and foot, and, yes… me.

  I should say she seemed determined to care for me. Although the Nabataeans and Bedu are distinct, she swept aside formalities and treated me as she might a long-lost sister.

  She whisked me away to a wing in the palace reserved for her, speaking in no uncertain terms of how beautiful I would be. She immediately began to issue commands to her servants: draw a bath, prepare the soaps, bring cheeses and grapes and pomegranates. And more wine, the best from Zachariah’s vineyard, which she assured me was twice the value of any wine from Rome. Indeed, Rome imported Zachariah’s wine at a premium—one of the few good things besides gold and silver that flowed from Galilee to the Roman monsters, she said.

  She possessed both love and hatred for those who gave her husband power. Strangely, so did I. I was at once appreciative that Herod seemed receptive to my mission, and deeply bothered by his dismissal—indeed imprisonment—of Judah and Saba.

  Surely both Judah and Saba were safe, but why had Herod seen fit to treat them with such disdain?

  I asked Phasa this as she hurried me to my bath.

  “Don’t you worry about your slaves, dear Maviah,” she said, patting my arm. “If my husband wanted them dead, they would be already.”

  This offered me no comfort.

  “Though I will warn you to stay clear of his chief, Brutus. He despises all that is pleasant, not the least of which is me. He lost a brother to the Nabataeans. Among the soldiers Brutus alone hates me, but he is head of the palace guard. At times I wonder if my husband entrusts his safety to such a hateful man foremost to protect himself from me.”