by Ted Dekker
This was the seat of Aretas, and the Bedu were a mere footstool to be kicked aside.
“But now you will see where the true power of Petra sits,” Phasa announced, and she led us toward what appeared to be a great temple.
Steps rose to a huge terrace with three rows of columns on either side. I assumed this to be the temple to the Nabataeans’ patron gods. Did Aretas then rule from a temple?
I glanced at Judah, who had remained silent, as had Saba, for they both knew that their lives were now in the hands of Phasa. He saw my look and offered an encouraging nod.
“Remember Yeshua’s words, Maviah. Remember who you are.”
“I am the enemy of Aretas,” I replied.
“You are the savior of Phasa, his daughter. And Saba is her pet.”
Saba glared at him but said nothing. His muscles were taut under dark skin glistening in the sun.
“Do not fret, Maviah,” Phasa said, turning on her mount. “We are home.”
And yet I did worry.
We reached the foot of the steps and Phasa angled for a guard on station there. “Send word to Aretas,” she said. “Tell him that Phasaelis, his daughter, has arrived from Galilee and would seek his audience immediately.”
The guard stood still.
“Are you deaf?”
He glanced at two others, one of whom must have recognized her, for he took a knee.
“My lady.” He bowed his head.
“At least someone recognizes the daughter of their king when she presents herself. Have these camels quartered and bring the packs. I carry valuable cargo.”
They hurried then, four of them running not as guard but as slaves—three to the camels and one into the courtyard to relay her message. The guard in Herod’s courts did not jump for the queen as they did here.
“Come,” Phasa said.
I held myself erect as I followed by Judah’s side, aware that I was not dressed for my role. The clothes I wore were Phasa’s, made for travel, not for court. The fitted blue-and-brown tunic was made of the finest hide, and loose gathered slacks fell to sandals strapped to my calves with leather binding. My hair was braided and tied back with a blue band about my forehead.
At my waist I carried the dagger of Varus.
Judah and Saba were dressed as warriors and carried both knives and swords. Only Phasa wore a cloak—black—but not one so extravagant as to bind her as she rode.
She walked now with fire in her eyes and head held high, directly up the steps and into the courtyard, which stretched between the towering columns to another series of steps and the inner courts.
“This is the palace?” I asked.
“This is where my father conducts all of his affairs. He lives elsewhere. You will see, Maviah.” She looked at me. “Only let me speak. Say nothing out of turn.”
“Of course.”
We were halfway to the inner courts when a servant dressed in a white tunic hurried down the steps and ran to Phasa, bowing. “Phasaelis, daughter of Aretas, friend of his people. The king awaits.”
“Lead us.”
The servant lifted his head and glanced at Judah and Saba.
“They are my slaves. Lead us!”
“Of course, my lady.”
He led us up the steps into a grand room that at first appeared to be a theater. Or a court. Seats ran on either side, facing a bare marble floor, finely carved and inlaid with rich colors. Everything my eyes saw spoke of exquisite workmanship and vast wealth, from the rich drapes to the golden lions positioned on either side of the entrance.
Light streamed in from windows near an ornately tiered ceiling arched in the Roman way.
“Phasa!” The voice thundered from a raised platform across the theater, and I lifted my eyes to see the true seat of power in Petra.
There, beyond yet another flight of five steps and four columns, stood two thrones made of silver and wood. On either side, fixed stone tables ran the length of the landing. Sculptures and tall lampstands made of silver appointed the platform.
“Phasa!”
A man with graying hair rushed down the steps. His beard was drawn to a point and tied with cords. He was dressed in a loose multicolored robe, untied in the front to show white undergarments. His feet were bare and slapped on the marble floor as he hurried forward.
By the golden rings on his fingers and the silver bands on his wrists and forearms, I knew immediately that this was Aretas.
He stretched out his arms and cried out as if he’d found his only treasure.
“Phasa, love of my life! You have returned to an old king before his death. Al-Uzza has answered my prayers!”
He threw his arms around her and held her close, and for a moment I thought he might weep for his joy.
She kissed his face and beard. “Father, how I missed you!” I thought she too might burst into tears. Arabian blood ran thick in their veins.
I glanced up and saw that a woman of elaborate tastes, taller by a hand than Aretas, had left the table where they were feasting with several other royals and was striding to the edge of the platform. Unlike Aretas she was dressed in perfect fashion, red and purple silk drawn tight around her slender frame. Jewels sparkled where skin was to be seen, and her dark hair was piled high, bound in place by thin golden cords.
She did not hurry down the steps—doing so might have caused her to trip, for her gown was narrow to her sandaled feet.
This then was Shaquilath.
Phasa was the daughter of Aretas by his first wife, born before Shaquilath had become queen.
“Shaqui!” Aretas cried, turning back. “You see who has come to visit us.”
“I see.” The queen’s mouth formed half of a smile. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?”
Phasa offered a slight bow, but her tone was less exuberant with the queen. “It is my greatest pleasure to see you as well, Mother Queen.”
“You are well?” Aretas demanded of Phasa.
“Of course, Father. And now that I am in your court, I am the most favored daughter known to the world.”
Aretas took Phasa’s hand and pulled her toward the landing. “Join us in drink and food. You must tell us about your journey. Everything. We weren’t told of your plans. Why did you not send word?”
Saba, Judah, and I were left standing in the middle of the floor. None of us had thought to bow. Unsure, I remained still.
They had reached the foot of the steps leading up to the thrones and banqueting table when the queen spoke.
“Aretas?”
He stopped and glanced up. “Yes?”
“Who are they?” Shaquilath stared at us without pointing.
Only now did Aretas become aware of our presence. He looked back and stared at us, then at Phasa for explanation.
“They are my slaves,” Phasa said, smiling. “My guard. How else would you have me cross such treacherous ground to reach my father?”
“They are Phasa’s slaves,” Aretas said, satisfied. Then to a servant, “See that they are fed and bathed.” Then to Phasa, “Come.”
“And why are your slaves Bedu from the desert?” Shaquilath asked, not in an accusing voice, but still firm. “Where is Herod’s guard?”
Sweat clung to my brow and my heart beat heavily, for it knew too well the danger at hand.
“Judah and Saba could slay ten of Herod’s guard,” Phasa said. “There is no match for the Bedu save the Nabataeans.”
Why was she delaying the simple truth?
“There you have it,” Aretas said. “Judah and Saba. Only the strongest for any daughter of mine.”
“And the woman? What is her name?” Shaquilath pressed.
Phasa hesitated, but would not lie.
“She is Maviah. Daughter of the desert. As strong as any man.”
Stillness fell upon the room and I knew immediately that my name was known.
“Maviah,” Aretas said, slowly turning back to me. His countenance had shifted. “And where does Maviah come from?”
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“From Dumah,” Phasa said.
“From Dumah. Who is your father?”
I, no more than Phasa, could undermine my character by lying, so I did not hesitate.
“I am Maviah, daughter of Rami bin Malik.”
Aretas released his daughter’s hand and glared. He strode toward me, glancing first at Judah and Saba just beyond me.
“The daughter of the sheikh who fails me comes to my court with my own daughter?”
“The daughter of Rami, the great warrior who brought you great honor at the side of Varus. Rami, the conqueror whom you yourself once celebrated with great—”
“How dare you!” he thundered, eyes fired. “Do you think that I do not know what happens in my kingdom?”
“You fled Dumah with the dagger of Varus,” the queen said.
How much they’d learned of my mission I could only guess, but I was now wholly at their mercy.
“I did. And I have now come to you of my own free will.”
“Then you have come to your death willingly.”
“No, Father!” Phasa rushed to Aretas. “You must listen to me. Whatever you think you know, it is only half. If not for Maviah I would be dead. How can you have so little mercy on the one who is the savior of your own daughter?”
“What absurdity is this?” Shaquilath demanded. “Where is Herod’s guard?”
Phasa ignored the queen, pleading instead with her father.
“Did you hear me, Father?” She pointed to me, growing more bold. “If not for this woman who is like a sister to me, I would be dead. She and her slaves have saved my life.”
He was slow to respond, eyeing me with great suspicion. “Nashquya, my niece entrusted to your family, is dead,” he said. “In what manner has Rami angered the gods? He has betrayed me, and my blessing now remains only with the Thamud, who even now grace the courts of Petra. And yet here stands the daughter of Rami bearing the dagger of Varus, begging favor.”
The Thamud were now in Petra? An image of Kahil bin Saman throwing my son from the window flashed through my mind.
“Nasha was my dearest friend,” I said, unable to still the tremor in my voice. “I mourned her passing more than any. And I—”
“A slave cannot mourn the passing of Nasha like her own blood!” he thundered.
“And did I not also lose a father?” I said, knowing that it was too bold.
“Your father? Rami is in chains, begging for his death, a just punishment for the death of Nasha!”
“I am your daughter!” Phasa cried. “And Maviah has saved this daughter of yours from certain death. I beg you hear her.”
Shaquilath’s voice cut through the hall. “Where is Herod’s—”
“Herod’s guard is with him!” Phasa cried, spinning to the queen. “And with the woman he would take to be his wife.”
Her voice rang out to rob the room of breath.
“The pig took me as his wife only to satisfy you, Father, but you know this already.” Her jaw was taut as she leveled each word in accusation. “Now his longing has been satisfied with Herodias, the wife of his brother, Philip the tetrarch, and he conspired to have me die of illness, fearing that to divorce me would enrage you.”
“Impossible!” Aretas roared.
“Is this not in keeping with the ways of his father, Herod the butcher? He has cast me aside and I would surely be dead, but for Maviah. It was she who learned of this plot and demanded that I return to you with Judah and Saba to save me from death. She came even knowing that you would despise her. For this she should be celebrated, not accused of betrayal!”
The revelation had taken them all by storm, and neither Aretas nor his queen could immediately speak.
“You must hear her, for she is—”
“Divorce?” Where Aretas had been angry before, his face was now pale.
“How can we know this is true?” Shaquilath demanded. “She told you this?”
“You question my word?” Phasa demanded.
“I question her!” The queen pointed at me as she approached. “She was the one who told you that the king would take up with another woman and divorce you. How do you know this is true?”
“Because I know my husband,” Phasa cried. “I should have known many months ago, but my eyes were blinded by my own captivity. Herod would have me dead. He will take up with Herodias, you will see.”
Aretas seemed not to hear their exchange.
“They think I am too old to defend my own honor?” His hands were fists and he paced away, staring at the floor. “They have forgotten what we did to the Greeks when they tried to defy the Nabataeans? To the Romans when they sought to suppress our control?”
He spun back to us and thrust a finger in the air, face scarlet. “No man can defy the power of the Nabataeans and live! I will crush that insolent little bastard. I will crush his armies and scatter their bones. How dare he cast aside his covenant with me for his own lust!”
“We cannot know this to be true,” Shaquilath said. “Herod may be weak but he is not such a fool.”
“Do you know him?” Phasa demanded. “Have you bathed him and fed him too much wine?”
They were lost in passion and I knew that unless reason was brought to bear, the outcome might not favor me, so I stilled my heart and spoke in a calm voice.
“All will be known soon enough. If our words lie, then judge as you see fit. But I am sister to Phasa and have delivered her to safety at my own peril. For this I ask only that you hear what I have to say. There is a way to deal with Herod for his treachery.”
“How dare you tell the king how to deal in matters of state!” Shaquilath hissed.
Phasa glared. “Is a queen’s word so worthless, Mother?”
“She is no queen!”
“I am,” Phasa said. “And I say that she is.”
“Silence!” The king’s jowls shook. He caught his wife’s angry stare, hesitated for a moment, then regarded Phasa, speaking in an even tone. “Mind how you speak to your queen.”
Phasa thought better of pushing the matter.
“Yes, Father.” Then, to Shaquilath, “Forgive me.”
“If what you say is true,” Aretas said, “then I swear before Al-Uzza that all of my fury will rain down upon Herod and all of his armies.”
“If what she says is true,” Shaquilath said. “We will not take the word of a slave from Dumah.”
Aretas glanced at me. “No, we won’t.”
“Put her in chains until we have word.”
For the first time since our entering the courts, Judah’s passion took over and he stepped forward.
“I beg you, as Judah, mighty warrior of the Kalb who does not know the meaning of a deceitful tongue, what my queen speaks is true. I beg you have mercy and honor her as your guest.”
“She is your queen?” Shaquilath said. “And you, a Jew who knows only treachery. How dare you speak in my court!”
“Forgive me, I only—”
“Do not speak to my queen,” Aretas said. And then, to the guard behind us: “Put them all in chains.”
“Father—”
“Separate them,” Shaquilath said, turning back to the platform.
Aretas glanced at his daughter but did not defy his queen.
“Separate them and put them in chains.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
MY FIRST THOUGHT when the guards seized me and pulled a hood over my head was for Judah. He would go gracefully, I knew, because Judah was not threatened by any dungeon. But I was the cause for this, his second imprisonment far from his true calling in the hills of Galilee.
I did not cry out. I did not resist, but beneath the dark cloth my eyes were wide with fear.
“Remember who you are, Maviah. Remember!”
They were the last words I heard from Judah before a blow sounded on his flesh. Phasa protested, but her father obeyed his wife.
Confused and terrified, I was led from the courts and away from the city bustle, then down a long fli
ght of steps into damp air where keys rattled and gates were opened. They threw me into an earthen cell, moist but not muddy, that smelled of moldy straw.
Not a word was spoken to me.
After waiting for the sound of the guard’s feet to leave me, I pulled the hood from my head and stared into the darkness. The sound of a distant gate clanking shut reached me, and then I was swallowed by silence.
“Judah?”
My prison rang hollow. I could make out the bars of the cell, but barely, like faint shadows in the dark. There was no source of light, no matter which direction I looked.
I pushed myself to my feet and slowly approached the bars. Peering beyond, I could not make out the passage—it was too dark.
“Judah!”
The only reply was the pounding in my own chest.
So, then, I was alone until Phasa could convince Aretas and his queen to believe my claim. A day at the most, I told myself. Phasa had her father’s blood and would not remain silent. Had I not been like a sister to her? One day, perhaps two.
I felt my way along the stone walls, found the corner, and settled to the ground, hugging myself for comfort.
I had suffered much in my life, both as a daughter and as a slave, but I had never been imprisoned in the dark with only my thoughts to keep me company. And my thoughts, I soon learned, were my greatest enemy.
You see what you have done, Maviah? You see how hopeless is your life? You see how fear stalks you in the dark? You see that you are only a slave?
The thoughts were lies, of course, merely fear tempting me. I must face that fear and weather its storm. Had I not received this word so powerfully from Yeshua?
But his words now seemed to speak from another world, as far from me as the heavens themselves. I tried to keep my mind on his voice, and I managed for a while.
Without day or night, there was no way for me to keep track of time. Light came in the form of a torch, many hours later, but only long enough for a guard to shove a bowl of water and a lump of bread into my cell before retreating.
I clambered to my feet. “Wait! May I speak to Phasa?”
