A.D. 33 (22 page)

And yet I had no doubt but that without Shaquilath's support, any mission to Dumah would only end in the deaths of myself and my son. So then, if I failed in Petra, I would go to my death in Dumah, because I had no will to live without Talya.

My mind often returned to Stephen and Mary and Martha, still under the shadow of misery there in Jerusalem. To the inner circle once so close to Yeshua. What would become of them now that he was gone?

They were still mourning, certainly, but had they returned to their lives, or did they all remain in Bethany to comfort each other?

Each day the sun rose, each night the moon. The stars remained fixed in the sky, the wind blew, the sand stretched as far as the eye could see. Nothing had changed in all the world, regardless of what had or had not happened in Jerusalem.

Mary, freed from her shame by Yeshua, surely lived in humiliation once more. Stephen, so hopeful of Yeshua's deliverance, would continue under the fist of Rome. The only begotten Son of God was dead, and so the sons and daughters of God were no more.

We approached the city of rock in the late afternoon on the fourth day, and we stopped when the mountain into which it was carved came into view.

“There!” Arim cried, eager for adventure. “We must go. It grows dark soon.”

I was filled with trepidation.

“Arim, what am I to you?”

“My queen, my queen.”

I nodded and faced him. “Your queen requires your service now.”

“And your servant begs to obey.” He dipped his head.

“I give you a very important task that only you can do.”

“Anything, my queen. Only say it, and it will be done.”

“You must return to the desert. First to Fahak, for news of the tribes, and then immediately to the Garden of Peace, south of Dumah. There you will learn all that you can and wait for word from me.”

He stared, dumbstruck.

“You may enter Petra first, of course, to buy what you need and eat what you please. But you must enter alone, after us. We don't know what fate awaits us. I need word of hope to reach the tribes. You will be my right arm in this.”

Upon hearing that he could enter the city, he accepted quickly. “I am your arm and your voice and your heart. Say no more, it is done.” A pause. “As soon as I've been to the city, only to buy what I need.”

“And to eat what you will. You must leave tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“You must be gone in the event there is trouble.” I sat tall in the saddle, gazing at the distant rock walls.

“Yes, my queen. I will leave in the night and ride like the wind. Five days—it's all I need to reach Dumah.”

“Five?” It was a ten-day journey at the least.

“And five nights. Arim needs no sleep in the service of his queen.”

I smiled at him. “You are my treasure, Arim. All the desert will know of your courage and strength.”

To this Arim slipped to the sand and fell to his knees. “Only because I serve a great queen unlike any the world has yet seen.” He glanced up at Saba. “And the mighty warrior who has won her heart.”

Saba and I left Arim after endless salutations and entered the city of rock as we always had, under the long shadows of the high red cliffs. The massive monuments to the dead carved into those cliffs had once filled me with wonder. Now they only portended doom.

When we turned onto the main street leading to the king's court, we were approached by four guards.

“They expect us,” Saba said.

Yes. Aretas had eyes in every rock. Did they also know about Yeshua's death?

The lead guard dipped his head in respect. “The queen awaits you.”

I nodded.

They escorted us, two before and two following, to the same court in which I had first met both Aretas and Shaquilath. Again we left our camels with the servants. Again we climbed the steps leading into the outer court. Again we approached the inner chamber from which Petra's council ruled.

It was all happening too quickly! I had to prepare myself. The last time I'd been tested in Petra, I had arrived with victory flowing through my veins, Herod's gold in my saddlebags, and Yeshua's power in my heart.

But now…

Using my shawl I quickly wiped the sweat from my forehead and tried to ease the pounding in my chest.

Talya. I commanded myself to think only of Talya and his song, his sweet smile, his vision of Eden.
It's still within you, Maviah.

“Inside,” the guard said, showing the way.

We entered. I glanced at Saba, who nodded his encouragement, then I took a deep breath and stepped into the room.

This time I didn't see the opulence of the majestic chamber or think about the power behind such splendor. My eyes were locked on the elevated platform, and my mind was fixed on the hope that the thrones would be empty.

Only the king's seat was vacant. Shaquilath sat in the other, alone.

The tall queen stood as we entered, watching us with piercing eyes that surely undressed my mind. If she didn't know already, one look into my eyes would tell her that I was lost.

Breathe, Maviah. Remember who you are.

I stopped ten paces away, not wanting to be any closer. Bowed.

“My queen.”

When I lifted my head, she was still staring at me. A thin smile lifted her high cheeks.

“So, the queen of the dead Messiah returns.”

She knew.

She knew, and I knew: unless I threw all caution to the wind, I would drown in this storm. With that realization, my fear subsided and anger replaced it. But I held my anger in check.

“Do you not know, Shaquilath of Petra, that unless a seed falls to the ground and dies, it cannot bring forth fruit?”

Her brow arched. “And she returns full of wit.”

The queen gathered her fitted ruby-red dress with one hand, and stepped down to the floor, five paces from me.

“It is true. In the desert death always precedes life,” she said. “Are you saying that we must die before we can work the magic of a dead mystic?”

I wanted to tell her it wasn't magic, but raw power from another realm, but that was beside the point.

“Naturally,” I said. “Something must die to give space for new life. The question is whether you are willing to count that cost.” I was speaking his teachings without fully believing them myself any longer. “But I can assure you, that cost is nothing.”

“Nothing?” She placed her hands behind her back, eyes on me. “Do you think I am without my means, Maviah? Since your departure I've learned more of this mystic named Yeshua. He requires the rich to give all they have to the poor. He requires his followers to drink his blood, and now he has no more blood to give them.”

My face flushed. “And did your informants forget to tell you that he also raised the dead?”

By her look, I knew she had heard this as well.

“Did you witness his power in your arena two years ago, or have you forgotten this as well?” I asked. I was too bold, perhaps.

“I remember well,” she said. “It was you who forgot the power. Remember? And now, hearing the fate of your mystic, I wonder if I'm still interested in it.”

What was she saying? That even if I succeeded, she would refuse to keep her agreement?

I scrambled for a strategy.

“What good is it to gain the whole world…”

I looked to my left and saw Saba standing beside a table piled with fruit. He held in his hand an ornament—a golden apple. He finished my sentence.

“And yet have no peace in your soul?” He tossed the apple in the air and caught it in his palm.

“Now your slave speaks for you?” Shaquilath demanded.

“He isn't my slave,” I said. “He is my head and my heart, and he speaks for Yeshua.”

“If you have a hundred thousand apples made of gold,” Saba said, approaching us, “and yet live in misery, longing for another thousand, you live in death. Surely you, Queen of Petra, already know this much. So then, what does it cost you to lose so many golden apples if you find true joy in their stead?”

He tossed the apple to a guard at Shaquilath's side.

“Filled with such joy, would not a queen find her place in history as the greatest among all queens?”

“Joy? What good is joy in the desert?”

“It's the only treasure your heart seeks,” Saba said. “But you know this already. For joy, would you not endure some other loss? Or would you remain in your misery, trying to eat apples made of gold?”

Shaquilath returned his challenge with silence, and I knew that Saba's words had shed light in a dark corner of her mind. But that illumination was quickly dimmed.

She looked at me. “Nevertheless, I did not agree to save your son in exchange for comforting words.”

“These are not mere words of comfort,” Saba said. “They are true words that point to a power far greater than any you can possibly comprehend. My only point, Queen of Petra, is that Yeshua's power comes to so few precisely because it is of immeasurable value. If Maviah chooses to share this power, then you, far more than she, have the greatest reward.”

Shaquilath blinked, but she didn't lash out or challenge him again.

“Fair enough.” She returned her attention to me. “You have told me what I wanted to hear. I'll put your words to the test, as agreed. Show me your power and I swear to you your son will be freed.” She turned to leave. “Follow me.”

So she had been leading us into such bold pronouncements. My pulse quickened.

“Would you have me turn the rest of your apples into gold at the snap of my fingers? No, not today. I've traveled far, as you know, and I must bathe—”

“Not apples, Maviah,” she said, spinning back. “Phasa.” For the first time I noticed deep concern etched about her eyes.

“Phasa?”

“She is not well. Aretas's daughter has been ill for a week now.” The fear she had hidden from us until now appeared in her eyes. “Our physicians and priests have been unable to improve her condition.”

Shaquilath's fear spread to me. The death of Nashquya, my father's wife and niece of Aretas, had opened the door for the Thamud to overthrow Dumah two years ago. Her illness was my father's test, and he had failed along with all of the Kalb. Saman ruled Dumah because Nashquya had died.

Phasa would be my test.

“She's near death?” I asked.

“No. But she's faint with a fever.”

Fever had killed Nashquya.

“I hope that your words are true, Queen of Outcasts,” Shaquilath said, voice low and certain. “Because if my daughter worsens and dies, I will personally see to it that your son dies like your mystic. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

My palms were moist and my mind was screaming, but I spoke with as much force as she. “I do…And I am telling you that I must rest.”

She stared at me for several breaths, then dipped her head. “In the morning then.”

“Yes. In the morning.”

She turned her back to me and strode to a side entrance, giving orders to a servant.

“Show them to separate quarters and be sure they are comfortable. Keep them under guard.”

And then Shaquilath, queen of Petra, stepped through the door and was gone, leaving me overcome with dread.

ALL OF HEAVEN darkened, leaving me in a despair so deep that I surely would have begged God to take my life, if not for Talya.

They ushered me to a room appointed with red drapes and black pillows on a deep blue bedcover, trappings of comfort and affluence. But those drapes became blood to me. And the black pillows tar pits; the blue my sea in which to drown.

I pounded on the door, crying out to be heard, but when the guard opened it and heard my demand to see Saba, he only grunted, shut the door in my face, and secured the latch once more.

I was terrified for my young son, so innocent. I did not sleep. Jinn tortured my mind. I paced, separated from Saba, who surely would have held me and whispered his words of courage.

I begged God to deliver me. I cried out to his angels to bring me peace and restore my power if only for Talya's sake. Had angels not found God's Son in the garden of Gethsemane and offered him peace? Then why not Talya and me?

Had they not finally washed Yeshua's mind of torment even as he hung on the cross? When would Talya's suffering and mine finally be over? When would we be able to say, with peace on our faces,
It is finished
?

The queen's servants brought food, but I could eat only a few grapes. Wine sat on a silver tray, untouched. If only I could spend an hour with Saba.

Deep into the night I finally lay on the bed, spent of tears. And there I whispered Yeshua's name. Once again I was there, at the foot of his cross, kneeling in his blood, gripping the post, weeping as his mother.

“Yeshua…” I sobbed. “Yeshua, let this cup pass from me…for you. I beg you, let this cup pass. For your will, for the will of the Father, let me save my son.”

And then, over and over to the Father, “Save your son, Talya. Save your son, I beg you. Save your son, save your son, save your son…”

I thought of Yeshua's teaching as told me by Stephen:
If you ask your Father for bread will he give you a stone?
Over and over I begged God to give me the bread of life, and sight to see, and power to overcome, even as Yeshua had overcome death.

But Yeshua had not overcome death. If he had, everything would be different. If he hadn't betrayed me in orchestrating his own death, I would have his life to wield. But how could I now trust the power that had failed him?

If I'd come to Petra a week earlier, while Yeshua still lived, I could have triumphed, surely. Why had he told me to stay in Bethany, knowing my faith would die with him? Why had he not sent me to save my son while he still lived?

My mind was again taken to his suffering. The torture of his body. Then again he became my son, and again I wept for him.

“Yeshua…” He and I and Talya…We were all overcome as one, children of death. “Forgive me, Yeshua,” I whispered. “Forgive the one who rages against you even in your death. Forgive me, a wretched woman born to die in shame.”

Spent by pain and fear, I finally lay unmoving on the bed, eyes on the window. The dawn came slowly yet far too soon. Now there was only one course for me.

I would rise. I would wash my body and face, I would anoint my skin with perfume and dress and prepare my hair, and I would be the mother who was queen. No one could see me so distraught.

My trust had to be in Yeshua even though I knew it was not. No matter. I would do what needed to be done, praying that the Father would heal Phasa and save my son.

An hour later a knock sounded on the door.

“The queen calls for you.”

SHAQUILATH WAITED. I saw her first, standing tall beside the bed, dressed in white, watching me as two servants led me into the large room.

Then I saw Phasa, lying under covers pulled up to her chin, hair tousled on the pillow. Her eyes were closed.

I scanned the room for Saba, but he wasn't present. A tall, bald priest to the Nabataean goddess Al-Uzza stood by the window, watching me with shadowed eyes, nursing a bowl of smoking incense.

“I trust you slept well,” Shaquilath said.

I nodded and walked forward, determined to appear confident, but I could hardly feel the floor beneath my feet.

“Where is Saba?”

“This is your test, not his,” the queen said. “In any case, I am told he spent the night weeping on his bed.”

Weeping…
Saba, dear Saba! What have I done to you?

She looked me up and down. “You look as weak.”

Resolve rose through me, if only because I knew I had little choice now. The time had come. I had to be strong.

“Did I look like a conquering queen when I came blind to your arena two years ago?”

She studied me. “Need I remind you what is at stake now that—”

“No,” I said. “You don't.” I took a breath. “Please leave Phasa and me alone.”

“Alone? No one is allowed to be alone with my daughter.”

“You think I would harm her so that you can harm my son? Phasa is a sister to me. If you want Phasa well, leave with your guards and take your priest with you. I must be alone with her.”

“I must protest, my queen,” the priest said, voice deep. “We don't know what spell comes from this foreign god she invokes.”

She looked at the priest. Then me.

“Be quick.” She started to leave.

“It will take a day,” I said.

“A night and a day? Don't be absurd!”

“Until noon in the least.”

“You've had your night to pray. Did you need a day to defeat Maliku in the arena? You have an hour, not a minute longer.”

She glared at me, and I finally nodded.

Shaquilath spun on her heels, motioning the scowling priest to follow her, and together they left the room.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and walked to the bed. Sweat beaded Phasa's ruddy face. Strands of damp hair lay on her forehead—how many times had I helped her fix that very hair in Sepphoris?

The white silk cover over her chest slowly rose and fell with her breath, which caught once with a soft rattle of phlegm, then resumed.

For a moment she was only Phasa, my dear friend now desperate for help. Compassion swept me away.

But then I remembered that she was my test. Talya would live or die by what happened here in the next hour.

I didn't know what to do. For several long minutes, I just stared at her, afraid to begin what might not work. I had no incantations or incense or special potions or words of magic. Yeshua had used mud to heal eyes, I'd heard, but mostly he used only words. Sometimes not even those.

I didn't know what to do except to pray. I spoke beneath my breath for fear they were listening at the door.

“Father, hear your daughter, who has no life except through you,” I whispered. “Heal this daughter who lies ill. Raise her from her illness and rescue my son through her health.”

Her chest continued to rise and fall. Nothing else happened.

So I prayed again. Using new words, claiming what he had promised Saba and me on the path to Jerusalem.

“Spirit of Yeshua, who lives in me and who will do whatever I ask, heal Phasa, whom you love as yourself. Show your power to me and to her and to the world by raising your daughter.”

The room was deathly quiet save that faint rattle in Phasa's lungs.

Again I prayed, repeating what I'd said and using new words. Again and again, thinking it would take time for the Spirit so far away to hear. But no, Yeshua had said that Spirit was within me.

Still Phasa slept on, oblivious to the world.

Then I remembered Yeshua's words.
Say to this mountain “be removed,” and it will be removed.
So then perhaps I must speak to the illness itself.

I stood by her pillow and extended my hand and I spoke to the illness, commanding it to be gone. I did this several times, but nothing happened.

For many minutes I prayed all manner of prayers as best I knew how. I begged God to save her; I cast out the demons that afflicted her; I invoked the Spirit of Yeshua to fill me and come to her aid.

But nothing happened. Nothing.

I remembered Arim, standing upon the table in Martha's courtyard, proclaiming with such boldness that by following Yeshua we would be like him, full of his power and known for it, the sons and daughters of God walking the earth.

His words, which reflected Yeshua's, now seemed to mock me. But of course they did.

Yeshua was dead.

And I knew then that nothing would happen.

I knew, without any doubt, that the power I'd felt in the arena, spawned by Yeshua in life, would not come to me now. He said that I would live because he lived. But he no longer lived, so his power could no longer live in me.

I felt the last of my sanity fall away. Gripped with panic, I lunged at the bed and I tore the cover off Phasa's dormant body and I yelled at her.

“Get up!”

My body trembled.

“Get up! Be healed! In the name of Yeshua, be healed!”

Phasa lay as though dead but for the rise and fall of her chest.

I beat the bed with both fists, sobbing with desperation. “Be healed! Be healed. Get up!” I grabbed her arm and shook it violently. “Get up! Get up!”

Her body lolled like a cloth doll's, dead to me.

I fell to my knees and threw my arms over her, weeping into the mattress now.

“My son…my son, Phasa! You have to wake, please. Please, Phasa…please…”

I heard a muffled voice through the door. They were coming!

Panicked, I jumped to my feet and pounded on her leg with both fists, full of rage. “Get up! Get up!”

“Back!” Shaquilath's voice shrilled from my left. “In the name of the gods, what are you doing?” she snapped, rushing toward me.

But my eyes were on Phasa, begging movement from her even in this last moment. I grabbed her leg and shook her again.

“Get up!”

Shaquilath gripped my tunic to pull me away. And I, mindless in defeat, flung my arm to deflect her. “No!”

The back of my hand struck her cheek. She staggered back, horrified.

Only then, stunned by what I had done, did I fully realize how firmly I had sealed Talya's fate. Only then did I surrender any notion of being a queen before Shaquilath, the most powerful queen in all of the world.

I fell to my knees and clasped my hands as if in prayer, weeping.

“Forgive me,” I breathed. “Forgive me, my queen…”

Her guards were already grabbing my arms to pull me up. Her priest crossed to the far side of the bed and was checking Phasa.

“I beg you…”

They hauled me up, but I kept my eyes on Shaquilath, pleading in the face of her outrage.

“I beg you, have mercy.” The words I then spoke came unbidden, spewing from my deepest place, where thought knows nothing. “I deceived you for fear of my son. I thought I could move heaven and earth to raise your daughter, but my heart died when Kahil took Talya. I found the power with Yeshua, but then they took his life, and with it, my own.”

The words tumbled out of me.

“Now who is there to save Phasa?” I sobbed. “I can't! I cannot raise your daughter. Neither can your priests. Then who? Who will now save Talya, my son? We are mothers who face only death.”

The guards started to drag me away, but Shaquilath held up her hand. Her glare softened.

“But the power is real,” I cried. “You saw that power in the arena with your own eyes. I, who was blind, showed you a power far greater than any you have seen.”

“She has cursed her!” the priest cried, straightening from Phasa's form. “Her condition worsens!”

Shaquilath hurried to her stepdaughter, touched her neck, then laid her finger under her nostrils. “She seems the same to me,” she said to the priest. “Don't overstep your place here.”

“You cannot deny that power, my queen,” I said. “It is alive and well, I assure you. But there's only one who now has this power. One untouched by all of this death and these lies.”

The queen watched Phasa's chest rise and fall.

“Yesterday you assured me that you would raise her. Why should I now believe a lying serpent like you?”

“Because it may be your daughter's only hope. And if I'm wrong, you lose nothing.”

“You think Saba can work the magic that fails you…”

“Not magic. And no, not Saba.”

“Then who?”

“The one who is still innocent, like a lamb. My son, Talya.”

Her brow arched. “Your son? The boy in Dumah? This is your ploy to save him? Do you think I'm also a child?”

I jerked out of the guards' grasp, fell to my knees before Shaquilath, and grasped the hem of her gown.

“He sees visions of perfection and knows the Way of Yeshua! Send for him. Bring him to Petra. He will show you this power. You have nothing to lose. I beg you.”

“Do not listen to her,” the priest protested. “She lies like this god of hers. Only Al-Uzza can—”

“Silence, you old goat,” the queen snapped. To me: “Get up!”

I rose, trembling.

“Saman will not be pleased to release his leverage on such a preposterous notion. His son gave you two moons, which will soon pass.”

I was frantic to make her understand. “Saman came into power only because Nasha fell ill and died under my father's care, infuriating Aretas. Only remind him that if he now stands in the way of your daughter being cured, Aretas will deal with him the same.”

She watched me curiously, calculating.

“If Talya fails,” I said, “then do what you will. But if you see this power, release us with all of the orphans to live in peace. It is all I wish.”

Shaquilath slowly paced, considering this new thought, which had only just come to me.

“Be careful what you wish for,” she finally said. “But I will grant you this last request. If he fails, your son will not be the only one to die.”

Saba and I as well, I thought.

“My queen,” the priest said. “Your daughter will not require their magic.”