A.D. 33 (3 page)

Silence.

I don't remember who voiced the first objection, nor the impassioned exchanges that followed and would surely continue for hours.

I don't remember, because in hearing my own mind spoken so clearly by Fahak, I knew the decision was already made.

The fear I had felt earlier returned with unexpected strength, like the scream of a demonic jinn in the middle of the night.

I was putting the lives of every man, woman, and child who'd followed me into the hands of the monster who'd killed my infant son.

Into Kahil's hands.

And yet I had another plan.

JUDAH BEN MALCHUS. It was his former name—he could remember that much, but darkness had swallowed the rest. Like a distant howl in the desert night, his old identity often haunted him, mocked him, then faded back into the void.

He was no longer son of Malchus of the Kokobanu tribe, those distant stargazers filled with wonder for the heavens and for the one who would, indeed
had
, come to save all of Israel.

He was now only son of bitterness, a man with no identity in which to place his hope or trust.

Judah lay unmoving in the pitch darkness next to a rough stone wall, only barely aware of the shackle around his ankle. The bars at the front of the dungeon were beyond his chain's reach—a security measure put into place after he killed two guards when they entered to tend the head wound he'd received in Petra.

The floor was muddy except for the strip where Judah now lay. They dumped the food through the gate, just within reach if he pulled his chain to its end and stretched out on his knees. A wooden bucket collected his waste and was emptied only once each week.

But his misery came from the darkness. Nothing could torment any Bedu accustomed to sun as much as two years of perfect darkness. No torches lit the chamber, nor the passage beyond, except when they came with food.

In the beginning, he was confused by the nourishment they served him and the care they took when disease took root in his body. Only after many months did he understand their intent.

Kahil meant to keep Judah's senses sharp and drive his mind into madness. Kahil inflicted no pain. No one discouraged Judah's obsessive strengthening or spoke words of confrontation. Darkness and solitude and utter silence were Kahil's tools of abuse. And these were unfamiliar enemies to Judah.

Realizing Kahil's purpose, he spoke to himself often and filled his mind with graceful memories of the past, reliving each over and over.

The liberation near Mudah, on the southern Nafud, where, at barely sixteen, he'd single-handedly tracked twenty camels stolen from his tribe, cut down two Tayy warriors on the outskirts of their camp, and skillfully avoided pursuit in delivering the camels back to his tribe. The elders learned then that Judah was not a common man among stargazers.

The day Rami bin Malik had taken Judah into his tent as his second in all matters of war. They had slaughtered ten goats and two camels that night, singing his praise until the rising of the sun.

Fighting by Saba's side in battle, knowing always that together they equaled twenty warriors. Were they not legend already?

Many such memories kept Judah occupied for weeks as he waited for deliverance, knowing that it would come in time. Saba was surely alive and free. Nothing could stop Saba.

The mighty sheikh, Rami, was also in captivity, but Judah had heard nothing of his fate. He served Rami still, but more, he served Maviah.

Maviah…

Nine of ten memories lingered on the woman he loved. Memories of her seated behind him after her camel had been swallowed by the storm in the Nafud. Her arms around his chest and her hot breath on his neck as he pointed out the stars that guided them by night.

Memories of her soft voice in his ear, asking him far too many bold questions for a woman. How he loved her for them all.

Memories of her lips upon his own, of her body pressed against his, seeking comfort and courage. Of her walking confidently into Herod's court, however unsure her heart. Of rescuing her from Brutus. Of her standing tall before King Aretas. Could anyone deny that she was a queen?

These and many other recollections were Judah's only companion for so long. These and his memories of Yeshua, the king who would liberate his people from Roman tyranny.

Yeshua, who had come with a sword to divide the people from their oppressors.

But in time, speaking became futile and the memories began to fade. Soon he could no longer recall what Maviah looked like without considerable effort.

Bitterness crept into his mind then, like a poison that at first fueled him, then began to eat away at his sanity.

Why had they not come? Or had they come, only to be defeated? But Saba would die before accepting defeat. So then, was Saba dead? The Thamud were still in control of Dumah. So then, had Maviah failed? And if so, was she still alive?

Eventually, the questions themselves drifted off into the darkness and he let them go, because he could not endure the pain they brought him.

It was then that Maliku started coming to his cell. There by the light of the torch, it had taken Judah a minute to recognize Maviah's half brother, the man who had shown his true colors of betrayal by leading the Thamud into Dumah to crush his own father, Rami.

Maliku returned to Judah's cell periodically after that, rarely speaking more than a few words, asking only if he might offer any comfort. In a show of mercy, he ordered the guards to place straw on the mud and empty the bucket of waste every day.

Judah was tempted to ask Maliku if Maviah was still alive, but he didn't think he had the strength to learn of her fate should she be dead.

Maliku continued to come, and Judah began to wonder if the man's Kalb blood had finally prompted regret for his betrayal. To live in such terrible guilt might be a fate worse than a dungeon.

Only yesterday a new thought crept into his mind. If Maliku suffered such dreadful guilt, what might have triggered it? Maviah's death. What else would cause such a turn in the man?

Maviah, the woman he cherished, was dead.

With that thought, Judah once again felt truly alive. For the first time in many months he could feel deeply. But the emotions crushed him, robbing him of breath so that he begged for his own death.

“JUDAH. You are needed.”

The voice was still far away in his dreams. Maliku's voice.

Iron grated against iron and Judah slowly opened his eyes to see the amber light beyond the bars—torches held by three warriors dressed in black tunics and leather battle armor. Between them stood Maliku, watching him through the opened gate.

“If you would see Maviah, then you must come peacefully.”

Judah blinked. Maviah? They had her body? Or she was alive…

“You must come in peace.”

He pushed himself up, pulse surging. They were going to take him from the cell?

Maliku turned to the guards. “Free him.”

They hesitated, then came in, and when Judah made no sign of resistance, they bound his hands behind his back, unshackled the heavy chain from his ankle, and hauled him to his feet.

Judah cleared his throat. “Your sister is alive?”

A moment of silence hung between them.

“Maviah has never been more alive,” Maliku said. He nodded at the guard. “Bring him.”

Surrounded by warriors, Judah walked down the corridor in silence, mind crawling back to life, filled with an urgent hope. Maviah was alive.

At the passage's end they were joined by two more guards, who led the procession up a flight of stone steps. Judah knew them well from his days as Rami's warrior, when the palace Marid had been ruled by the Kalb sheikh.

They passed into light. A ray of sunshine through a window both unnerved and mystified him. He'd forgotten what sunlight felt like. And yet, they would surely return him to the darkness below.

Then they were at the door leading into the chamber of audience, and then they passed into the large room where Rami bin Malik had once conducted his business with sheikhs from all corners of the desert.

But his power and wealth now belonged to Saman bin Shariqat, great warrior sheikh of the Thamud. The massive chamber's walls were covered by long silk drapes fashioned in the colors of the Thamud, yellow and red on black. Thick new carpets from Persia and India softened the fortress floor amid three elaborate pillars.

The tables were heavy with carved chests, overflowing with jewels and gold coins. Silver trays with matching tea sets from afar were on prominent display, likely gifts from merchants and rulers who'd passed through Dumah on their way to Petra or Egypt or Rome. Exquisitely stamped and appointed leather saddles, each separated by polished swords, daggers, and lances, lined the walls.

But silver and gold meant nothing to Judah now. He longed to see only one thing.

There was no sign of Maviah.

There was only Saman, dressed in the black fringed
thobe
of his tribe and seated on a large wooden chair banded in silver. On his head, a black agal bound a red-and-yellow headdress. Thick pillows with golden tassels rested on the floor, where those who came for audience would be seated. It appeared Saman had abandoned the customs of the Bedu for the ways of the kings.

Kahil bin Saman, the son who knew no mercy, stood at the window, hands held loosely behind his back, gazing out at the oasis of Dumah beneath the tall fortress. Judah wondered if this was the same window where he'd thrown Maviah's son to his death.

Like a coming storm, Judah's anger began to gather. And with it, nausea.

“Leave us,” Maliku ordered.

The guards left them behind closed doors.

“Hold your tongue,” Maliku said under his breath. “Trust me.”

He pushed Judah forward, and with that shove Judah knew the man wore two faces in this room—both Kalb and Thamud.

Saman watched Judah with piercing eyes, chin planted on the palm of his hand. Kahil turned and walked toward him, studying his frame.

“I'd nearly forgotten we still had you in the dungeon,” Kahil said. “You are what I do with dung collected on my boot. I can only hope that you will fully appreciate the sound and sight of twenty thousand dying women and children.”

“Enough!” Saman stood, glaring at his son.

Kahil dipped his head in respect and backed up.

Saman stepped off the platform, eyes on Judah.

“To raid and overthrow is a sheikh's right in the sands. Did I not crush Rami and take all of his wealth? In the desert did I not subdue those who resisted my power? Am I not the rightful overseer of all the caravans that flow through my city now?” He spoke with sweeping gestures. “Answer me.”

Judah offered the sheikh a nod, because this much was true.

“And yet even now they hover, twenty thousand beggars of all tribes, camped like stray dogs in the southern oasis. For a month now. On which winds did this illness infect the desert?”

“An illness that must be eradicated,” Kahil said absently.

Maviah. It had to be! No one else could have gathered so many.

“She calls herself the queen of the desert,” Saman scoffed.

Judah's heart pounded.

“She is no more than a fly to be swatted,” Kahil said.

Saman's brow arched. He retreated to his chair, sat heavily, and sighed. “You see what I have,” he said to Judah. “A son who cannot lay down his sword long enough to enjoy his spoil, and a traitor who would give me council.”

Judah looked at Maliku. What standing did the man have among the Thamud now? A traitor was a traitor, even in the eyes of those he'd benefited.

“Maliku claims that she will come unarmed.”

“This is the expectation of our informant,” Maliku confirmed.

“Only fools would come unarmed.” Kahil sneered. “But let them come—it will save us a march.”

“Cutting down twenty thousand unarmed Bedu, twelve thousand of whom are women and children, might be”—Maliku searched for the right word—“misunderstood.” He turned to Saman. “Would you have their blood on your hands, my sheikh?”

“We're already drenched in blood!” Kahil said. “What is a few more?”

“Peace will change the story that is told about the Thamud,” Maliku said. “It will change the tale for generations to come. Peace offered by Saman bin Shariqat of the Thamud. Not by Maviah, who is Kalb.”

But peace was not in Kahil's blood.

“Do you think they will simply vanish into the sands because we offer them peace?” Kahil demanded.

“They need some compensation for their loss. Many of their sons and daughters have been slain. But this might be a small price to pay for a legacy among the Bedu.”

Kahil's face darkened. “They won't stop until they've retaken Dumah!”

“I only offer my opinion to the great Saman.” Maliku bowed before the sheikh.

Something had tested and changed Maliku, Judah thought. Here stood a wiser man, tired of bloodshed. Could he be trusted?

Saman spread his hands. “To slaughter or not to slaughter. What do you, mighty warrior of Rami, have to say to this? Maliku insists that you are the prize Maviah would seek.”

Judah stared at the sheikh. To think they'd brought him into audience for his advice was absurd. Something else was afoot.

“Well? Have they cut your tongue out as well?”

Judah cleared his throat. “Though Maviah is a warrior, she has no thirst for blood.”

“And what of you?” Saman asked.

“I only say what I—”

“Do
you
have any thirst for blood?”

Did he? An old, seething rage churned in his bowels. But he dared not betray it.

“If there's any thirst left in me, it's for the blood of those who oppress my people in Palestine.”

Kahil grinned, brow raised. “And the woman who calls herself queen? You have no thirst for this whore?”

The rage in Judah's gut rose, heating his face. But he would not lash out, not until the day when he could drain the blood from both Kahil and his father. That day would come.

He spoke in a soft tone. “Am I to be ashamed of my love? To sit by the fire once again with a song in my heart and Maviah by my side…I would trade all the swords in the world for one night of peace with her.”

“You are a fool.”

“Do not underestimate him,” Saman said. “Bedu like Judah know only how to seek revenge.”

The sheikh sagged in his seat of power, eyeing Judah with suspicion as he absently twirled strands of his beard.