Messiah: The First Judgement (Chronicles of Brothers) (21 page)

Ahead in the distance, barely visible through the seething sand storms, a tall lone figure walked across the sands, His white linen robe blowing furiously in the desert gales. He stood directly in the Arabians’ path. Unmoving. He raised His hand. One by one, the Arabian stallions came to a grinding halt in the middle of the barren wasteland, refusing to shift, rearing and snorting in terror.

The stranger moved nearer the horses. Jotapa watched in astonishment as He lifted His hands, deftly making the secret calls and signals that she was certain only her father’s royal trainers had access to. Instantly the stallions calmed, nuzzling the stranger’s hands.

Saleem kicked his steed, but it refused to move any farther. Jotapa turned her head to the stranger, apprehension mixed with her anger.

‘A fool and his sorceries!’ shouted Saleem. ‘Get him out of our path. Use the whips!’ Jesus calmly stood His ground.

Jotapa’s eyes met His. Incensed, she glared at Him. He smiled.

Impatiently she dismounted. Saleem immediately took out his whip and moved angrily over to where Jesus stood.

Jotapa, suddenly fierce, grasped Saleem’s arm. She shook her head haughtily, giving Jesus an imperious glance. ‘No, Saleem, I will deal with this, this
impertinent
stranger.’

Saleem fell to one knee. ‘Yes, princess.’

Jotapa stretched to her full imperial height, pulled the black hood of her robe over her head and thrusting her body against the raging sandstorm, marched with immense difficulty directly up to where Jesus stood. He watched her intently, restraining His amusement at her peevishness.

‘How
dare
you?’ She stood in front of Him, her eyes flashing with arrogance from under her hood. ‘Have You any idea precisely whose path You block?’

Jesus bowed His head.

‘Look at me, stranger!’ Jotapa placed the whip directly under Jesus’ chin.

‘You address the princess of Arabia!’

With great effort, she pushed His face up to meet her eyeline.

Jesus raised His head, His dark mane lashing against His high cheekbones. His face radiated with such a brilliance that Saleem and his generals held their arms in front of their eyes.

Jotapa stared at Him apprehensively. He was about her age.

Her unruly black locks blew over her face under her hood. Jesus reached out His hand, gently moving her hair from her eyes. She stared at Him, thunderstruck, her mind racing back to a distant far flung memory – a moment in time more than thirty years earlier when the young King and princess first met. He turned her left palm around; she gazed at a small scar hardly visible on her palm.

The whip slid from her hand onto the desert floor. She stared at Him in stunned silence. ‘Your father, Aretas, protected My house once,’ He said softly. He took her slim painted hand in His. ‘Tell him from Me, Jotapa, that his Hebrew friend has not forgotten. My Father shall not fail to protect his house. That My kingdom is come.’

Jotapa stared at Jesus, strangely mesmerized.

Saleem, now recovered, strode towards Jotapa, his sword raised. ‘Princess!’ he cried, gesturing behind them at Antipas’ royal guard, now fully visible, thundering towards them on the horizon. They will slaughter us.’ He glared at Jesus darkly. ‘With no mercy!’

Jesus smiled. ‘There is no need to press the stallions, faithful servant of Arabia.’ His voice was calm. ‘Antipas’ men have turned back. Ride in peace.’

The hardened Saleem looked over his shoulder, then stared, dumbstruck. The desert sands were empty, silent. The furious gales had abruptly reduced to a gentle breeze.

Saleem frowned, bewildered. Strange tears pricked his eyes. He bowed his head to Jesus and saluted, then turned back to his generals, brandishing his sword high. ‘The gods have protected the king’s daughter. Let us ride to Arabia!’ he cried.

When he turned back, Jotapa stood staring, transfixed, at the vast expanse of desert. The imperial white figure had vanished.

* * *

Charsoc paced up and down the portico of the exotic hanging gardens in Lucifer’s newly created summer palace listening to the faint thundering that echoed through the crimson dusk, the sound of the fallen in their monstrous war chariots, returning from Mount Quarnel in Palestine. The thundering grew to a crescendo as the legions of war chariots set down on the rolling lush lawns of the palace.

Lucifer’s elite black guard stood at attention, petrified as Lucifer stormed down from the chariot, his cloak wrapped tightly around him, whip in hand, his countenance like thunder. His steel boots pounded ferociously on the sapphire pathway as he strode beneath the canopies of the willow and juniper, down the majestic pavilions of cedars and great oaks, trampling down the beds of lilies fiercely in his path. Close behind followed Asteroth and his elite guard. Storming through the golden vaulted rooms and out onto the great eastern terraces, he threw his scarlet cloak onto the marbled floors. He flung himself down on the silver throne at the head of the immense table, draped in white satin and elaborately set for a huge banquet to celebrate his certain victory over the Nazarene. Six immense golden candelabras, each holding a hundred black tapers, illuminated the terrace. The frankincense burned and spluttered fiercely.

Lucifer sat in silence, and then held out his hand. Nothing stirred. Balberith lifted a silver flagon filled with exotic berry elixirs and, with trembling hand, poured the liqueur into Lucifer’s jewelled goblet. Eighty courtiers stood around the terrace, waiting in trepidation. Lucifer sat like stone. Moments passed. Then slowly, deliberately, Lucifer turned the goblet upside down. He watched the crimson elixir pouring out, staining the satin cloth, his expression inscrutable. Then with one wrench, he heaved the cloth from the table, the fine crystal goblets and silver dishes smashing into smithereens onto the lapis lazuli floor.

Flinging off his outer robes, he dived into the deep indigo waters of the immense pools that flowed outside the terrace’s magnificent sapphire balconies.

Lucifer’s powerful limbs sliced through the water with a savagery that set the colossus Asteroth trembling uncontrollably. Charsoc walked up through the gardens, to the pool’s edge.

‘The Nazarene?’ Charsoc raised his eyebrows to Asteroth.

‘He did not succumb. The Nazarene won the contest.’ Asteroth stared at Charsoc, ashen.

‘We failed,’ Charsoc whispered in dread.

Lucifer heaved himself out of the pool, and Balberith ran to his side with a white satin robe. Lucifer snatched it from Balberith’s grasp and flung it over his shoulders, then slowly placed his feet in the silver slippers laid out for him. He walked over to the very edge of his hanging gardens. Silent. Not a muscle of his face moving. Restraining his rage with iron discipline.

‘We leave for Perdition at dawn with the Ark of the Race of Men,’ he muttered. Lucifer turned to Charsoc.

‘Let us be prudent.’ He plucked a golden pomegranate from a tall tree hung with thousands of white blossoms and took a large bite. ‘Summon the Darkened Councils of hell to the Black Palace. Summon them from the Second Heavens and from under the earth.’ Lucifer’s voice was very soft. Dangerously soft. A smile flickered on his lips.

‘How much damage can a carpenter from Nazareth
do
?’ he shrugged. He held the pomegranate to his lips, then turned back to his staring out across the vast Babylonian plain, his expression sphinx like. The pomegranate fell from his hand onto the grass.

‘How much ... indeed?’ And he ferociously crushed the half-eaten fruit under his slippered feet.

Chapter Nineteen

Zahi

Jotapa rode like the wind on her grey mare, exhilarated, feeling the rush of adrenaline as she raced past the palace pavilions and the amphitheatre, leaving the magnificent Arabian ornamental gardens and the royal hunting parks far behind her. She was back in her beloved Arabia.

She raced across the vast palace grasslands, under the stately rows of ancient palms, past the royal pistachio, cashew, and wild olive groves onto the burning white sands. She slowed down the horse’s pace as she arrived at the royal black tents where Aretas’ royal relatives dwelled. Six young Nabatean princes, intent on training the royal horses, waved furiously as her mare sped by eagerly, shouting to her, their voices rising in excited gabbled Aramaic salutations as she galloped past.

Finally Jotapa arrived at the entrance to the sumptuous Royal Stables, with its ornate gold fretwork. She dismounted. Aretas was unaware of her arrival, absorbed in fellowship with his favourite Arabian stallion. He whispered endearments and fed him from his hand.

‘Papa!’ She ran to him, flinging herself into Aretas’ arms. Aretas kissed her on both cheeks, and then held her fiercely to his breast. He looked down at her, his eyes moist, deeply moved.

‘I am so thankful you are safe, my child,’ he whispered, wiping an errant tear from his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I climbed at dusk to the high place and sacrificed in appreciation to the gods...’ He hesitated, ‘And to the Hebrew.’

Jotapa nodded. Gently she unclasped herself from Aretas’ arms and stepped back and studied the Nabatean king.

He looked older, much older than when she had left Petra to become a young bride. His hair was greying, and the handsome face was lined, but she loved it. He looked like the wise and mighty sovereign he had become, devoting his life to the welfare of his people. They walked arm in arm out of the stables, their hands clasped together in great affection into the area of the great tents, Aretas leading the great Arabian steed by its halter.

‘You remember the legend I taught you when you first learned to ride?’

‘I was but four; I rode with Mother.’

Aretas nodded, his eyes suddenly moist.

‘And the angel Gabriel took a handful of south wind and from it formed a horse, saying, “I create thee, O Arabian.” He whispered, “To thy forelock, I bind victory in battle. On thy back, I set a rich spoil, and a treasure in thy loins. I establish thee as one of the glories of the earth...”’

Jotapa continued softly,
‘“I give thee flight without wings...”’

‘Look at his form,’ Aretas murmured. ‘Have you ever seen such symmetry, Jotapa? Such beauty? Our horses are the finest in the world – bred for endurance,’ Aretas’ eyes gleamed. ‘Agility ... and speed!’

Aretas stopped in mid stride as they passed one of the black tents. One of the young princes, a small brown-skinned boy of twelve, was whipping a young mare, which was snorting and whinnying.

Aretas frowned fiercely, grasping the boy’s arm in a vice-like grip.

‘You blunt her senses by the overuse of the whip.’ He threw the whip down onto the sand, then looked up, noticing spurs on the horse. His expression grew black and thunderous.

‘Spurs! You abuse the royal horses!’

‘She was rearing, Your Majesty.’ The child lay on the ground trembling, his face in the dust. ‘She kicked Mahmoud.’ He pointed to a four-year-old lying trembling on the sand, then hastily reburied his face in the sand.

‘Your voice trains the horse to habits of gentleness and attachment, so its senses are not blunted by abuse. As it feels the touch of your hand, the coaxing of your legs, it darts away like the wind. If the rider is dismounted in the chase, the horse instantly stops till he has recovered his seat. These are the royal Arabian horses of Aretas, King of Arabia.’

He walked over to the sobbing little boy lying in the dust. ‘Hush, Mahmoud,’ he whispered, examining the bruised leg. Then, scooping the child up in his arms, he cradled him to his chest, moved over to the mare, and placed him on her back. The mare looked into his eyes with her own clear trusting ones.

‘You recognize her, Mahmoud; it is Felah – she used to share your tent – you used her neck as a pillow when you were an infant. Now, speak to her, Mahmoud – as I taught you.’

The boy whispered in the mare’s ear. Instantly she calmed down and started a slow even canter around the tents. Gentle. Perfectly calm. Jotapa watched intently as Aretas signed the horse deftly.

‘Papa...’ she hesitated, ‘the Hebrew used your secret signals on our horses.’

‘Impossible!’ Aretas turned. ‘Our horses are trained to respond only to the sign of the king and the royal guard – these signs are an ancient Nabatean kings’ signs. Known only by myself ... and my generals.’

I saw him with my own eyes, father. I know these signs also from when I was taught as a child. He conversed with our horses just as you do. With the secret signs of a Nabatean king.’

Satisfied Mahmoud – and the mare – were safe, Aretas led the way through the pistachio and wild olive groves to a private arbor. He clapped his hand, and four servants appeared. One placed goblets of gold and silver on the table.

‘Tell me, Jotapa, what kind of man is the Hebrew?’

‘There are all manner of stories circulating around Tiberias, Papa. I have heard that He tells His followers that love is mightier than the sword.’

Aretas frowned. ‘He is not a warrior, I fear.’

Jotapa looked at him mischievously. ‘Oh, and, Father, He single-handedly stopped Herod Antipas’ forces.’