Palace of Darkness (19 page)

Malik scuffled through the dark alleyway behind a line of mud-brick houses. The alley was rancid with the stench of waste and garbage, and the darkness was nearly total. He ran a hand along the stone wall on his right and fixed his eyes on two yellow torches in the distance, staring at him like two evil yellow eyes.

Why did he even bother? He should step down from the council. It did no good to call out his opinions there, a lone voice among hostility. Discouragement rolled over him, and he dropped his head and shuffled forward, heedless of his surroundings.

Perhaps none of what he did mattered. Rome was beginning to roust believers from their churches and make examples of them. How long until they came after him? Ignatius went boldly to martyrdom. Would he do the same? The melancholy melted into fear, slowing his steps.

He should be talking to Jesus about this, not himself. He resisted the Spirit’s pull on his heart and continued his reverie, winding through the dark streets toward his home.

His thoughts tumbled and seemed joined by other voices that accused.

And then the other voices grew louder than his own.

Malik quickened his steps. The voices followed, shouting to him.

You cannot lead people! You cannot even be heard in a council meeting!

He tripped over a loose stone in the alley, caught himself, and hurried on. His heart felt squeezed, as though the voices had hands and coiled into his very being.

Let go, useless old man. Give up this fruitless effort to be a revolutionary. You cannot fight Rome!

The voices clawed at his mind, and Malik rubbed his blurred eyes, trying to rid himself of the foul presence.

But when the inner cacophony had nearly blinded him and he
felt the urge to hurl himself from the High Place, Malik finally quit his panicked run through the alleys and drew himself upright, hands held before him as though for protection.

“Enough!”

The voices fought him, a roar of fury in his head.

“I know you, prince of Petra! You may have this city, but you do not have me!”

The pitch lowered, like a threatening, angry growl.

“In the name of Jesus Christ, Son of God, I command you to leave!”

The voices were a buzz now, like an annoying insect in his courtyard garden.

“Jesus, I come under Your protection. I ask You to remove this evil from my presence.”

There came a rushing sound, like air being sucked from lungs.

In the stillness that followed, Malik leaned on the nearest brick wall, his head against his forearm and his eyes closed. He asked for forgiveness for the thoughts he had allowed, for the anger that had made him weak and vulnerable to the voices that were ever watchful for their opportunity.

A warmth filled him. He was forgiven.

Behind him, the scuffle of someone moving through the darkness pulled him from the wall.

A figure appeared out of the night, only cubits from him. A man, with a small dagger held outward from his waist.

Malik nearly laughed. He had known since Julian reported his encounter at the palace that the queen would retaliate. She knew the only power in Petra that ever held her in check resided with his church.

But her killer had chosen an inopportune time. Malik had called on the mighty Name, and the power that filled him now was greater than any Roman shield.

The man rushed him. Malik held his weathered hands before him.

The attacker was flung backward, as though he had run into a wall.

Fury crossed the man’s features and Malik knew he drew strength from the evil one. But it was not enough. He ran at Malik again and was again rebuffed. This time the knife clattered to the street. Clearly he would not be successful, and rather than try a third time, he turned on his heels and fled.

Malik once again sagged against the cold wall, breathing a prayer of thanks.

The battle will go on, even without you.

It was the Voice he loved this time, though the words were convicting rather than comforting.

“Malik!” The call came from the end of the dark alley.

“Julian!” Malik found his breathing heavy. “What are you doing here?”

The boy’s eyes scanned the alley. “I . . . I do not know. I was waiting for you to return, and I felt . . . I felt something.”

Malik stood and faced him, pulling the boy’s attention to himself. “Tell me.”

Julian swallowed and tried to shrug as though it were nothing. “It was like a voice. Not aloud. In my head.” He watched Malik, perhaps waiting for ridicule, but Malik only nodded, willing him to finish.

“I heard,
Malik is in danger.
And when I ran from the house, I knew to come this way.” Again he shrugged. “But you are in no danger. And I, perhaps, am going mad.”

Malik smiled and joined the boy as they walked through the night toward his home. He did not speak, for his thoughts were all between him and his Lord tonight.

The Father had not sent Julian to rescue him. This he knew. But He had sent the boy for a reason.

The battle will go on without you.

Yes, Lord. It is time.

He closed his eyes in a heartfelt prayer of surrender, and the warm tears that followed were tears of both relief and the unknown.

It is time to pass the torch to the next generation. Time to trust You with the future.

TWENTY-ONE

C
ASSIA FEARED GOING BACK TO WORK AT THE TOMB
after her encounter at the palace. Hagiru’s slave had somehow tracked her to the amphitheatre. Was there anywhere in Petra where she was safe?

But she must work, to pay for her keep at Zeta’s house and her training with Yehosef. And when Alexander was back in her care, they would need money to escape.

So she walked to the tomb each morning to put in another day of climbing and collecting rock chips and hoped the crowd of masons and sculptors that swarmed over the tomb made her invisible.

Julian insisted on accompanying her to the tomb in the early mornings and back to the house at the end of the dry, dusty workday. She had told him nothing of what happened at the theatre, but their experience in the palace was enough to create concern. Secretly, she cherished his unease for her. It had been a long time since anyone had cared for her safety. Though she reminded herself often that the only man in her life was still missing his front teeth.

In the evenings Zeta and Talya would often disappear to meet with the church. Zeta was mysterious about it, and it troubled Cassia.
But those evenings alone were her chance to escape to the amphitheatre, round up Yehosef from his dark chambers underneath, and have him teach her more of what he knew. She kept this from the women, and especially from Julian, sensing he would not approve. He was a man who liked things done his way, and he had a plan.

Indeed, as the days passed she had to admit that his plan progressed. Almost daily she heard reports of those friends who had found work in the palace, their names unknown to her.

At the end of one such day, she returned from the work site, climbed to the rock home, and waved a small good-bye to Julian in the street below. She ducked beneath the blanket-wall of the home, into the sheltered front room.

Talya gave a squeal of delight at her entrance, clapped her hands together, and jumped from where she had been sitting on the floor, mending palace robes.

Cassia laughed. “I hope you are not wanting me to finish that.” She pointed to the strip of cloth cast to the floor. “I am no good with a needle.”

Talya shook her head and bounded forward to wrap Cassia in an embrace. “I am to help take care of him!”

Cassia pulled back from the girl’s enthusiasm. “Take care—”

“Of Alexander!”

Cassia’s legs suddenly felt weak, and she grabbed at Talya’s arms. “You have seen him?”

Talya grinned and bobbed her dark head. “More than seen him, Cassia. I have spent the afternoon with him, and will do so again tomorrow!”

Zeta appeared, all smiles, and led Cassia to a low chair. Her heart felt near to exploding. “Tell me.” Her hands trembled. “Tell me everything.”

Talya sat at Cassia’s feet, her head against Cassia’s knee, and spoke of the day, of walking the palace corridors with Alexander, of watching him play with two carved camels with ruby eyes. And Cassia begged for the smallest details, from what he ate to whether he ever laughed. When she had extracted every particular from Talya, she leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes and wept. To hear of him was not the same as seeing him, but it was a blessing all the same.

Talya slipped away and returned a moment later. “I told him I was a friend of his mother.”

Cassia opened her eyes and lifted her head. Talya extended her hand, with something clasped in it.

“We made this together today.” She dropped a beaded bracelet into Cassia’s hand. “For you. And Alexander said to tell you he loves you very much, and he misses you.”

Cassia took the bracelet of black-and-white stones, glanced at Zeta, whose eyes were bright with unshed tears, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Young as she was, Talya seemed to sense Cassia needed to be alone, and she went back to her silent weaving at the back of the room. Zeta, too, busied herself at the table.

Cassia had come to love these women, this home with its colorstriped rock walls and even brighter fabrics. The way Zeta hummed while she worked. Each time Cassia entered the cave-like dwelling, she felt at home.

But they were too good to her, Zeta and Talya. And even their unknown, unseen friends. Who were they? Why would they help her? What did they want from her? She had nothing to give.

What would happen when they realized this? Would they resent her? See she was not worth helping? And what would happen to Alexander then? For all her training with Yehosef, she needed them.
What could she do in return to earn the help they still seemed willing to give? The questions dampened her joy at the news of Alex and left her fearful.

Several nights later, when Zeta and Talya had gone to meet their friends and she had spent the evening training with Yehosef, Cassia hurried back to their home, sweaty and grimy from her encounters with the gladiator. She hoped to reach the ledge in time to clean up before the women returned.

But Talya met her in the street below, her expression desperate.

Cassia’s heartbeat raced.

“What is it?” She gripped Talya’s arms. “What has happened to Alexander?”

“Not Alexander.” Talya’s breath came as though she had run to meet Cassia. “Julian.”

“Take me.”

Talya led Cassia toward the heart of the city, where the wealthier villas lined up against each other. Her words dashed over one another as they rushed through the street. “He was followed to our meeting. Guards from the palace, we think. They came in and . . . and started shouting and shoving people.” Her voice shook and she swiped at her eyes. “We were all terrified. But then they singled out Julian and dragged him from the room, out to the street.”

Cassia’s heart went cold. “How severely is he hurt?”

“I do not know. Some of the others took him to Malik’s home. I came to find you. I . . . I knew you would want to know.”

Cassia nodded. “Thank you, Talya.”

They wove through alleys and streets in the crowded housing district until Talya stopped at the entrance to a home, called out, and was greeted by a servant. He waved her in as though he knew her well, and Cassia followed, her eyes wide.

She had never dreamed Malik was a rich man. Respected, even revered, as a wise man, certainly. But his unassuming humility, his quiet service to everyone, spoke nothing of the wealth she saw here. “This is Malik’s home?”

“Yes. How is Julian, Shamir?” Talya asked the servant.

“Beaten badly, but nothing appears to be broken, and there is not much blood.” The servant spoke as though a friend of Talya’s, and Cassia pushed the strange thought aside to dwell on later.

Julian will survive.
She repeated the thought in her mind and heart, holding on to its comfort.

Shamir led them through the spacious courtyard, lit with torches and tended by several slaves who dusted and sprayed the vines.

When she and Talya reached the back room, Julian was pushing away the damp cloth a lovely young woman was trying to use on his bruised face.

His gaze went to the doorway and he smiled weakly at Cassia. “Not my finest hour.”

Cassia exhaled, realizing she’d been barely breathing since Talya found her in the street. “You don’t look so pretty either.” She crossed the room to the bed.

The woman with the rag yielded her place, and Cassia read a wisp of resentment from her. She responded with her own flare of unreasonable jealousy.
Julian has me. He doesn’t need more friends.
She sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand.

“Why?” She felt her anger building. “Why did they do this to you?”

Malik’s voice answered from a shadowy corner of the room. “We must begin to expect this. The queen is becoming less tolerant of our presence. And after Julian’s actions in the palace, it is not surprising he should be a target.”

Cassia studied the old man, then looked back to Julian’s bruised
face. “Why you? You have done nothing!” Would the queen go after everyone important in her life?