Palace of Darkness (13 page)

She squirmed to be set down, but Julian held her still, until the two women led them forward and several people vacated the couch to make room. Julian laid her gently on the cushion and stood.

“She hasn’t said much.” He shook his head. “But something has happened to her boy. She says someone has taken him.”

Malik knelt and brought his lined face close to hers. The white fringe of hair around his bald head glowed in the firelight. “Who took Alexander, Cassia?”

She had thought herself drained of all tears, but they welled again. “The queen. That terrible Hagiru. She took my boy! And had me thrown from the palace.”

Malik ran a hand over her head. “I feared as much. Rest now. Eat and rest. And then we will talk.”

Malik stood and turned to the water restorer. “So you have been brought to us already, eh? What is your name?”

The man seemed to have weakened, and Cassia felt a flicker of shame. He should not have tired himself on her behalf.

“Julian. My name is Julian.”

His voice was thick with emotion, which Cassia did not understand.

“Welcome, Julian,” Malik said. “You are right where you belong.”

Julian sank to the couch beside her, almost as though his legs had given way. Malik smiled and patted the younger man’s shoulder.

The sun dipped low enough then to spill its rays into the tomb, lighting the chamber and the faces of its inhabitants. There were perhaps thirty of them, Cassia guessed, and each one had turned a curious and friendly face on the two guests. She was conscious then of her filthy clothes, her beaten body, even the odor of sweat and blood she carried.

But over the next few hours, she found all of her needs attended, and as her body was cared for, her heart clung to a bit of peace as well, though she did not understand its source. She tried to read the hearts of the group, but her fatigue left her baffled. The women bathed her cuts, fed her well, even took her to a small, connected chamber and replaced the ripped yellow silk with a clean white tunic and red belt. She returned to sit beside Julian, who watched her with the protectiveness of an older brother.

There was more singing, with words she did not recognize, and after the meal was shared, there was a passing of wine and bread, which seemed to have special meaning to the strange group that was not a family but certainly behaved as one. She felt the warmth and joy and comfort of the place. A severe contrast with the cold throne room.

Malik led the group, and they responded to him with love and respect, as Zeta and Talya had in their home.

The meal was removed, strange prayers were offered up to an unnamed god, and then the people dispersed into the darkness, each offering a blessing upon her as they left. Soon she shared the tomb chamber with only Malik, Julian, and Talya, who still tended the fire near the ledge.

Malik sat upon the edge of her cushion, and Julian had not left her side since they arrived. “Are you ready to speak of what has happened?”

She twined trembling hands against her chest, a nervous habit, then forced them to her lap. With a deep breath, she related the terrible truth, from Damascus to the Nabataean palace.

“But he is better off now,” she finished, the words catching in her throat. “He will be taken care of.”

Julian pushed off the couch and paced through the cave-like room, his feet scuffling. “That is foolishness, Cassia! Alexander belongs with his mother!”

Malik smiled.

“But who am I to claim him? I was not even Aretas’s wife.” She hung her head. “I do not have any power here.”

Julian stopped his pacing to stand in front of her. “You are the mother of the future king! That is who you are! And do not tell me you have no power. I saw it in you, even at the Nymphaeum when I brought your son down from the ledge. You may be small, but you are strong!”

Cassia studied the man. He had the bearing and speech of nobility. Both his appearance and his passion of expression marked him a Roman. Why had he come to Petra?
I do not want yet again to be drawn to his kind of strength.

An irrational desire to weep against his shoulder washed over her, and she shook her head. “How will I fight against the royal house?”

Malik touched her arm. “Julian is right, Cassia.” He frowned, and the lines deepened on either side of his mouth. “There is an evil in that palace. Forces you know nothing of. They are at work to keep the people in bondage. You must not leave Alexander in the hands of the queen.” His gaze bore into her, and she felt again that strange sense of strength passing into her.

Wanting to escape those eyes, she struggled to her feet and walked to the open ledge.

They were high above the city again, and bright moonlight shone on the cliffs, on long flights of steps, on rooftop gardens and terraces and caves, so strangely intermingled in this place. Their ledge looked toward the palace. Toward Alexander.

Julian was right. She had brought them across the desert, and she would not lose her son here. Aretas had not defeated her, and neither would his family.

She felt the blood flow into her legs, her arms, her hands, and she raised a hand toward the palace, framing the building between her thumb and forefinger as though she could crush it there.

She dropped her hand and turned back to the two men, who watched her from within the chamber. As appealing as Julian was, with his dark wavy hair and generous Roman lips, she would not give herself to a man again, nor ask him to do what she could do alone.

“I will get my son back.” The words echoed back to her and seemed stronger than she had spoken them.
“I will get him back.”

Beside her, Talya stood and held out a small parcel. The yellow silk.

Cassia took it from her, turned it over in her hands, and thought of all the times Aretas had forced her to wear it, to be a playing piece in his deadly games.

Never again.

With a look at Malik and Julian, and a chin lifted in defiance, Cassia dropped the yellow silk into the fire and let it burn.

FOURTEEN

C
ASSIA HAD BEEN SENT OFF WITH
T
ALYA TO TAKE SHELTER
with her and her mother. Julian followed Malik to his home—despite his misgivings.

The elderly Nabataean ambled through the dark streets, into the crowded section of housing where the mud-brick homes were built close together to maximize the shade. Julian walked beside him, grateful for his hospitality. But did it come at the cost of a conversation he was not willing to begin?

But Malik was silent, and they reached the entrance of his home without words. The house turned a blank face to the street, as all houses did, but once through the doorway, it was Julian who spoke, not bothering to hide his surprise.

“Malik, you old goat, you are a nobleman!”

Malik chuckled and led Julian through a wide passageway, into his central courtyard, its corners lit with brazier fires to welcome the master home. “Petra is not Rome. We are not so consumed with nobility in Arabia.”

“Even so”—Julian waved a hand over the expansive courtyard
garden, with its bubbling central fountain and greenery, glossy with moonlight and firelight—“I believe you have money growing from your ears.”

Malik shrugged. “I will show you to a room. We will talk of true riches in the morning.”

The house had been expanded by using central pillars and supporting walls that could sustain upper stories. Bright frescoes lined every wall, combining the best art of both East and West.

Julian slept well in the luxurious bed, with its carved wooden headboard and plush bedding. He awoke early and found Malik already sitting in the garden, a steaming bowl of wine in his gnarled hands. The old man smiled and held up the bowl.

“Come, sit with me.”

Julian’s assessment of the previous night had been accurate. The villa was as grand as his parents’ villa in Rome, with a garden lined by colonnaded walkways for shade and filled with exotic plants. Oleander in reds, pinks, and whites hugged the painted walls, and their realistic scenes of waterside and woodland fooled the eye, enhancing the coolness and size of the garden.

Julian dropped to the stone bench beside Malik and folded his arms across his chest. They sat beneath a trellis draped with grapevines. “Yesterday you spoke of work I might find.” Julian smiled and lowered his head. “I suppose if I want to keep eating, I must do a bit of work, eh?”

A servant appeared with another bowl of wine and placed it in Julian’s hands. He sipped it quickly and burned his tongue.

Malik looked sideways at him. “I would not guess you are much accustomed to labor.”

Julian bristled. “I can work as hard as the next man!”

“Yes.” Malik laughed softly, shifted on the bench, and grew serious. “Tell me of Rome, Julian.”

He rolled his shoulders to release tension. Malik’s abrupt manner and apparent knowledge of all that concerned him were unnerving.

Malik did not wait for an answer. “I hear it grows dangerous for our people.”

Julian looked away, focused on the tub that sent grapevines over their heads. “Rome is a beautiful city, and all who live there are blessed by the gods.”

Malik growled in apparent frustration with Julian’s answer. “How long will you continue to deny that you are a follower of the Way?”

Julian dropped his shoulders and turned to the old man, searching his eyes. It was clear his attempt at deception was futile with Malik. “You see things, don’t you, old man?”

Malik half smiled. “More than I wish to see at times.” He sobered. “So tell me of Rome.”

Julian shrugged and sipped more of his wine. “Not the best place for a follower these days.”

Malik nodded. “I have had letters. From other elders, in Syria and Alexandria. The Roman provinces feel the reach of the emperor in ways we have yet escaped here in Arabia. They are holding strong but say that Trajan is beginning to find ways to dispose of believers.”

Julian could not bring himself to look at Malik. His hold on a casual tone was very thin, and he feared the old man would break it with his soul-searching eyes.

“The blood of martyrs begins to flow again, as it did in the old days under Nero.” He took a deep breath to try to release the pressure on his heart. He was unsuccessful.

“You have lost someone.”

Julian set his bowl aside, stood, and plucked a leaf from the grapevine, then ripped it apart. “It does nothing to speak of it.”

“Hmm.”

“For now I am a resident of your fine city. Far from the reach, as you say, of Emperor Trajan. And I must find work if I am here to stay.”

“I know this guilt you feel, Julian. I know it well.” Malik’s voice strayed away, causing Julian to turn back to the man. His head was bowed. “For some of us, the days of Nero are not so far removed.”

Julian sat beside him again, finding no words.

Malik patted his leg and straightened. “But God has brought you to us, and we shall see what He has planned for you.”

“I came here to remain unknown.” Julian looked away. “I seek nothing more.”

Malik smiled. “We shall see. Men such as you do not often remain unknown. Besides, the Romans are at the door, and the Nabataeans may soon go the way of the rest of the world, into the hands of the Empire. The people desire to be annexed without bloodshed, but I fear our royal family has other plans. Perhaps you have been brought to us now, to help us find our way into what is next.”

Julian crossed his arms again. “I was not
brought
here, old man. I came of my own accord.”

“Hmm. Tell me what you thought of our people here.”

The question surprised him, but he was happy to give his opinion. “They are devoted to each other, that is clear. And you have taught them well in the truth. But they are complacent. They are not ready for what is to come. You must show them how to be strong.”

Malik smiled and looked away, as though amused. “He sees
and
speaks, Jesus,” he said under his breath. He waved to a nearby servant, who hurried over to retrieve their bowls. “Come.” He brushed his hands together. “I will find you some work.”

Finally.

The remarkable engineering of the city had not been lost on Julian. The massive facades carved out of the solid iron-laden sandstone, the
hydraulic engineering required to channel the spring rains that fell on the mountains into the huge tanks and cisterns. Certainly there was much work to be found here, even for a nobleman who had pursued only leisure and hobbies in his Rome.

Malik and Julian strolled out of the house, from the cool greenery of the garden to the red heat of the city. Across the
Cardo Maximus
, the main thoroughfare, they drifted alongside the marketplace that ran the length of the street. Merchants walked in the shade of the morning, organizing their caravans and striking deals. Shop owners lifted the flaps of their shops, revealing stalls of hanging meat and Petra’s elegant red earthenware, of leather goods and cloth, metal utensils, and fruits and vegetables.

Malik led him to a shop filled with breads and cakes and hailed the slight shop owner with a kiss on each cheek. “Alawin, here is a new friend, Julian.”