Palace of Darkness (15 page)

Julian came each day to take her to the tomb project, saying it was not safe for her to walk there alone. She tried to understand how she had warranted his strange respect. She had never been treated thus by Aretas, and even Julian seemed not to have the same opinion of any of the other young women at the workplace. With them he was all flirtatious humor and teasing. With Cassia he was like a somber and sometimes irritable older brother. She had his respect, perhaps, but she fought the desire to gain anything more. Besides, he was far more interested in his work, obsessed almost, now that it had been discovered he could sculpt, and the work gang watched his artistry turn the tomb facade into beauty.

She often tried to draw him out, to discover why he was in Petra and to hear of his life in Rome. She learned little. He had a brother, close in age but not in spirit. Though he would not say why they were estranged.

In the evenings Zeta and Talya would often disappear, leaving her alone in their home. They joined their group of friends, but they did not invite her, and she found them somewhat secretive.

But it was the cool waters of the Nymphaeum that drew her each day, with its loitering townswomen and palace slaves, and its welcome gossip.

One morning, when she had been working at the tombs nearly a week, two women in the long white dress of the palace, with their hair braided with pearl strands, filled their unglazed pots slowly as they talked. Cassia slipped alongside them and listened.

“He’s a sweet boy, but how long will he remain so?”

The woman’s friend clucked her tongue. “There is more than his character at stake, I fear.”

Cassia bent her pot to the fountain to fill it, letting the water rush over her hands.

“Obadas is a bully, to be sure, but you think the boy has evil intent?”

Her friend shrugged and leaned close. “He is his mother’s son.”

The other steadied her filled pot on her head. “Perhaps there is more to the taunting than simple jealousy. It pains me to see the boy unloved and unhappy.”

“We shall see how long it lasts. I fear worse for him.”

And then they were gone, leaving Cassia to puzzle out their conversation as she wandered back to the work site, the jar on her hip. It did not take long, and her pace increased to match the pounding of her blood.

Her feet churned up the dusty ground on the road to the site, and when she reached the tombs, Julian stood on the street and raised his hands as a shield.

“You are like one of the Furies, flying over the sea to exact vengeance. Did someone insult you at the fountain?”

Cassia lowered her pot to the ground with a
thunk
that made Julian wince, but she did not care if the thing broke into a thousand pieces. “They are hurting Alexander!”

Julian took her arm and pulled her close. “Think, Cassia. You must lower your voice.”

She tried to breathe slowly, speak softly. “I heard them at the fountain. The queen’s son is cruel to Alexander, and the servant women think something worse will happen.”

Julian surveyed the crowded work area around them, then bent his head to her. “Worse?”

“I do not know!” Her voice climbed again and she fought to control it. “But I must go and help him!” She whirled away from Julian and headed toward the palace in a near run.

He was beside her in a moment, his long stride easily keeping up with her pace. “I know you want to help Alexander. This is not the way.”

She huffed out her annoyance. “I cannot simply keep clearing away rocks and fetching water! I have waited too long already.”

“And what will you do? Charge in, unarmed, and demand your son?” His voice sounded angry now, and Cassia slowed a bit.

“I must—”

“Yes, you must get Alexander back. But this foolishness will get you killed and will do nothing to help him!”

Her steps faltered then. Emotion caught up with her, swelled over her like a wave, threatening to send her to her knees in the dust. “What can I do, Julian? I have nothing . . . I am nothing.”

Julian pulled her to face him. “Look at me, Cassia.”

She turned her tear-streaked face upward, wanting him to tell her otherwise.

“I do not know who it was that convinced you of this, but you are not
nothing.
Look at what you have done in these few weeks.” He still held her arms and anger flickered in his eyes. “You have survived Aretas’s death, brought your son across the desert to a new city, weathered the attack of that trader, stood before royalty and endured their
abuse, and then won the hearts of everyone you have met.” He shook her slightly, as though to drive his words home. “You are the strongest woman I have ever known!”

She searched his face for a moment, drinking in the strength. “Then what am I to do for my son?”

Julian pulled her to his chest in a rough embrace. She felt him look upward at his work, as though making a decision.

“We will find a way, Cassia. I promise you, we will find a way.”

SIXTEEN

T
HE SUN SLIPPED LOW ENOUGH OVER THE DESERT TO
send its warmth into the large rock-cut tomb where the church met. Malik arrived early and alone, content to start the fire and wait for the others to arrive.

They trickled in as they finished their work for the day, bringing parts of the meal and greeting Malik with honor and affection.

The
triclinium
’s three stone tables, laid as a square with one open end toward the rock ledge, had only been used for their shared meals. Never a funerary banquet, for which the tables had been built. The large tomb belonged to one of their own, but none of the slots in the back had yet been used to house remains for the customary year before the bones were gathered into a stone ossuary and placed in a smaller niche. Until it was needed for family burials, it served as a meeting place for the Petran church.

Malik watched the tables fill with food, both rich cakes and poor breads, and the chamber with those he loved best. His heart expanded with the joy of it. This was his flock, his family. As the Elder of Petra for these many years, he had watched the community increase in
number and in love for each other, and the growth of his church pleased him far more than the material wealth he had also accumulated over those same years.

Eventually, he took the central place on the middle couch. Not because he considered himself the guest of honor, but because he would teach tonight, and this was the best place to be heard and seen by all. The other places on the couches quickly filled with the eldest of their group, and the younger ones sat cross-legged with their plates on the floor or leaned against the walls. A child or two even sat behind him in the holes carved for burials.

When the crowded chamber had filled to capacity, Malik lifted a hand over the group and they silenced at once.

“Father in heaven, Maker of all that is, we are Your poor children, and all that we have is given by You. We lay our hearts before You, ask You to move among us and speak to us this night. We give You thanks for the meal You have given us to share, but even more for giving us each other. And above all, we thank You for Jesus the Redeemer, and we pray for His soon return and His kingdom to be established.”

A murmured “amen” came from the group, and when Malik opened his eyes and lifted his head, a new figure was among them, standing at the end of the table to his left.

“Julian!” Malik’s heart swelled to see the young man, to know he had sought them out. The Holy One had already given Malik a love for this boy, even in the short time he had known him.

All heads turned to the new arrival, and Julian seemed to shrink back. Malik waved him forward.

“Children, Julian was with us a few nights ago, but he was not yet ready to identify with us. Perhaps he is ready this night?” Malik waited, giving the boy his chance. He watched Julian’s chest expand, his shoulders flex, watched him survey the room, his expression a
mixture of fear and longing. The chamber stilled and waited for his response. Malik breathed a silent prayer.

Finally Julian nodded as though in agreement with each heart present. “Yes.” He broke into a shy smile. “Grace to you and peace from God our Father, and the Lord Jesus Christ. It is good to be among those who also claim the blood of the Jewish Messiah as their atonement.”

Malik watched his flock respond, pride filling his heart once again. Men jumped to their feet and gripped Julian’s arms, women smiled and brought him food. Malik knew they would be cautious still. It would be some time before Julian would be fully accepted into the body, but he would be welcome until then.

The meal commenced, and the believers did what they did best—listened to each other’s hearts, shared the struggle to remain true to the teachings, prayed over each other in love. Several served, not because they were servants, but because it was their joy and their gift to do so. Zeta herself brought Malik his bowl of wine, watered and warmed in just the way he enjoyed. He smiled up at her, then savored the simple meal of flat bread and brown beans, with creamy white yoghurt and figs afterward, and enjoyed his community. Near the front of the room, Julian held court with a group of boys and young men, entertaining them with some story that had them all laughing.

Before the meal ended, however, Julian broke away from his audience and approached Malik. Malik shifted on his couch to make room for the boy to set down a knee beside him and speak in his ear.

“May I speak to the community, Elder?” The boy’s tone seemed strangely reverent.

Malik raised an eyebrow. “You wish to teach?”

“No, no, not teach! I . . . I want to request their help on behalf of Alexander, Cassia’s son.”

“You mean the son of Prince Aretas.”

Julian’s hand formed a fist at his side. “He belongs with his mother.”

Malik swept his hand over the flock. “And what can they do?”

“I have a plan. But I need assistance.”

Malik smiled. The young always had plans. They had not yet learned that life does not always yield the fruit one seeks to harvest. He dipped his head. “You may speak to them.”

He had thought to introduce Julian again, to call the attention of the people, but with the impetuosity of youth, Julian jumped to his feet and clapped his hands to quiet them.

Within minutes he reminded them of Cassia, whom they had served here several nights earlier, and who even now was being housed by Zeta and her daughter, Talya. He explained the revelation Cassia had received on arriving in Petra, and then with the skill of a stage dramatist, he related the snatching of Alexander until tears were in the eyes of more than a few.

“I believe we must help her,” Julian finished. “The boy is being treated roughly in the palace, and no one is there to love him. I fear for him. He should be with his mother. I have a plan.”

He had their attention, Malik had to admit. But still, it was with the skill of a performer. Malik did not doubt the young man’s sincerity or his passion, only his maturity. But the Spirit spoke into his heart, telling him to hold his tongue.

Julian’s plan to rescue Alexander called for as many as were willing to pursue employment in the palace, in whatever role they could find. He believed if enough of them were positioned inside the royal house, an event could be staged that would pull the attention of the king and queen to one place, while those inside could secretly slip the boy away and whisk him from the palace to his mother.

“And then what?” one young man asked. “The entire Nabataean army will descend upon her.”

“She will leave Petra. I will see to it. There are places she can go, where she would not be found.”

Malik did not speak when Julian had finished. He would allow his flock to make this decision, to respond in whatever way the Holy One led them. Julian appeared patient as well. He asked whoever was willing to join him to speak to him after the meeting, and he yielded the floor to Malik.

Malik rose to teach them then. Nahor brought him one of their precious copies of the apostle’s letter to the church in Thessalonica, and then a part of a letter Paul had written to Malik himself, several years after Malik had left him in Rome.

They wanted to hear more of Malik’s years in Rome, as they always did. Those had been both the best and the worst years, as the older apostle had trained Malik in truth while the persecution grew fiercer with each passing month. Finally Paul had sent Malik back to Petra, to lead the church he had begun there himself when he sojourned in Arabia years earlier. Three months later, Paul was dead. Martyred at the hand of Nero.

But Malik did not speak of this tonight.

When he finished his teaching, he pulled yet another papyrus from his belt, a letter he had received today and saved to read to the community.

He held it aloft. “News from the province of Syria. From Ignatius, Elder of Antioch.”

Faces lit with joy at the name. Ignatius wrote encouraging letters, filling them with hope at the rapid growth of the Way in Syria, despite the opposition.

“ ‘To the church at Petra,’ ” Malik read. “ ‘Grace and peace to you
in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. I write this letter with my own hand, with the knowledge it is likely my last.’ ” Malik stumbled over the words and paused. A collective gasp went up from the chamber.