Palace of Darkness (9 page)

At a break in the crowd, she pulled on Alexander. “Come!” They dashed across the open street to the other side, where the smaller mud-brick shops and homes left space for walking before the rock wall rose behind them.

Cassia walked slowly in the direction of the palace. Zeta had pointed to it before they had left her home and assured them they would not miss it. Directly beside the Temple of al-‘Uzza. Ah yes.

She was enchanted with the city. After the open sandy plains of Damascus, this hidden city, tucked into the cliffs, felt like a shelter from a lifelong storm. As though it embraced her with its rock-strong arms and promised security. She dared to hope that Petra would be home now with family to care for them.

But such dreaming would have to wait until after she had approached the king. Cassia’s knees felt a bit weak. Here she was, thinking of a secure future in Petra, when she still must walk into the palace of the Nabataean king and claim rights for her son, the son of the outcast prince.

The city smelled of crowds and spice and dung, typical city smells, but to Cassia somehow it all mingled and pleased. The heat,
the color, even the music that wafted from homes and market stalls, wove together into a tapestry of the senses and brought a smile.

They passed people of the town, Nabataeans most certainly, but also some of darker skin than she had ever seen, perhaps from Nubia or Persia. And light skin as well. She knew not where such light skin may have come from. Some dressed as merchants and travelers, but others as though they lived here in Petra, and Cassia wondered at the complexity of this place.

Alex tugged on her hand and pointed. “Look at the camels, Mama!”

Indeed, the field of resting camels to their left was a wonder, too many to count. They had traveled from places too distant to imagine, no doubt, and must rest before returning with new goods from other lands.

Petra had only one main street, really, running between the rock cliffs and bending to the left as they walked. After the bend, the ground leveled off to their right, with the cliff face continuing away from the city, and a man-made wall had been erected here, the only one needed in this naturally protected place. As the road bent south, it followed the streambed of the Wadi Musa, the stream that fed all of Petra, and was diverted into reservoirs and channels she had seen as they entered the city.

They left the section of homes and tombs and market stalls behind as they walked, and the road opened wider ahead, a paved street that led to the upper-class part of town, where the temples and palace and Nymphaeum would be found.

They came to the Nymphaeum first. A crowd had gathered near the city’s main fountain area, where most would come to collect the day’s water. It must be a slow-flowing water supply to have caused such a wait for the townspeople to fill their jars. But the crowd had
the hushed expectancy of people watching an event, so she walked on, head turned to see what everyone seemed to be studying.

“Is it another theatre, Mama?”

“I do not know. Strange place for it, if so.” She let go of his hand to let him squeeze through the crowd ahead of her. Her height never allowed her to see much from the back of a group, and she felt no compunction about moving to the front, as no one would have difficulty seeing over her head.

It was not a theatre, but only the Nymphaeum as she thought. Not surprisingly it had been created of the same red stone that comprised all of Petra, though it had been reinforced with granite. The face of the fountain house stood as high as six men and was also elaborately carved with columns and figures of the water nymphs it honored. High above, a statue of Cyrene stood in a carved recess, and water trickled from her tipped stone urn to fall to a wide circular pool in the courtyard of the building. It trickled only, not enough to keep the pool full, certainly.

And then Cassia saw what held the crowd’s attention. Something had blocked the flow of the water from Cyrene’s urn. Perhaps a chunk of sandstone. It was impossible to tell. But up the face of the Nymphaeum a man climbed, scaling the wall with fingers and toes wedged into tiny holds, as though he were a grasshopper scrambling up an acacia tree.

Halfway up, he paused in his climb, his hand scrabbling for a hold. At that moment his right foot slipped from its perch and sent crumbling sandstone to the ground. The crowd gasped as one. But he found another toehold, turned his head to the crowd, and gave a small salute with his free hand.

Sighs of relief and titters of amusement rippled through the people. Cassia herself felt her lips twitch into the beginning of a
smile. He reminded her of a monkey she had seen in Damascus once, trained by its owner to perform tricks and then grin for the audience.

They watched breathlessly as he climbed higher, until he reached a stone ledge that ran the width of the building and took him to the base of Cyrene and her slow-flowing urn. It should only take him a moment to clear the blockage.

But it would appear he had not yet received enough of the crowd’s attention. He turned a tight circle on the ledge, until he was facing outward. Glancing at the nymph pouring her water, he struck a pose quite similar to hers and stood like stone himself.

The crowd laughed, and one man yelled, “You are almost as beautiful as the goddess!” at which the people roared. Cassia shook her head but smiled. She had seen this type of man before, hungry for attention with the charm and wit to earn it. Aretas had been such a man, and it was those qualities that drew her to him so many years ago. Did Alex see the similarity? She looked around her to see his reaction.

Alarm jolted her.
Alexander, where are you?

She pushed through the crowd, all of them still focused on the antics above. “Alexander?” The boy’s propensity for wandering off never ceased to frighten her.

Faces turned toward hers, then away in disinterest. She twisted through the glut of people, her stomach churning. Where would he go?

And then she knew. She jerked her head to the face of the Nymphaeum, and her fear was confirmed. Alex had already found enough toe- and handholds to scale to the first ledge, about four cubits below the ledge that held the performer.

Cassia nearly cried out his name but did not want to startle him. His attention was fixed on the ledge above, and his head turned back and forth, searching for a hold. She shoved through the crowd, into the courtyard.

Above Alexander, oblivious to the boy, the climber reached into the blocked urn. His arm disappeared to the elbow, then reappeared with a handful of something. The water flowed after his hand, cascading to the pool below. The water hit the stone floor of the pool and sprayed outward, soaking Cassia.

The water restorer raised a triumphant arm in the same moment the crowd noticed Alexander. At the lack of the cheers the man no doubt expected, he put his hands to his hips—then seemed to realize the people’s attention was fixed below him. He leaned forward slightly. The crowd cried out its collective concern.

Cassia watched in horror, unable to retrieve her son. “Alexander, you must come down now.”

If he heard her, he showed no sign. She repeated herself, her voice raised against the murmurs of the crowd. But his back was to her, and his fingers traveled the face of the building, searching for deep cracks between the stones. He seemed to find a place, for he suddenly lifted himself above the surface of the ledge, connected only to the wall. The people gasped as one, and Cassia felt she might be sick.

Above Alexander, the performer must have begun to resent the loss of attention. He edged along the lip of stone, then pivoted at the end, bent to grip the ledge with his fingers, and swung his feet away.

Again, the crowd reacted, entertained by the danger. Cassia positioned herself under Alex. If he fell, she hoped to break his fall enough to keep him safe. The spraying water from the fountain pool soaked her through, but she barely noticed. Fear chilled her and set her shivering. “Alexander! Come down at once!”

And then the climber was balanced on Alex’s ledge, cubits away from the boy. “Where are you climbing to, son?”

The man’s voice, quiet and smooth, was, Cassia guessed, audible to no one but herself and Alexander.

Alex’s mouth fell open. He looked above his perch, then back at the climber. “I wanted to climb up to the water lady, like you.”

The man edged closer to Alex with slow and deliberate caution. Cassia took a step backward, her fingers twisted in her wet tunic.

“Ah.” His voice was grave. “Well, I’ve been to see the water lady already, and do you want to hear a secret?”

Alexander held still, except for a tiny nod.

The man leaned closer and mock-whispered, “She’s really quite ugly up close!”

Alexander giggled. “Mama says it is rude to call people ugly.”

He glanced downward, then winked at Alex. “Your mama sounds like a good person. Would you take me to meet her?”

Alexander bit his lip and looked above him again.

“I know much better places to climb.” The man edged closer and Cassia’s heart stopped. “I could show you sometime. What is your name?” Then he took a step nearer, and his arms braced on either side of Alex’s body like a net. If either of them lost their balance, they both would fall.

Alexander looked over his shoulder, his attention roving over the silent crowd, his expression a mixture of shyness and embarrassment. “Alexander.”

“Ah, good name for a strong boy like you. I am Julian. Let’s go and meet the mother who gave you such a name, shall we?”

Alexander hesitated, then shrugged and took one foot from the rock. Cassia’s hand flew to her mouth, but she stayed silent. Alex’s sandaled foot scraped the rock in circles as he tried to find a hold.

“There, to the right a tiny bit,” the other climber told him. “There, right there.”

One step at a time, Alex lowered himself to the ledge.

A smattering of applause bubbled up from the crowd, but the two were not down yet and no one was ready to walk away.

The man turned his body and Alex followed, so the two of them faced outward on the ledge. “Put your hands behind you, like this”—he placed his palms on the rock—“and now we step together. Ready?”

Alex nodded.

“Now, left foot—step. Right foot—step.”

Cassia snatched a look at the climber for the first time. He had the light skin of the West and the nose of a Roman. He seemed tall, but he was not skinny. With his arms braced against the wall, Cassia could see the muscles tensed.

The two progressed across the ledge to the end, where another indentation in the wall housed yet another small figure. The man whispered something to Alexander, and the boy grinned and nodded, then climbed into the niche and straddled the shoulders of the nymph Cyrene as though he would ride her down to the courtyard.

The man slipped past Alexander, did a neat turn, and dismounted from the ledge to the courtyard below. His knees flexed as he fell, and he landed in a crouch like a cat jumping from a stone wall. He took one step backward, lined himself up with the niche where Alex sat, then held up his arms.

“Now is the best part, Alexander!” His voice was light, as though the two had come to the Nymphaeum for an afternoon of fun. “You get to jump!”

Cassia inhaled sharply and drew close to the tall man. “It is too far,” she whispered.

He did not take his gaze from Alex. His voice low, he said only two words: “Trust me.”

Cassia watched, her heart swelling with fear as Alexander emerged from the niche and looked over the edge. The man beside her gave a quick nod and beckoned Alex with his upraised hands.

Alexander grinned once more and jumped.

The crowd’s gasp echoed from the walls of the Nymphaeum, then the tension released with a cheer.

With Alexander safely in his arms, the man turned to the crowd, lifted Alex’s arm above the boy’s head, and yelled, “Alexander the Great!”

Alex was laughing, his gap-toothed smile beaming across the courtyard.

But a deep, inexplicable anger mixed with Cassia’s relief and surged from her chest. “Put him
down
!”

The man turned a slow circle to her and smiled. “Ah, this must be your wise and beautiful mother.”

“Mama!” Alex wiggled to be set down. “Were you watching? Did you see how high I climbed?”

Alex’s rescuer lowered him to the courtyard and set him in front of Cassia. “Your son, my dear lady, restored to you.” He raised an arm to the fountain pool and lifted his voice. “And the water restored to all of you!”

The crowd cheered then, as anyone who had seen such showmen before could have predicted.

Cassia grabbed at Alexander’s hand and started to push past the man.

He blocked her retreat, drawing up as though a royal prince himself. “No gratitude?”

Cassia straightened in front of him, her head barely reaching his chest, for he was quite tall and clearly highborn in his arrogance. “Gratitude?” she said through clenched teeth. “You expect to be thanked? It is men like you who put little boys in danger. Why do you think he climbed up there?”

The man’s lighthearted smile faded a bit, and he seemed to study Cassia. She felt suddenly aware of her dirty tunic, frayed from the many days of travel and now soaked through from the splashing water. His gaze traveled to her feet and back to her face, and Cassia
felt a strong pull of attraction and then another surge of anger. She did not need her unique ability to know what he was. She’d already had a man like this.

Never again.

Alexander tugged on the man’s hand, drawing his attention away from Cassia. “Julian, when will you show me the better places to climb?” His face was alight with hero worship, and it pained Cassia to see it. “We are going to the palace now”—he grinned—“to see our family, but after that I can climb with you again.”

The man’s eyebrows raised at Alexander’s declaration, and he turned inquisitive dark eyes back to Cassia.

“Come, Alexander.” She pulled him toward the now-dispersing crowd. “It is time.”

The boy called back over his shoulder to his new friend, “I like the striped rocks best!”

“As do I, Alexander,” he answered.