Rami showed no fear. He had been bested by treachery but even this was, in its own way, honorable. He would now accept his fate, wishing only to save me so that I might return his honor by going to the Jews and then to Rome.
But I too was at the mercy of these ruthless Bedu.
Saman’s eyes lingered on my face for a moment, then lowered to my right hand, which held the dagger of Varus.
“As the gods will. My son, Kahil, is going to show you my own will. With your blade.”
The man who’d broken through the door stepped past my father, took the dagger from my hand, and shoved Rami toward the corner. The two warriors who’d accompanied Saman grabbed my father’s arms and slammed him against the wall.
I watched, horrified, as Kahil lifted the very blade in which the hope of the Kalb now rested. I turned my face away.
Still, I could hear the grunts of the Thamud. The slap of flesh against flesh. There was no struggle because Rami offered none—not even an objection, for he was a man concerned only with his honor now.
“Take him away,” Saman said. “Keep him alive.”
Only then did I dare look. They held up my sagging father by his arms. He trembled with pain; blood flowed from his mouth into his beard. I could see Kahil shoving something into his belt.
Then I knew. They had cut out Rami’s tongue.
I would surely have thrown myself at them if I hadn’t feared for my son’s life. I had no love for my father, but Rami had offered himself for our safety. It was the first time he’d ever shown me any kindness.
He watched me as they dragged him toward the door. In his eyes I saw resolve and pleading both. To see the great sheikh so reduced filled me with rage, but I was powerless.
Saman took my father’s dagger from his gloating son, wiped the bloody blade on his cloak, and shoved it under his belt.
Already my mind was spinning with ways I might retrieve it. They were going to spare me and my son, but without the blade, I would have no hope of honoring Rami’s wishes. If I failed him, what would I be but bones in the desert, and my son with me?
My only hope rested in that dagger.
Saman strode toward the door, casting me only a passing glance. “Set her free. Take her out of my house.”
And then he was gone, leaving me alone with Kahil and little Rami, who still slept.
Kahil eyed me with interest. His lust for blood had been satisfied today, but men have many lusts.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Maviah.”
Recognition dawned on his face.
“Maviah,” he said slowly. “So this is the woman they speak about. The whore from the tribe that crushes up the bones of carcasses and makes them into soup.” He spit to his side. “The Abysm are worse than dogs. And yet the Kalb keep one in their sheikh’s tent.”
I had no intention of upsetting him further, but I was pleased to see the desire washed from his face. His eyes now looked me over with disgust.
“How can such a beautiful woman come from the dogs? You defile my father’s house.”
I saw his hand only a moment before it landed a crushing blow to my face and sent me to the floor. I could have resisted. Though none in Dumah knew, in Egypt I had learned how to defend myself well. But resisting a man was the greatest of offenses.
Take his abuse, Maviah. Say nothing. Save your son. Save yourself.
When I pushed myself up, he was gone, and relief flooded my bones. I would gather little Rami and flee to the cave, where Saba would know what to do.
But then I saw that Kahil hadn’t left the room. He was to my right, over my son. Now grabbing him by one foot. Pulling him off the pillows as if he were a sack.
Terror found my throat. I screamed, blinded by rage and revulsion. I clawed at the floor and surged to my feet, throwing myself forward.
“No!”
But I was already too late. As if throwing out garbage, Kahil bin Saman pulled open the shuttered window and flung my baby into the night.
I could not breathe. I could not think. I could only scream and watch, knowing even as I lunged for the window that my son was falling and would never rise.
“Rami!”
When I thrust my head into the opening, it was too dark to see the ground.
“Rami!” I begged the gods for the sound of a cry, a whimper, any sound at all.
But I knew already, didn’t I? I knew that my son was dead. And yet my mind could not truly know this, because it was blackened with such torment that it could not make any sense of that dark world beneath me.
I had to save him.
I did not care about the monster who’d thrown him from the window. I was compelled only by the ferocious need of a mother to save her child.
I don’t recall running for the door.
I don’t remember tearing down the stairs, or rushing into the street.