A.D. 30(121)

“We would know your loyalty to Aretas only if you killed Maliku, as ordered by the king you would serve.”

The reasoning behind her demand for justice and loyalty was too sound to dispute. I had to earn myself more time.

“Then send me to Dumah and let me win the king’s loyalty.”

“There will be no need for that,” she said, lifting her head to gaze past me. “You will fight him now, in this arena. Only one of you will return to Dumah alive. That person will have the king’s full support.”

I jerked my head around and saw. I could not mistake the posture of the one who so despised me.

Maliku stood at the center of the arena, dressed in full armor, leaning on his sword.

“Maviah, champion of Aretas, will fight!” Shaquilath cried, fist thrust over her head.

Ten thousand voices joined in a cry of approval that shook my bones.

I knew then why they had come.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN





SABA WAS the first to move, dropping from his camel and snatching up his sword in one fluid motion. He had taken four running strides toward Maliku before I spoke.

“Saba, no.”

He pulled up, a panther poised to strike.

“She defends the honor of Aretas!” Shaquilath cried, voice just above the din of the crowd. “They fight to the death!”

I stared at Maliku’s blurred image, unexpectedly filled with rage. Because of Maliku’s betrayal, the Thamud had crushed Dumah and cut out Rami’s tongue. Because of him many Kalb women had been raped. How many were dead due to this vile creature’s passion for power?

Twenty days had passed since they’d taken Judah—just enough time to go and return at a fast pace. Shaquilath had ordered they send Maliku to Petra then, in the event I returned with the gold. They had planned for this meeting all along.

“If you refuse,” the queen said, “then he will cut you down on this very ground. He cannot refuse.”

If I refused? Surely they did not expect me to better a man who’d trained his whole life to kill. Maliku was twice my size and strength.

And yet Shaquilath was correct: the path of my people’s liberation now ran through Maliku. If I died today, he would return to Dumah and rule with the Thamud uncontested.

Judah’s words filled my mind: We must turn the other cheek, but only to our brother.… Let the Romans reap the same end they have sown. If a man comes to take your life, am I to allow it?

I did not know if this was Yeshua’s meaning. But facing Maliku, I made it so. Maliku was no longer my brother.

I have not come to bring peace, but the sword to divide, Judah had said, speaking of Yeshua’s teaching. And in that inflamed state, I embraced the teaching.

Saba trotted back to my camel. “Maviah, you must not fight him. He is too strong.”

I slipped from my mount and landed on the dusty ground, jaw set.

“Give me your sword,” I said to Saba, eyes fixed on the shape of my half brother.

“Maviah—”

“Now, Saba!”

He reluctantly held the blade out and I took it from his hand, then snatched up the dagger he handed to me.

“Stay here,” I said, shoving the knife into my sash.

An image of Johnin crossing the arena floor, heavy sword in his veined hand, filled my mind. Our swordplay had been born out of intense attraction, and for months it had been the only way for us to spend time together. He’d shown me much, but it was his words that came to me now.

Show them no fear, and they will find their own.

Fear… that word again.

Speed is twice the friend over strength.

But I walked slowly toward Maliku, dragging the tip of Saba’s great curved sword in the dust behind me.

You’re smaller. Use the weight of the sword for you, not against.

The crowd quieted—Shaquilath wanted to hear. And so now they heard the scraping of a sword behind a frail woman who dragged the heavy blade to her own death.

But I was not ready to die.

Was Maliku smiling? I don’t know because his face was only a blur. But then he spoke and I knew he hadn’t changed.

“The whore has survived,” he sneered. “I don’t know what that dog Judah sees in such a pathetic scavenger as you.”

Darkness swept over me. My hand tightened on the sword’s leather-wrapped handle. He was now only seven paces off and still leaning on his sword.

“The slave is alive. But he cries for you through broken teeth.”

His words stalled me four long paces from him.

“Greetings, Sister.”

I gave him a shallow nod. “How is our father?”

“He is silent. And now you see though leprous eyes.”

“I see clearly now. I see that your heart is as black as tar burned for fire.”

He chuckled. “A fire that will consume all—”