A.D. 30(124)

My sight had been fully restored.

I turned my head and gazed at the arena. They were watching, uncertain and silent.

“Your eyes…” Maliku was staring at me in confusion.

In him I saw only a storm. A black cloud rising in anger to throw my boat over and drown me in shame.

Was not the whole arena but another storm?

Forgive, my master had said. Seventy times seven, forgive.

Stephen’s thoughts came to me. To hold no grievance—this is to forgive. To take no offense at the fist raised against you. Only then can you turn the other cheek. This is the way of mystery. This is the way of great power.

I looked at Maliku and saw no threat in him. Was he not only lost, as I had been? Was he not only looking to be honored?

And Shaquilath, who stood on the platform not fifteen paces away, eyes wide. Did she not long for the same? Aretas as well. Though lost, had they not also been fashioned by my Father? Were they not my brother and sister?

I saw the queen’s eyes shift and I followed them to see that Maliku was running for me. It was strange to see him so crouched, face twisted with rage, eyes fired with hatred. Strange because it seemed absurd.

Such was my belief as I stood before them all.

He angled directly for me, sword drawn and then slicing through the air. I could hear every piece of emptiness cut by that blade as it approached my head. See its movement as though in a dream.

To avoid the blade, I needed only to step aside. So I did, watching it slice more emptiness, buffeting air across my face.

Maliku’s momentum spun him, but he quickly adjusted his weight and brought the blade around for a second blow, this one aimed for my midsection, accompanied by a full-throated cry.

Once again I stepped out of the way of his sword. I might have been able to do it with my eyes closed, I thought.

And another thought, plain to me: Judah was wrong about Yeshua’s teaching on the sword. The master had indeed come to bring a sword, but that sword would be wielded by those who would take it up in anger. They would be angry because his way of love and forgiveness was threatening to those who did not embrace it. His way would divide even brother from sister, daughter from father. The sword, then, would be swung by those like my brother. It was not for the followers of Yeshua.

I could not explain how these things were so plain, nor how my power over Maliku was gaining strength—I only knew it could, it would, it was. The spirit was like the wind, blowing where it willed—had not Yeshua said so?

It was the way of mystery and wonders.

The way of the mystic.

When Maliku struck a third time, I thought he would harm himself with such twisted effort. So this time I reached out my hand and caught his sword arm at the wrist.

His superior strength should have smashed my hand out of the way. His blade should have run through my chest.

Instead, with little force, my hand stopped his arm as if it were a blade of grass.

“No more, Brother.”

He stared at his arm, trembling in my grasp. Then at me, eyes round with terror.

“No more.” I plucked the dagger from his belt. “It is over.”

My words washed over him and he staggered back, releasing his blade, which landed heavily on the ground.

“Jinn!” he cried, still backing up. “She is possessed!”

A murmur spread through the crowd, for this was a harsh accusation. It was said that these demons could give a person great power. Had not Yeshua been accused of the same?

“She is possessed by the jinn!”

We both knew that I could have picked up the sword at my feet and removed his head from his shoulders. But I had no such desire. I only pitied this lost jester.

“Kill him,” Shaquilath said. “You cannot both live!”

“She is possessed by the jinn!” Maliku cried, spinning to the queen. “She must be burned!”

“Kill him!”

In that moment I could not. My place was only to forgive him, perhaps because he was indeed my brother. I wasn’t sure I could kill anyone in that state.

But the queen could not fathom such sentiments. So I turned to the crowd and lifted Maliku’s dagger in my right fist.

“I have Maliku’s dagger.” My voice rang out for all to hear. “He is mine to kill. As easily as Kahil of the Thamud killed my infant son, I can take the life of the one who betrayed my father, Rami bin Malik, great sheikh of Dumah. This is my right.”

Agreement rose on strained voices, crying for justice.

“But he is my brother!” I cried.

They quieted.

Lowering the blade, I sliced my left palm and watched as blood seeped from the wound. I closed my hand, allowing the blood to leak between my fingers. Lifting my bloodied palm, I extended mercy as I’d seen Judah do with Arim, the Thamud boy.