Judah’s eyes shone with pride. “You will see. We will take you to Herod and return to Dumah with the full might of Rome. And then, when the time is right, we will cut Rome off at its knees. You will see.”
“Cut Rome off?”
“They are tyrants!”
“You’ve been there?”
“To Rome? No. A lion cannot sleep with the hyena.”
“Have you been to Palestine?”
“My people call it the land of Israel. Call it what you may, the Holy Land belongs only to Israel. And, yes, I have been there. Though only once.”
“When?”
“As a young boy. It has been my dream to return. The elders of my tribe in the north traveled there before I was born.”
None of this gave me great assurance. But I knew my father was no fool. I would have to trust his choice of Saba and Judah.
“We must leave,” Saba said. “On foot to the flint desert.”
We had four camels, three she-camels in milk and one younger male. Noisy animals, to be sure, always groaning and moaning and chewing cud with grinding teeth. Although I’d only recently learned the proper way to ride a camel, I found them far more personable than horses. Indeed, my Shunu, a fair-coated camel given to me by Nasha, was like a friend to me, as all camels were to their owners. They were as much pets as mounts and sources of fuel, milk, and meat.
In the soft dunes and sands, the camel was far more adept than any mount, able to cross great distances at a run without need of frequent watering. Such magnificent creatures were indeed the land-ship of the desert.
She-camels in milk were most valuable in desert crossings, for their milk offered sustenance where there was no water. A good she-camel could travel a full day at a trot and drink only every fifth day, while offering her rider two liters of milk per day. Indeed, so valuable was a she-camel’s milk that her udders were often covered so that her calves couldn’t drain her. If properly cared for, she might be in milk for well over a year after giving birth.
The male camel, bearing no saddle, carried extra stores and, if needed, could be slaughtered to provide meat. Each animal was loaded with goatskins filled with water, enough water to make me wonder which route we would take. They also carried saddlebags filled with teas, herbs to spice drink and food, and flour and dates to be cooked with whatever meat we hunted along the way. For fuel, camel dung would suffice if there was no wood to be found. I saw blankets for padding and for warmth at night. No tent.
To survive for many weeks in the desert, a Bedu requires only these supplies, a camel, and a knife, bow, or sword.
I approached Shunu and rubbed my hand along her neck as she sniffed my head and flapped her lips near my ear. She was now my closest friend. Perhaps my only. Her calf had long parted ways with her—at times I was convinced she thought I was her calf.
“Come, Shunu,” I whispered, taking her rope and guiding her forward.
We walked in silence, single file, first Judah, then me, then Saba, who kept a watchful eye to our rear.
If there was no trouble, it would take us ten nights to reach Petra and another six to reach Galilee, I thought. But much could go wrong in the desert, and the trade route along the Wadi Sirhan was well traveled. Surely the Thamud would give pursuit. These matters I would leave to Judah and Saba. If I died I would join my son; if I lived I would avenge his death.
We mounted when we reached the flint rocks, an endless bed of jagged black stone difficult for even a camel to negotiate. Still, a good tracker could follow the signs even here. The best would know from the dung and hoofprints precisely which camel had passed and when. It was said that some Bedu could remember the track of every camel they had ever seen.
At the very least, a tracker could tell from the depth and shape of the track far more than I could. What kind of camel, whether she was in milk, which clan rode the beast, how long she had walked or run. And by the droppings, where the camel had last grazed, how long since she had last been watered, and where she was likely headed to find water, for they knew all the wells and how long any camel might go without drink.
In this way the sands told the story of all who passed, as clearly as markings on parchment.
But the flint beds would slow down any pursuit, which would have to wait until morning’s light. Crossing them was treacherous and the camels protested at nearly every step. My back quickly grew sore for all the jerking and swaying.
Not a word was spoken, and I found no desire to break the silence. Our only accompaniment was the protests of the camels, who grunted and snorted every few steps, urged forward by our sticks, which we struck gently along their necks to keep them moving.
Their objections were quieted somewhat when Saba instructed us to tie their mouths shut, but camels can speak even from their throats, and quite loudly.