A.D. 30(43)

And yet how could I refuse the love of such a man, who had never spoken a word of anger to me? How much had I hurt him by raising my voice?

I dropped to my knees in that sand and I threw my arms around his neck, so that his beard pressed against my cheek.

“No, Judah,” I wept. “It is I who serve you.” I kissed his cheek and his hair. “Please forgive me. Forgive me, I beg you.”

“Maviah.” His arms were around me. In both Bedu and Jewish ways, we had crossed those lines called forbidden, but neither of us cared. “You are the—”

Without forethought, I kissed his mouth, silencing what was sure to be yet another utterance of my majesty, not because I objected but because I was carried away with affection for him.

For a long moment, we lost ourselves in that kiss, drinking like thirsty souls who’d stumbled upon a well in the most desolate sands. And then I withdrew, breathing hard.

I stared into his eyes and he into mine, stunned.

“Forgive me, I—”

He silenced me with another kiss. I had known that Judah was a zealous man, but I had not felt his great passion until then.

He pulled away, held my face in his hands, and spoke gently. “I will not forgive what is freely given. Nor must you.”

“No,” I said. “Do not forgive me.”

“Nor you me.”

“I won’t.”

“Then it’s settled.” Judah released me and sat back, grinning like a boy who has discovered his first secret. “Now tell me what concerns you so deeply.”

So I sat beside him, staring into the night, and I told him my deepest fears. That I was too common to win the favor of a king, that I was too weak to avenge my son’s death, that now the Kalb and my father relied on the very slave girl they themselves had saddled with shame.

When I finished he remained quiet for a long time, arms on his knees, gazing at the stars on the horizon.

“In Arabia and in Palestine both, they say that a man is more honorable than a woman,” he finally said. “But this I know is a lie. In truth, all of man is first born of woman, then, when grown, slave to woman. Think of Yeshua. Born of a woman whose love and nurturing make the way for him to be king.”

“Yes, but—”

“Think of Herod, then. Would even a king not give away his kingdom for a woman? You underestimate your true power, as a woman. So who says a woman is born with less honor than a man?”

I could not properly appreciate his words just then. I thought them prompted by affection. And yet they pulled at me, deep within.

“Even the gods recognize the power of a woman,” he said. “Is not your god Isis?”

“I no longer serve a god.”

“But do men not bow to Isis? Do they not beg Al-Uzza for her good fortune?”

“You believe in neither,” I said.

“True, but what do I know? Sometimes I don’t believe in my God, though he be one. And for this I beg his forgiveness in sacrifice, only hoping for his mercy. But what good is any god, be he man or woman, if he cannot give his people bread?”

“None.”

“In Israel the king has also been called the son of God, appointed by the divine to rule. And now even as Israel begs her son of God to restore her land and the bread of that land, so the desert begs her daughter of God to restore her honor. Is this not true?”

“I don’t think I can give it to them.”

“But you will, Maviah. You will see and then you will believe.”

“And if I don’t?”

He shrugged. “Then it was not meant to be. And this too is life. I only ask that you begin to see what I see in you. Tomorrow you will stand before the king, Herod, who will only see you as you see yourself. And then he will offer you his favor.”

I remained silent, wondering if I could see myself with such favor.

“Herod is a man,” Judah said very quietly. “There is no one to win his favor like a woman such as you.”

I felt myself blush in the darkness.

“I have no interest in appealing to the man in him.”

“And yet Saba is right—you come for your people, and so you will do what you must.”

“This doesn’t bother you?”

He responded slowly.

“It isn’t my right to speak on this matter.”

This was true.

“I would, however, advise against marriage,” he said, with a hint of mirth. “His wife, Phasaelis, is the daughter of Aretas and surely filled with as much pride as her father.”

Phasaelis. I had given little thought to Herod’s wife, for surely she wouldn’t have a voice in Herod’s court. If so… she was the daughter of Aretas, whom I sought to betray even as he’d betrayed my father. It was his endorsement of the Thamud that had led to my son’s death.