A.D. 30(84)

If it was possible that Yeshua’s Father god could also be mine, could his power come to my aid as I stood before Aretas?

As we drew near to Petra, my only consolation was that Phasa had sworn to be my most spirited advocate. Her father would listen, she said. As for Shaquilath, his hotheaded queen, she could offer no assurances.

We arrived at Petra on the sixth day. I had not adequately prepared myself for that great city of stone.

Upon our approach we encountered a caravan southeast of the city. At least a thousand camels plodded in line, heavily laden with spices from Hadhramaut in the deep south, we were told. For many months they had traveled the southern trade route parallel to the Red Sea. I was immediately taken back to Dumah, where I’d witnessed the arrival of many such caravans.

Once again I was surrounded by the roar of a thousand camels as they were couched outside the city while the traders made entry. The scents of their frankincense and myrrh, mixed with the odors of the beasts that carried it, offered me some solace. And the Bedu who smiled as they lazily guided the camels…

These were my people. Though raised in Egypt, I was Bedu. I could not help but ponder what role I would play in their lives and they in mine.

We parted ways with the caravan as we approached the grand entrance to Petra—four travelers unnoticed, for there many were coming and going from that great pillar of trade.

Towering red sandstone obscured my view of the city. Tall columns were built directly into the face of the mountain. These rose a hundred feet, hewn into the cliff wall.

“It is a temple?” I asked.

“A tomb,” Phasa said. “A facade only, to mark the burial of a royal. We are Nabataeans, Maviah, lords of the world, you will see. This is nothing, I will show you.”

And she was right. We passed many such monuments to the dead, as well as an expansive arena carved from the mountain, large enough to seat five thousand, she said. It was new, the pride of her father.

Yet none could compare to the magnificence of Petra’s heart. We entered the main stone colonnade, a perfectly ordered street bordered by towering columns that faced the Jebel mountain, from which more great monuments had been cut, glowing red in the sinking sun. Merchants everywhere traded their wares—sparkling treasures and spices and fabrics from the farthest reaches, some having undoubtedly passed through Dumah.

We were soon in a red canyon carved with many channels that collected and diverted water into massive cisterns. The big rains came only a few times each year, but Petra’s people had mastered the art of collecting and preserving water long before any other, Phasa told us.

Only in this way could such an impenetrable city survive in the desert. Many had come against Petra for her wealth. None had succeeded. Not the Romans, nor the Greeks before them. None ever would.

And none could enter Petra and not wonder at the power of her king. To build such structures had surely taken many lifetimes.

Everywhere I looked I saw majestic architecture, greater by far than any in Sepphoris, if only because it had all been carved into the rock itself. Phasa insisted on showing us the city’s greatest features before making entry into her father’s courts.

The walled city itself was not so large, for most homes were on the slopes above the city, and the thousands who came and went by camel couched in massive camps to the south. Not so large, but glorious.

And unique in another way. The women dressed casually, at times scandalously, baring more skin than I was accustomed to. Their fabrics were rich in color and they were free to laugh on the streets. This place was more Greek and Roman than of the desert. Everywhere I looked I saw wealth. Petra was drenched in it.

This was the seat of Aretas, and the Bedu were a mere footstool to be kicked aside.

“But now you will see where the true power of Petra sits,” Phasa announced, and she led us toward what appeared to be a great temple.

Steps rose to a huge terrace with three rows of columns on either side. I assumed this to be the temple to the Nabataeans’ patron gods. Did Aretas then rule from a temple?

I glanced at Judah, who had remained silent, as had Saba, for they both knew that their lives were now in the hands of Phasa. He saw my look and offered an encouraging nod.

“Remember Yeshua’s words, Maviah. Remember who you are.”

“I am the enemy of Aretas,” I replied.

“You are the savior of Phasa, his daughter. And Saba is her pet.”

Saba glared at him but said nothing. His muscles were taut under dark skin glistening in the sun.

“Do not fret, Maviah,” Phasa said, turning on her mount. “We are home.”

And yet I did worry.

We reached the foot of the steps and Phasa angled for a guard on station there. “Send word to Aretas,” she said. “Tell him that Phasaelis, his daughter, has arrived from Galilee and would seek his audience immediately.”