A.D. 30(85)

The guard stood still.

“Are you deaf?”

He glanced at two others, one of whom must have recognized her, for he took a knee.

“My lady.” He bowed his head.

“At least someone recognizes the daughter of their king when she presents herself. Have these camels quartered and bring the packs. I carry valuable cargo.”

They hurried then, four of them running not as guard but as slaves—three to the camels and one into the courtyard to relay her message. The guard in Herod’s courts did not jump for the queen as they did here.

“Come,” Phasa said.

I held myself erect as I followed by Judah’s side, aware that I was not dressed for my role. The clothes I wore were Phasa’s, made for travel, not for court. The fitted blue-and-brown tunic was made of the finest hide, and loose gathered slacks fell to sandals strapped to my calves with leather binding. My hair was braided and tied back with a blue band about my forehead.

At my waist I carried the dagger of Varus.

Judah and Saba were dressed as warriors and carried both knives and swords. Only Phasa wore a cloak—black—but not one so extravagant as to bind her as she rode.

She walked now with fire in her eyes and head held high, directly up the steps and into the courtyard, which stretched between the towering columns to another series of steps and the inner courts.

“This is the palace?” I asked.

“This is where my father conducts all of his affairs. He lives elsewhere. You will see, Maviah.” She looked at me. “Only let me speak. Say nothing out of turn.”

“Of course.”

We were halfway to the inner courts when a servant dressed in a white tunic hurried down the steps and ran to Phasa, bowing. “Phasaelis, daughter of Aretas, friend of his people. The king awaits.”

“Lead us.”

The servant lifted his head and glanced at Judah and Saba.

“They are my slaves. Lead us!”

“Of course, my lady.”

He led us up the steps into a grand room that at first appeared to be a theater. Or a court. Seats ran on either side, facing a bare marble floor, finely carved and inlaid with rich colors. Everything my eyes saw spoke of exquisite workmanship and vast wealth, from the rich drapes to the golden lions positioned on either side of the entrance.

Light streamed in from windows near an ornately tiered ceiling arched in the Roman way.

“Phasa!” The voice thundered from a raised platform across the theater, and I lifted my eyes to see the true seat of power in Petra.

There, beyond yet another flight of five steps and four columns, stood two thrones made of silver and wood. On either side, fixed stone tables ran the length of the landing. Sculptures and tall lampstands made of silver appointed the platform.

“Phasa!”

A man with graying hair rushed down the steps. His beard was drawn to a point and tied with cords. He was dressed in a loose multicolored robe, untied in the front to show white undergarments. His feet were bare and slapped on the marble floor as he hurried forward.

By the golden rings on his fingers and the silver bands on his wrists and forearms, I knew immediately that this was Aretas.

He stretched out his arms and cried out as if he’d found his only treasure.

“Phasa, love of my life! You have returned to an old king before his death. Al-Uzza has answered my prayers!”

He threw his arms around her and held her close, and for a moment I thought he might weep for his joy.

She kissed his face and beard. “Father, how I missed you!” I thought she too might burst into tears. Arabian blood ran thick in their veins.

I glanced up and saw that a woman of elaborate tastes, taller by a hand than Aretas, had left the table where they were feasting with several other royals and was striding to the edge of the platform. Unlike Aretas she was dressed in perfect fashion, red and purple silk drawn tight around her slender frame. Jewels sparkled where skin was to be seen, and her dark hair was piled high, bound in place by thin golden cords.

She did not hurry down the steps—doing so might have caused her to trip, for her gown was narrow to her sandaled feet.

This then was Shaquilath.

Phasa was the daughter of Aretas by his first wife, born before Shaquilath had become queen.

“Shaqui!” Aretas cried, turning back. “You see who has come to visit us.”

“I see.” The queen’s mouth formed half of a smile. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?”

Phasa offered a slight bow, but her tone was less exuberant with the queen. “It is my greatest pleasure to see you as well, Mother Queen.”

“You are well?” Aretas demanded of Phasa.

“Of course, Father. And now that I am in your court, I am the most favored daughter known to the world.”