A week passed. Or was it eight days? I lost track. I curled up in a ball on the dirt when it became cold, hating myself for feeling so powerless.
And then I felt the first significant shift in my mind. Though I had attempted to accept my fate, the first sparks of anger ignited deep within me.
I cannot say that my anger resulted from any particular thought, but the moment I felt that heat in my chest, I clung to it, then fed it with deliberate thoughts.
Had I ever betrayed anyone for my own gain, that the gods would have cause to punish me?
Had I not done my best to serve as a slave?
Had I not loved my son and nurtured him with life from my own breasts? Had I not honored my own father, even in his rejection of me? Had I not followed his wish in taking the dagger of Varus to Herod?
Was it my fault that I had been born a woman?
For hours the thoughts pounded through me, growing in their strength. I stood and paced, blood flowing hot through my veins. I despised any god who would visit such suffering on any mortal.
Yeshua had spoken of turning his cheek, and of a Father who did not judge, but my father knew only judgment and was made in the image of gods who loved only those who obeyed their every wish.
My thoughts turned again to Judah. To the way he’d led me through the desert and held me tenderly and saved me from Brutus. The moment an image of him being whipped filled my mind, I gripped my hands to fists and screamed into the darkness. Not once but many times.
My fury did not free me from the dungeon, but perhaps some god somewhere heard me, because the next day they came for me.
They came for me, but I felt little relief, so numb had my ravaging thoughts left me.
Four guards—two with torches, and two to shackle me and lead me from the cell. None offered a word of explanation.
I shrugged from their grip and walked upright, jaw tight, blood still hot.
They led me up the steps into the blinding sunlight. Only then did I come to myself and remember my true purpose in Petra. I stopped. Stunned that I’d drifted so far in my thinking, I allowed the sight of the sun to flood me with hope.
“Move!” One of the guards shoved me and I walked on.
My entire body was covered in filth and my hair was thick with dirt and sweat. But I was beyond caring what any might think of me. I was going to be heard. That was all that mattered.
Still, they delivered me to a washhouse, where three servants stripped and washed me using buckets of cold water, then dressed me in a plain white tunic and brushed my hair. Satisfied, they passed me to the guards, who shackled my hands once again.
They must have been under orders not to speak, for they were silent. Neither did I have anything to say to them.
Once again I was led into the great court that resembled a temple. Once more up the steps and into the inner courts of King Aretas, my head held high, for I had weathered their torment and was Maviah still, unharmed.
The open floor that I had taken for a theater was now set up as a court of law. Three wood tables formed a three-sided square with ornate chairs behind each table. Candle stands were set upon long silk runners, and bowls of fruits and nuts had been placed before nine members of Petra’s ruling class.
Presiding at the head was King Aretas, dressed in regal purple, adorned with gold bands and heavy rings. Shaquilath, his queen, hair piled high, wore a sheer, close-fitting white dress. She sparkled like a jeweled tower.
The others I did not know, except Phasa, who bolted to her feet the moment I was led into the court.
“Unshackle her!” she snapped, hurrying to me.
The guards complied, then stepped back to the wide doors and took their place next to four others. I scanned the room but saw no sign of Judah or Saba.
“Are you well, my dear?” Phasa grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Tell me they treated you well as I was promised.”
She spoke clearly for all to hear, and in her sincerity I found courage.
“Where is Judah?” I asked.
“They refuse to release him until they have heard you.”
“Please, Phasa,” Aretas said with a wave of his hand. “Sit.”
“Be strong,” she whispered, gripping my hand. “Show them you are a queen.” She nodded a final encouragement, then retreated to her chair next to her father.
Aretas leaned back with one hand on the table and eyed me past bushy eyebrows. In his dark eyes I saw a lifetime of cunning and struggle, knowing that the Nabataean were world-renowned for their delicate strategy and brute force. They alone had managed to form strong ties with the Bedu sheikhs, who yielded to none but this man, for the great wealth he provided, for truly, only gold was thicker than blood.
For a long moment, we looked at each other without speaking. He drummed the table with the tips of his ringed fingers.