A.D. 30(95)

I wasn’t bound by fear but by a great uncertainty, for in that cell I had lost my way. Questions flooded my mind. I resolved only to follow the guard and accept whatever fate awaited me.

They lifted me onto a camel, still hooded, and led me some distance away from the heart of the city, for the day grew quiet. The fresh scent of clean air filled my nose and lungs and the sun’s warmth gave me some courage. Then they couched the camel and ordered me off.

I stood without sandals on hot sand for a moment before they tugged me forward, onto a stone path, up four steps, and into the cool of a building caged in silence.

The hood was pulled from my head and I blinked in the dim light. They were there. Aretas and his queen, Shaquilath, sat behind a wide stone table fifteen paces in front of me. We were in a large circular room with a domed ceiling supported by tall limestone columns. Stone benches behind the pillars rose to an outer wall. Small windows permitted a little light. The floor under my feet was made of stained stone slabs set in loose sand.

Apart from Aretas and his queen, only I and perhaps ten Nabataean warriors stood in the small arena. The soldiers, stationed to my right and left, all bore arms and awaited orders.

Behind me the heavy door slammed shut, closing off the outside world.

“Remove her shackles.”

I turned to Aretas as the guard released the irons from my wrists and pushed me into the center of the room.

The light streaming in from the small windows that ringed the arena was joined by the light of six tall torches, three on either side of the stone table. A single wooden door, now closed, led deeper into the building behind it. There were no other appointments in the room.

Aretas slowly pushed himself to his feet and walked around the table, right hand at his beard, elbow supported by his left forearm, which lay across his chest. Today he wore a blue robe and a headband of leather inlaid with silver. Shaquilath remained seated, hair piled high as before.

Wind moaned through the narrow windows above us. Why had they brought me here, to an arena that appeared rarely used, or abandoned?

The king stopped in front of the stone table and studied me. “I see you are no worse off for your visit with us. As promised.” He glanced at the domed ceiling and indicated the room with a lazy hand. “Do you know what this is?”

When I didn’t answer he told me.

“Many years ago, after the death of Alexander the Great, when the Greeks were thrown into chaos, Antigonus the One-eyed ordered Athenaeus to crush the Nabataeans at Petra, for the whole world knew of our great wealth. They came at night, four thousand foot soldiers and six hundred horsemen. But my ancestors, rather than rush into battle, hid in the vast cisterns while the Greeks raided the city, thinking it abandoned. The Greeks took much frankincense and myrrh and five hundred talents of silver and retreated into the desert two full days’ march before encamping to celebrate their victory. Surely you have heard of this great battle.”

He waited for me to respond, and I cleared my throat. “No.”

“No? The Nabataeans bode their time before descending on the Greeks while they slept. We slaughtered all four thousand foot soldiers and all but forty of the horsemen, so that they might take news of their defeat back to the Greeks as a warning. Did the Greeks learn? Of course not, but that is another tale.”

He flashed me a grin and tapped his head with a thick finger.

“Strategy, daughter of Rami. This was three hundred years ago. Ever since, the Nabataeans have ruled with superior cunning and strategy. Always patient, always allowing the enemy to succumb to their own greatest weakness. I’m sure you can appreciate such wisdom. It’s a matter of survival in this ruthless desert.”

I gave a shallow nod.

He scanned the walls. “We now stand in one of the great underground cisterns in which my ancestors hid from the Greeks. Many years later, our king Obodas reinforced it with these columns and made it a treasury. When our greater treasury was completed, he then exposed its walls and made it an arena for training and sport. Much blood has been shed in this room. Mostly that of our enemies.”

The floor was stained with blood, then.

“But this is not the point,” Aretas said. “There is too much blood spilled in the desert already. The point is that the Nabataeans have always outwitted those who would undermine our kingdom. And I have no choice but to do the same today in the matter concerning Herod.”

Growing impatient, his queen, who’d watched us without any discernible expression, spoke directly.

“It seems that your judgment of Herod was correct,” she said. “He’s officially taken Herodias as his wife. We’ve decided to grant you your wish.”