A.D. 33 Read Free Page A

of value we had long ago traded for food and for she-camels, whose milk provided much of our sustenance.
    The contrast between our meager Bedu means and the lavish courts of Herod and Aretas, where I had lived for many weeks, could not be overstated. Our camels, our tents, and the oasis with its spring and small spread of date palms and pomegranate—these are what allowed us Bedu, who could wring life from a rock, to survive in the middle of the forbidding sands that had defeated many an army from the north.
    Fahak lifted his cup from the flat stone beside his saddle and took a noisy sip of the hot tea. His frame was thin and his hair clung to his head and chin as if it were pasted there by mud, waiting for a stiff breeze to blow it all away. Then he carefully set his cup back down, just managing to keep it from spilling, and cleared his throat.
    “Do I not know the greatness of Maviah? Was I not the first to accept her among all sheikhs? Though Thamud, did I not decry the violent ways of my own tribe for her sake? Did I not single-handedly save her from the jaws of the mighty Nafud so that she might bring back the power of her new god, Yeshua, to join with our gods, Wadd and Isis and Shams and Dushares?”
    Much of what he said distorted the facts, and no amount of explanation seemed to help Fahak understand the truth of what gave me strength. He would only listen to me with a blank stare, then dip his head in agreement and praise his god for bringing such a woman with her new god to help him overthrow the enemy.
    “But Maviah does not carry a sword. To march upon Dumah is to march with the sword. And so, however grateful we are to Maviah, the time for men has now come.”
    He let his words sink in.
    “The sword is not the issue, Fahak,” the sheikh Niran said.
    “Of course it is! Do you think Kahil would not slaughter eight thousand men who come to defy him without swords?”
    “And do you think eight thousand armed men on haggard beasts can stand against Saman’s army of thirty thousand?”
    “No man can defeat me!” Fahak cried. His cry faltered and ended with only a raspy breath, followed by several rattling hacks from his worn lungs.
    “We must wait for more men to join our number,” Niran argued. “Another month.”
    “We do not have the food to wait another month,” another sheikh said. Habib. “In two weeks the camels will begin to starve and we will need to slaughter them for food, thus compromising our mobility.”
    “Then perhaps we march in two weeks, when we are at the end of our food but have more men,” Niran said.
    “More men will only require more food,” Habib countered. “To go when we are weakest is not the Bedu way. Nor is it our way to confront the enemy without a sword.”
    A fourth sheikh, Jashim, the youngest of the leaders, spoke evenly. “We must go in peace. There is no other way to restore Rami’s honor and liberate Judah, who is unjustly imprisoned.”
    “We must go with the sword and demand restitution for the Thamud plunder!” Fahak snapped. “We are free to couch camel and clan where the sands offer grace. This is the right of all Bedu for as long as man has set foot on the earth. And yet Saman’s butcher son would slaughter us all. If not with the sword, then with starvation and poverty.”
    “A ruler without subjects is no ruler,” Jashim said. “Our deaths are not in Saman’s interests. Who would remain to attend to the many spice caravans that pay his taxes? Or deliver the food and wares the city requires? Dumah is the jewel of the deep sands, but it cannot stand alone.”
    “No? Except for your desire to disarm us you speak with a sane mind.” Fahak jabbed his forehead with a thin finger. “But Saman is mad. His son, Kahil, is worse. Are we to hope that the jinn who have eaten his brains will now spit those same brains back into his skull so that he might come to reason?”
    The only member of our number who was not a sheikh, besides me, was Arim, servant