Palace of Darkness Page 2

  He thought of his brother’s stories of the provinces that lay at the edges of the Empire. Of Britannia, of Judea. But even there the Roman army could search out a man. No, he must go farther east than even Judea.

  There was a place, a hidden city he had heard tales of since he was a boy. Stories that sparked his imagination and gave him the desire to travel across the desert sand to discover the city tucked between the rock cliffs of Arabia.

  Petra. Capital of the Nabataean kingdom, wealthy center of the east-west trade route, and beyond even the Roman Empire’s reach.

  Julian rubbed his hands together, palms still raw from being torn open the day Vita had died. Yes, it was a good plan.

  He would flee to Petra.

  TWO

  CASSIA STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF HER DAMASCUS HOME, the bronze mirror that gave evidence of Aretas’s violent affection for her still clutched in her hand.

  How long until the brute returns?

  The afternoon sun slanted into their tiny stone home, but it told her nothing. Aretas did not keep the regular hours of a merchant, nor the respectable schedule of a farmer.

  She touched the purple flesh around her left eye and winced, then pressed her fingers against the angry bruise until she could no longer bear the pain. But she welcomed the pain today, let it feed her fury, let it harden her hatred. The vows she had whispered into the night, as Aretas slept off his wine, had been only words.

  The languid summer air inside the house, weighted with the heady scent from the platter of dates she had set out, dizzied her, and Cassia went to the front door, in need of a fresh breeze.

  From her open doorway she glanced left and right down their narrow alley, watching for Aretas’s swagger. Instead, she spotted another figure, dear to her heart, approaching.

  The small boy walked with head down and his feet dragged.

  “Alexander?” His head lifted and she expected his sunny smile, but it was absent.

  Even from this distance, the uncanny ability she’d always had to see into others’ hearts exposed his hurt. Her feet carried her to him of their own accord. She saw before many steps that tears tracked across his grimy, little-boy face.

  She did not speak, and the boy was silent as well but buried his sweet head against her abdomen and sniffed.

  “Come home, Alexander.” She reached out a hand. “We will talk there.” He let her take his hand and lead him home.

  Inside, they curled up together on a collection of red floor cushions placed against the wall. Cassia had surrounded this niche with clay pots of her favorite plants, and the effect created by the privacy lent itself to the whispering of secrets and hidden hurts. At six years old, Alexander was nearly too big to crawl onto her lap, but thankfully, he did not realize it. With the boy’s head against her chest, she stroked his hair, damp with the heat of the afternoon.

  “I thought you were going to play with Kelaya until nightfall.”

  “He did not want to play.”

  “No? Did his mother have too many chores for him?”

  “He wanted to go to the river with the older boys. They said I could not come.”

  “Ah, but you will be older soon too.” She felt Alexander shake his head against her, and she smiled. “Before you know it—”

  “They said they would not allow the son of a bandit.”

  At her sharp intake of breath, the precious child looked up into her eyes. “Is my father a bandit?”

  She held a hand against his smooth cheek. With his sandy hair and light eyes, the boy was more his father’s than hers, but his sweet, puppy-like enthusiasm for life came from the gods themselves. “We will have more fun here, anyway.” She hid her anger. “I need your special touch to prepare for the harvest feast.”

  He leaned his head against her once more and nodded, just a small dip of his head that bespoke hurt and shame. And the rejection of his playmates was like an injury to herself, a sharp stab of pain in her soul as real as any blow she’d ever received at the hand of Aretas. She added this new wound to the last.

  Never again.

  Refusing to let Alexander dwell on his disappointment, Cassia spun out one of her silly stories for him until his tears turned to giggles, aided by her tickling fingers.

  “Come.” She lifted the boy from her lap. “You can lay out the palm fronds.” She pointed to a large orange pot standing beside the door, stuffed with green fronds she had gathered this morning from the outskirts of town, where date palms ringed the oasis that fed all of the Syrian city of Damascus. She decorated for the meal because it pleased her. Aretas would take no notice.

  “Like this.” She took a handful of fronds and scattered them like a green carpet.

  “Kelaya’s mother says you have more green things inside the house than outside. She says it is unnatchel.”

  Cassia laughed. “Unnatural?” She ran a palm branch through her fingers. “How can anything living be unnatural? Besides”—she handed him more palms—“it is a tradition to lay a palm carpet for the date harvest celebration.”

  Tradition. There had been none of it in her shortened childhood, so she had tried to build a life of tradition and ritual for Alex, hoping it would be a secure foundation in spite of the tentative life Aretas provided. How had she let them come so far?

  When the palms were laid, she sent Alex to the back of the room to sit on a three-legged stool and practice his lyre. “For your papa. It will please him to hear you strum for our celebration.”

  Alexander shrugged. “Yesterday he told me to be quiet.”

  She bit back a slur on Aretas’s manhood and shifted the platter of bloodred dates on the table. “He was tired, shekel. Tonight he will love to hear you play.”

  “Why do you call me shekel still, Mama?” He plucked a few strings on the lyre. “I must be at least a mina by now.”

  Cassia laughed again. Perhaps he was aware, after all, of how big he had grown. “I don’t care if you are as big as fifty minas.” She pointed a finger. “You will always be my bright, shiny shekel.”

  Alexander began his practice, and Cassia took a date from the platter, cut it in half with a sharp knife, and absently examined its wrinkly skin. She bit into it, her glance on the door once more. How long did they have? And what mood would be upon Aretas when he returned? It would depend on the success of his day—how many he had swindled and for how much. The sweetness puckered her cheeks. She went to Alex and held out the rest of the date to him. He grinned and opened his mouth.

  “How are those two teeth?” She popped the fruit between his lips.

  “Still wiggly.” He demonstrated by wobbling his two front teeth back and forth with a small forefinger.

  She laughed. “Chew your date.”

  He crooked his finger at her, indicating she should bend down to him. She brought her face close to his and he whispered into her ear.

  “I like you best.” He kissed her cheek.

  She exhaled and pulled him against her shoulder, unwilling to let him see the emotion pooled in her eyes. “And you are my very favorite boy in all the world.” She turned away before he could ask why he had made her sad.

  A knock sounded at the door, then a cheerful voice. “Cassia?” The door opened and her neighbor Magdala entered with Alexander’s playmate, Kelaya, in tow. “You weren’t at the market this morning—” Magdala’s voice choked off when she saw Cassia’s face. She crossed the room and put her arms around Cassia, then removed her arms and put both hands on Cassia’s shoulders, turning her toward herself. Magdala studied Cassia’s eyes until Cassia had to look away. “How bad?”

  Cassia drew a breath, shrugged one shoulder, and grinned at Magdala. “I will not soon win any footraces.”

  Magdala clucked her tongue and pulled Cassia toward her in another careful embrace, which smelled of jasmine and honey. “When are you going to leave?” she whispered.

  “I have nothing, Magdala. No money. No family. I must first have a good plan.”

  Magdala’s bright-re
d dress and the matching linen wrapped around her head and shoulders offset Cassia’s aged white tunic, and clearly conveyed Magdala would never understand Cassia’s lack of finances.

  Her neighbor’s hand on her back was gentle and warm. “You are strong, Cassia, even if you do not believe it for yourself. Most in your place would have given up on life by now. You can raise that boy. You can make a life for yourself without Aretas. And you will!”

  Cassia only nodded at her friend.

  “What about Aretas’s family?” Magdala’s lip curled. “That man comes from money. It’s written all over him. Why don’t you at least find them and let them help take care of you and Alexander?”

  “Aretas never speaks of his family. And he gets angry whenever I ask.” She pushed Magdala toward the door. “You both must go. He will be home soon, and you know how he feels about my friendship with you.”

  “That man would be threatened by a stray pup if it befriended you. He hoards your beauty like he hoards his dishonest wages.” Magdala beckoned to her son.

  “Ah, perhaps he will toss me into a sack of coins one day, and I’ll find the money I need to flee this place.” Cassia smiled and gave Magdala another painful embrace before closing the door behind them both.

  She went to the cushions once more and propped herself there to listen to Alex play. There was nothing left to prepare. There was only the waiting, no different from any night. The uncertain waiting. Tonight would Aretas’s touch be angry or sweet? Would he find her entertaining or simply bothersome? She sent up a simple prayer to the gods that she would not kill him while he slept, though she always doubted they listened to anyone but the temple priests.

  The sun carved a yellow line across the floor, cutting an advancing path through the room, until at last there came a scratching in the dust outside the front door. Cassia stood and Alex’s music ceased as though his hand had been slapped from the instrument.

  The door flew open and Aretas stumbled across the threshold, outlined by the setting sun.

  Cassia went to him, anger flooding her. He was clearly drunk.

  Aretas grinned and kicked the door shut. He held a worn leather pouch in one hand, tied shut with a dirty woven cord. Even slightly bent, he towered over Cassia, and he wrapped a muscular arm around her shoulder. The pouch he carried bumped against her upper arm, heavy and rough.

  “Alexander the Great!” he yelled, using the title given to the boy’s conquering namesake four centuries earlier. “How high can you count?” He was still yelling, and Cassia led him, stumbling across the room, to the cushions where he collapsed. “Let’s see if all that learning your mama’s been giving you is working.” He tossed the pouch at the boy’s feet, and it landed with a harsh jingle of coins. “Count that!”

  His words huffed out as though he were in pain, and he used the back of his hand to swipe at his windblown black hair. He had the smell of drink on him, along with the ordinary smell of sweat, which he seemed to acquire in spite of his aversion to hard work.

  And then she saw it. The reddening gash across the front of his tunic.

  “You are bleeding!” She reached for the torn edges of the tunic, but he slapped her hand.

  “Count the money!”

  Bleed to death, then, stubborn fool.

  She moved across the room to Alex and together they dumped the coins on the floor.

  “So many!” Alex’s eyes widened. “What did you sell to get these, Papa?”

  Aretas laughed, a scornful laugh that dug into Cassia’s heart the way her gardening trowel attacked the hard desert soil.

  “Just count, Alex.” Without looking over her shoulder at Aretas, she said, “How bad is it?”

  There was no answer, and she glanced back. Aretas’s eyes were closed and the stain on his tunic had spread. She left Alex to the counting and went to him, compassion taking over. There had been a time when she found Aretas, and the danger he brought with him, irresistible. Long ago. Before Alexander.

  His eyes fluttered open. “How much?” His voice did not seem so strong as it had when he staggered in.

  “We are not finished yet.”

  He grinned, closing his eyes. “That is good.”

  She reached for the injury again, and he did not push her away. “One day all of this will catch up with you, Aretas.” She pulled at the torn tunic and he grunted.

  “Perhaps today.”

  The cut was not deep, only wide. As though someone had slashed at him as he ran, catching more tunic than skin. Who was the attacker? An honest tradesman yielding to a moment of temper? Or one of the unsavory merchants who passed through town and was usually on the cheating end of deals, who did not easily play the victim?

  She wiped the blood from the cut.

  “Aaahhh!” Aretas arched his back. “Easy, woman! I am not one of your goats!”

  “Sorry.” Cassia bit her lip to hide a smile.

  Across the room, Alex dropped the last coin onto the pile. “Thirty-two denarii, Papa!”

  Aretas propped himself on two elbows and scowled at the boy. “Are you certain? There must be more.”

  Alex lowered his eyes. “I will count again.”

  She shifted to stand, but Aretas caught her wrist. “Why so serious, Cassia? Aren’t you proud of me?” He squeezed her arm until it tingled. “Do I not provide well for you both? Better than you deserve?”

  She forced a cold smile. She had been with Aretas all six of Alexander’s years, since she herself was only sixteen. She could wait a little longer. “I worry about you, that is all.”

  He released her. “I can handle myself. You would do better to worry about your own skin. A trading caravan is on the horizon. Tomorrow we work together.”

  Cassia’s stomach hardened. “No, Aretas. It is not safe for Alexander.”

  Aretas glanced at the boy, still counting and oblivious to their conversation. “Of course it is safe. Do you think I would ever endanger my boy?”

  She stood and moved to the table, and the palm fronds crunched under her feet. “As you said, you provide well for us yourself. You do not need us.”

  The sun dipped below the horizon at last, and the house descended into gloom. Cassia brought a plate of dates and a small loaf of bread to Aretas.

  “No, I do not need you.” He took the food from her hand. “But it does not serve to play the same game every day. You and Alex vary the game.”

  Cassia lowered her voice to a hiss. “I am sick of helping you cheat people. And it is dangerous for Alex. Play your own foolish games.”

  Aretas’s eyes bore into hers, and he tossed the plate to the blanketed floor, spilling the fruit.

  She had provoked him purposely, even though she keenly sensed the direction of his mood. She knew he would hit her. One more time, to strengthen my heart. Then never again.

  “It is still thirty-two denarii, Papa.” Alex held up the pouch and shook it to jingle the coins.

  Aretas did not take his eyes from Cassia. “That is good, Alexander the Great. You are a very smart boy. But it is time for sleep now.”

  “But the festival—”

  “To your bed, Alexander!” Aretas’s voice was iron, ready to strike.

  The boy’s face fell and Cassia’s hands formed fists at her sides. She despised Aretas when he hurt Alexander’s feelings. The boy came to her and hugged her waist. She bent her head to him. “Where are my ten kisses?”

  “A hundred kisses!” He pecked her cheek in their nightly ritual.

  “A thousand kisses,” she whispered as always, then nudged him to the back room. She gathered the dates from the floor, replaced them on the plate, and considered her choices as Aretas came at her.

  She could leave until morning. But it would be worse when she returned.

  She could leave now, forever. But he would never let her take Alexander.

  She could not leave alone.

  No, she must wait. Wait for her chance. She thought of Aretas’s insistence that she and Alex help swindle the tra
ders passing through Damascus. He would give her money as part of the game they played. She toyed with a possibility, turning it over in her mind like a new gold coin.

  The gash in his side must not have pained Aretas too much, at least not enough to soften the blow to her ribs. Don’t cry out. Focus on tomorrow. Our last chance.

  She dodged his fists and focused on her pot of caraway. A little brown on the tips of the leaves. More water, perhaps. Caraway was a sensitive plant.

  Aretas soon tired and left her alone. She wiped the sweat from her brow and blood from her mouth. The beatings never lasted long when he had been drinking. He was asleep within minutes, one arm thrown over his forehead, mouth dropped open and snoring. But Cassia did not sleep, not for many hours. Tomorrow was too important.

  When she did at last drift off, it was with the comforting thought that although her ribs burned like fire, her heart had at last turned to ice.

  She had been weak for too long. It was time for action.

  THREE

  THE EARLY-MORNING LIGHT, WATERY AND COOL, FILTERED into the front room and woke Cassia from her uneasy sleep. She lifted herself from the cushions, wincing at the stab in her side. But she would not give in to self-pity today.

  Across the room, Aretas sat cross-legged on the floor, readying what he called their “merchandise.”

  Nothing more than powder and lies.

  “Paid too much for this alabaster,” he muttered, pouring powdered resin through a small funnel into the mouth of a tiny pearl-white jar.

  “It is beautiful.” Cassia crossed the room and knelt beside him to stroke the smooth surface of the jar. Aretas knew all about luxuries such as alabaster. He had never brought her anything so fine.

  Aretas set the jar on the floor and picked up a small clay jar. He pulled the stopper from it and, in an uncommon gesture of goodwill, held it to Cassia to let her smell.

  She breathed deeply of the cloying scent of myrrh.

  “The trick is to mix it just right.” Aretas sniffed it himself.

  Cassia said nothing. Aretas always enjoyed explaining his schemes to her.