bin Malik had once conducted his business with sheikhs from all corners of the desert.
But his power and wealth now belonged to Saman bin Shariqat, great warrior sheikh of the Thamud. The massive chamber’s walls were covered by long silk drapes fashioned in the colors of the Thamud, yellow and red on black. Thick new carpets from Persia and India softened the fortress floor amid three elaborate pillars.
The tables were heavy with carved chests, overflowing with jewels and gold coins. Silver trays with matching tea sets from afar were on prominent display, likely gifts from merchants and rulers who’d passed through Dumah on their way to Petra or Egypt or Rome. Exquisitely stamped and appointed leather saddles, each separated by polished swords, daggers, and lances, lined the walls.
But silver and gold meant nothing to Judah now. He longed to see only one thing.
There was no sign of Maviah.
There was only Saman, dressed in the black fringed thobe of his tribe and seated on a large wooden chair banded in silver. On his head, a black agal bound a red-and-yellow headdress. Thick pillows with golden tassels rested on the floor, where those who came for audience would be seated. It appeared Saman had abandoned the customs of the Bedu for the ways of the kings.
Kahil bin Saman, the son who knew no mercy, stood at the window, hands held loosely behind his back, gazing out at the oasis of Dumah beneath the tall fortress. Judah wondered if this was the same window where he’d thrown Maviah’s son to his death.
Like a coming storm, Judah’s anger began to gather. And with it, nausea.
“Leave us,” Maliku ordered.
The guards left them behind closed doors.
“Hold your tongue,” Maliku said under his breath. “Trust me.”
He pushed Judah forward, and with that shove Judah knew the man wore two faces in this room—both Kalb and Thamud.
Saman watched Judah with piercing eyes, chin planted on the palm of his hand. Kahil turned and walked toward him, studying his frame.
“I’d nearly forgotten we still had you in the dungeon,” Kahil said. “You are what I do with dung collected on my boot. I can only hope that you will fully appreciate the sound and sight of twenty thousand dying women and children.”
“Enough!” Saman stood, glaring at his son.
Kahil dipped his head in respect and backed up.
Saman stepped off the platform, eyes on Judah.
“To raid and overthrow is a sheikh’s right in the sands. Did I not crush Rami and take all of his wealth? In the desert did I not subdue those who resisted my power? Am I not the rightful overseer of all the caravans that flow through my city now?” He spoke with sweeping gestures. “Answer me.”
Judah offered the sheikh a nod, because this much was true.
“And yet even now they hover, twenty thousand beggars of all tribes, camped like stray dogs in the southern oasis. For a month now. On which winds did this illness infect the desert?”
“An illness that must be eradicated,” Kahil said absently.
Maviah. It had to be! No one else could have gathered so many.
“She calls herself the queen of the desert,” Saman scoffed.
Judah’s heart pounded.
“She is no more than a fly to be swatted,” Kahil said.
Saman’s brow arched. He retreated to his chair, sat heavily, and sighed. “You see what I have,” he said to Judah. “A son who cannot lay down his sword long enough to enjoy his spoil, and a traitor who would give me council.”
Judah looked at Maliku. What standing did the man have among the Thamud now? A traitor was a traitor, even in the eyes of those he’d benefited.
“Maliku claims that she will come unarmed.”
“This is the expectation of our informant,” Maliku confirmed.
“Only fools would come unarmed.” Kahil sneered. “But let them come—it will save us a march.”
“Cutting down twenty thousand unarmed Bedu, twelve thousand of whom are women and children, might be”—Maliku searched for the right
But his power and wealth now belonged to Saman bin Shariqat, great warrior sheikh of the Thamud. The massive chamber’s walls were covered by long silk drapes fashioned in the colors of the Thamud, yellow and red on black. Thick new carpets from Persia and India softened the fortress floor amid three elaborate pillars.
The tables were heavy with carved chests, overflowing with jewels and gold coins. Silver trays with matching tea sets from afar were on prominent display, likely gifts from merchants and rulers who’d passed through Dumah on their way to Petra or Egypt or Rome. Exquisitely stamped and appointed leather saddles, each separated by polished swords, daggers, and lances, lined the walls.
But silver and gold meant nothing to Judah now. He longed to see only one thing.
There was no sign of Maviah.
There was only Saman, dressed in the black fringed thobe of his tribe and seated on a large wooden chair banded in silver. On his head, a black agal bound a red-and-yellow headdress. Thick pillows with golden tassels rested on the floor, where those who came for audience would be seated. It appeared Saman had abandoned the customs of the Bedu for the ways of the kings.
Kahil bin Saman, the son who knew no mercy, stood at the window, hands held loosely behind his back, gazing out at the oasis of Dumah beneath the tall fortress. Judah wondered if this was the same window where he’d thrown Maviah’s son to his death.
Like a coming storm, Judah’s anger began to gather. And with it, nausea.
“Leave us,” Maliku ordered.
The guards left them behind closed doors.
“Hold your tongue,” Maliku said under his breath. “Trust me.”
He pushed Judah forward, and with that shove Judah knew the man wore two faces in this room—both Kalb and Thamud.
Saman watched Judah with piercing eyes, chin planted on the palm of his hand. Kahil turned and walked toward him, studying his frame.
“I’d nearly forgotten we still had you in the dungeon,” Kahil said. “You are what I do with dung collected on my boot. I can only hope that you will fully appreciate the sound and sight of twenty thousand dying women and children.”
“Enough!” Saman stood, glaring at his son.
Kahil dipped his head in respect and backed up.
Saman stepped off the platform, eyes on Judah.
“To raid and overthrow is a sheikh’s right in the sands. Did I not crush Rami and take all of his wealth? In the desert did I not subdue those who resisted my power? Am I not the rightful overseer of all the caravans that flow through my city now?” He spoke with sweeping gestures. “Answer me.”
Judah offered the sheikh a nod, because this much was true.
“And yet even now they hover, twenty thousand beggars of all tribes, camped like stray dogs in the southern oasis. For a month now. On which winds did this illness infect the desert?”
“An illness that must be eradicated,” Kahil said absently.
Maviah. It had to be! No one else could have gathered so many.
“She calls herself the queen of the desert,” Saman scoffed.
Judah’s heart pounded.
“She is no more than a fly to be swatted,” Kahil said.
Saman’s brow arched. He retreated to his chair, sat heavily, and sighed. “You see what I have,” he said to Judah. “A son who cannot lay down his sword long enough to enjoy his spoil, and a traitor who would give me council.”
Judah looked at Maliku. What standing did the man have among the Thamud now? A traitor was a traitor, even in the eyes of those he’d benefited.
“Maliku claims that she will come unarmed.”
“This is the expectation of our informant,” Maliku confirmed.
“Only fools would come unarmed.” Kahil sneered. “But let them come—it will save us a march.”
“Cutting down twenty thousand unarmed Bedu, twelve thousand of whom are women and children, might be”—Maliku searched for the right
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