the rays of the sun extending from the corners. Cassia tried to raise herself. Pain, like none she’d ever felt from Aretas’s beatings, shot through her shoulder, down into her arm, across her back, and seemed to light her very being on fire.
“Peace.” The old man touched her arm with a wrinkled hand. “Your shoulder is out of joint. Do not try to move.”
Cassia licked dry lips. “My son.”
The old man smiled and inclined his head toward the other side of the room. Two or three figures moved in the shadows.
“He sleeps. Precious boy.”
Cassia tried to read his eyes and heart. Was there danger here? She mustered a smile. “Thank you for helping us.”
He shook his head. “I’ve done nothing yet. But we shall see.”
“I have no money.”
A quiet laugh sounded from the shadows. A woman, Cassia thought. His wife?
The old man patted her arm again. “I have no need of your money.”
Cassia’s eyes grew heavy again.
“Sleep.” He pulled a blanket over her. “You will need strength for what is to come.”
She felt herself slipping away, but not before his words chilled her. There had been a time, several years ago, when Aretas had been in a market brawl. The man he had cheated left him with his shoulder out of joint.
Cassia knew what awaited her. Better to sleep.
But sleep was not merciful enough to remain. She awoke to hushed words again, but this time believed there were more than two in the shadows. She took in the room, trying to remain unnoticed.
Something was strange about the walls and roof. Smoother than any mud-brick home in Damascus had been, as though there wereno cracks between the bricks. And the roof, no stray thatch poked from the mud. Instead, the walls and roof were subtly striped with color. Reddish orange, with blacks and yellow. It reminded her of something . . .
The rock! Of course. The walls of the gorge that had led them to Petra were striped in this way.
She was not in the front room of a mud-brick home in town. She lay entombed in the rock!
The older man appeared at her side, cup in hand. She reached for the cup with her good arm, but he shook his head and held it for her. The wine was heavily watered, and she was thirsty.
The room did not feel like a rock-cut tomb. It smelled of meat cooked with curry, and the warmth of it, compared to the last ten nights of desert cold, was like an embrace.
Her benefactor set the empty cup on the floor and leaned over her. “I am Malik.”
“Cassia.” She dipped her head. “And Alexander.”
He smiled. “Yes, young Alexander is very proud of his namesake.”
A flutter of anger touched Cassia’s nerves. It troubled her to think of Alexander talking with these people while she lay senseless. She knew nothing of them, nor what they might want. “How . . . how did we get here?”
“We carried you.” The words were spoken simply, as though nothing strange had occurred. He smiled. “Alexander helped.”
She studied Malik. He was quite old, though still upright and strong, with a lean frame. His hair had gone to gray and was only present in a fringe around his head, above his ears. His face was deeply lined, but when he smiled his eyes sparkled like those of a younger man. Cassia felt her heart drawn to him, but she could not say why.
“We must take care of your shoulder.”
She bit her lip. “Are you a physician?”
He smiled sadly. “No.”
She exhaled and closed her eyes. Were Aretas here, she would have insisted he find a physician, even if it meant opening the money pouch he kept only for emergencies. But Aretas was not here. And she had no money. None. Who was she to insist upon help that would cost?
Inhaling strength, she opened her eyes and nodded.
Malik brushed her hair back from her gaze, the gesture so gentle Cassia’s throat tightened. She would have fallen to tears, but she needed to be strong. Above all, she must not wake Alex with her cries. He had been frightened enough by the days of danger.
Malik
“Peace.” The old man touched her arm with a wrinkled hand. “Your shoulder is out of joint. Do not try to move.”
Cassia licked dry lips. “My son.”
The old man smiled and inclined his head toward the other side of the room. Two or three figures moved in the shadows.
“He sleeps. Precious boy.”
Cassia tried to read his eyes and heart. Was there danger here? She mustered a smile. “Thank you for helping us.”
He shook his head. “I’ve done nothing yet. But we shall see.”
“I have no money.”
A quiet laugh sounded from the shadows. A woman, Cassia thought. His wife?
The old man patted her arm again. “I have no need of your money.”
Cassia’s eyes grew heavy again.
“Sleep.” He pulled a blanket over her. “You will need strength for what is to come.”
She felt herself slipping away, but not before his words chilled her. There had been a time, several years ago, when Aretas had been in a market brawl. The man he had cheated left him with his shoulder out of joint.
Cassia knew what awaited her. Better to sleep.
But sleep was not merciful enough to remain. She awoke to hushed words again, but this time believed there were more than two in the shadows. She took in the room, trying to remain unnoticed.
Something was strange about the walls and roof. Smoother than any mud-brick home in Damascus had been, as though there wereno cracks between the bricks. And the roof, no stray thatch poked from the mud. Instead, the walls and roof were subtly striped with color. Reddish orange, with blacks and yellow. It reminded her of something . . .
The rock! Of course. The walls of the gorge that had led them to Petra were striped in this way.
She was not in the front room of a mud-brick home in town. She lay entombed in the rock!
The older man appeared at her side, cup in hand. She reached for the cup with her good arm, but he shook his head and held it for her. The wine was heavily watered, and she was thirsty.
The room did not feel like a rock-cut tomb. It smelled of meat cooked with curry, and the warmth of it, compared to the last ten nights of desert cold, was like an embrace.
Her benefactor set the empty cup on the floor and leaned over her. “I am Malik.”
“Cassia.” She dipped her head. “And Alexander.”
He smiled. “Yes, young Alexander is very proud of his namesake.”
A flutter of anger touched Cassia’s nerves. It troubled her to think of Alexander talking with these people while she lay senseless. She knew nothing of them, nor what they might want. “How . . . how did we get here?”
“We carried you.” The words were spoken simply, as though nothing strange had occurred. He smiled. “Alexander helped.”
She studied Malik. He was quite old, though still upright and strong, with a lean frame. His hair had gone to gray and was only present in a fringe around his head, above his ears. His face was deeply lined, but when he smiled his eyes sparkled like those of a younger man. Cassia felt her heart drawn to him, but she could not say why.
“We must take care of your shoulder.”
She bit her lip. “Are you a physician?”
He smiled sadly. “No.”
She exhaled and closed her eyes. Were Aretas here, she would have insisted he find a physician, even if it meant opening the money pouch he kept only for emergencies. But Aretas was not here. And she had no money. None. Who was she to insist upon help that would cost?
Inhaling strength, she opened her eyes and nodded.
Malik brushed her hair back from her gaze, the gesture so gentle Cassia’s throat tightened. She would have fallen to tears, but she needed to be strong. Above all, she must not wake Alex with her cries. He had been frightened enough by the days of danger.
Malik
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