Thorns of Glory, page 34
Made no sense. No sense. I’d lived among these people only a couple weeks. Didn’t even like ’em. No, that’s not true. Eh, I didn’t know anymore what was true. Just knew I was blubbering like a raving buck-wild nutcase. Pray no one sees me like this. Pray Gidgiddonihah doesn’t wake up. Not now. I’d never live it down.
My sobs weren’t unique. Others also sobbed in the horror and ruins. My sobs just made no sense. I wasn’t wounded. Was I frightened? Did I fear for the lives of Kerra, Steff, and Kidd? Was I afraid someone would step out from behind this heap of bodies and slit my throat?
None of that explained it. All I saw . . . All I saw in the smoke and death . . . was her eyes. Open. No emotion. Neither happiness nor sadness. Yet they shined. Like one of those posters where you can’t move left or right, high or low. Those eyes still look at you. That’s what Mom’s eyes did. Just looked at me. I should’ve closed ’em. In just about every movie, somebody’d reach over and . . . close ’em. I didn’t.
Never told Kerra about that. Or all those stupid doctors and shrinks. Never told ’em I’d sat on the floor, legs crossed, “Injun” style. I just watched her. Not sure how long. Thoughts passed in and out of my head. Some were so stupid. I wondered how long it’d take before she’d start to smell. Like I said—stupid. I didn’t smell nothin’ yet, but I wondered. Wondered how those eyes would look after a few days. Would they still be staring at me? Boring a hole into my brain? I even wondered, once or twice, if my mom was still alive. She was so frail and thin. Was this “look” I saw now really so different than it was most other days? Maybe she’d spring to life. Maybe she’d walk over . . . and hug me.
Nah. Wasn’t happenin’. My mom hadn’t hugged me since . . . I couldn’t even remember. Kerra hugged me. All the time. Mom never hugged me.
Yet I had a memory—I swore it was real—that once, long ago, she did hug me. She was different then. I asked Kerra about it once. Not directly. Kinda indirectly. She sometimes talked about when Mom was different. Before the bongs and needles. I . . . I think I remembered one of those times. Like a fairy tale. Something from fairyland. Maybe that’s where my mom was now. Fairyland.
Man, I hated myself. That was it! I realized it like a jolt from a frayed wire. That’s why I was crying. Why I couldn’t stop. ’Cause I hated everything about me. I wasn’t really living. All this? It was an act. Pretend. I think—no, I knew—the reason I couldn’t stand myself. It was ’cause, as I’d stared into her dead eyes, I’d felt nothing. And I mean nothing! We were the same, her and me. I was breathing. She was dead. But we were essentially the same.
What kinda psycho thinks such thoughts? What kinda damaged deviant feels nothing at a moment like that? Brock McConnell, that’s who. Deviant of deviants.
A hand gripped my shoulder.
I gasped. Charcoal in my throat felt like it burst into flames. I swallowed it anyway and turned to see Gid’s oil-blackened face, cracked helmet hanging off-center. He grasped my other shoulder, maybe ’cause from the way I jumped he thought I’d launch into space like a rocket.
“You all right, boy?” he asked, voice groggy. “You hurt?”
His hands explored my arms and chest where my coating of blood was thickest, looking for a wound.
“No, no,” I insisted, wiping frantically at my eyes with bloody palms, smearing up my appearance even worse.
He gaped at me, surely thinking, If yer not hurt, then why the bleep are you cryin’, ya pathetic whelp?
Or maybe not. Gidgiddonihah used his thumb to clean up, just a bit, the mess I’d made with my bloody hands. He gaped a little more. No smile. No frown. No emotion.
Then he declared, “It’s okay, kid,” and squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. Then, using the same hand he’d used to clear away some o’ the blood around my eyes, he gently slapped my face. Tapped is a better word. He tapped my cheek, like a father would.
He changed focus, crossed his eyes, and studied the rim of his cracked helmet. Then he raised a hand and removed it, releasing his sable-black “helmet hair.” As he discarded the helmet, he noticed my obsidian sword with a broken tip. He did a double take, lookin’ at me, then at the Knotty whose body he’d crawled out from under. Flies were already buzzing around the Lamanite’s gaping wound.
Gid studied me narrowly, massaging his temple to relieve a doozy of a headache. “Is that who smashed my helmet?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He indicated the Knotty’s wound, then pointed at my sword, putting together two and two. In astonishment, he asked, “You did that?”
“Uh-huh.”
For a few beats, he had no words. Finally, his mouth cracked a crooked smile. He clasped my right hand. His other hand clasped my wrist. Words failed to form on his lips. Didn’t have to. I knew what he was sayin’. It was a “Thank you for saving my life.” Well, that’s what I’d like to think anyway.
I didn’t say nothin’ either as he continued to clasp my hand and wrist. Words would’ve spoiled things, ’caused I’d’ve shrugged it off. Minimized it. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . his thanks were somethin’ I deserved.
Won’t say my opinion of myself changed. Won’t say my self-loathing went away. Don’t think such things happen so fast. I was already thinking it was dumb luck, though I didn’t say it. Gid didn’t make me say it.
Somethin’ swelled in me. Somethin’ good. A bit of . . . pride? Somethin’ like that.
So typical. This feeling didn’t last five seconds. Gid suddenly jerked me behind the dead Knotty and another dead man—a Scorpion warrior. Both bodies were propped on their sides, allowing us to press flat and hide. I was disoriented and had no chance to ask Gid what was happening. Didn’t matter. I could see it now as plainly as him. A patrol of soldiers were comin’ closer: five Knotties, one Red. Red wore lots of feathers. An officer, pretty high-ranking. They marched right toward us. For now, the curve of hill helped hide us, but if they stayed on course, they’d walk over the top of us in half a minute. Gid already had an axe in one hand and that flat, saw-toothed blade in the other. He nudged me and indicated a fallen weapon from the Knotty I’d killed: that ugly club with sharpened antlers. I’d’ve preferred my obsidian sword with the broken tip—not that I knew how to use either weapon—but it was too far away, so I grabbed the club.
“You’ll be fine,” Gid whispered, reading my thoughts. He nodded toward the approaching squad. “Smaller one—far left. See?”
I nodded.
“Focus on him. Only him.”
I nodded again and swallowed hard.
Gid did his best to survey the whole area. More Knotties scavenged among the dead for weapons and souvenirs. Some put wounded Nephites outta their misery, but these guys were a lot farther away than that six-man squad that was drawing closer. If we attacked ’em, the ruckus was sure to draw others.
“On my signal,” said Gid, tone so soft I could barely hear him, but deadly serious.
Those were his last spoken words before all hell broke loose.
Notes to Chapter 11:
The Jewish-Roman War, or the Great Revolt (a.d. 66–73) was the setting of two books in the Tennis Shoes Adventure Series, Book 5: The Sacred Quest and Book 6: The Lost Scrolls. The time period addressed in these novels was primarily the siege against Jerusalem in a.d. 70 to a.d. 71. The period mentioned in this chapter by Apollus is the suppression of all of the surrounding regions of Judea, specifically the assault against Galilee, which concluded with the siege of the stronghold at Jotapata. Jotapata was under the command of the rebel leader Yosef Ben Matityahu, who later surrendered and gained the favor of the Roman General Vespasian. Yosef Ben Matityahu later changed his name to Titus Flavius Josephus, whose historical works The Jewish War and Antiquities of the Jews are among the most famous and quoted manuscripts of the ancient world, offering a detailed history, especially of ancient Judaism of that period (although many Jews, to this day, view Josephus as a traitor and betrayer).
Apollus’s description of the Galilean campaign, headed by Vespasian, who became Emperor in a.d. 69, and his son Titus, who later commanded Rome’s legions until the conclusion of the war with the siege of Masada in a.d. 73, is accurate with regard to the massive slaughter and destruction and the relatively limited resistance. Although the Romans suffered some dramatic losses at the beginning of the rebellion as Jewish rebels took control of the countryside, destroying the six thousand men of Rome’s Syrian Legion at the Battle of Beth Horon, most of the complications the Romans faced after the arrival of Vespasian and four legions, along with several mercenary armies, were logistical. The ill-trained Jewish defenders of the provinces failed to mount a resistance of any significance. Hundreds of cities and villages were razed, and tens of thousands of men, women, and children were massacred.
Later, Roman campaigns in the Great Revolt proved more challenging, especially the sieges of Jerusalem and Masada, but again, Roman patience and logistical prowess made the ultimate defeat of the Jews inevitable. The consequences of this war, as well as a second revolt fifty years later, permanently altered and undermined thousands of years of Jewish culture and heritage, culminating in an event that had been prophesied by the Savior Himself—the total destruction of the Jewish Temple so that “there shall not be left one stone upon another” (Mark 13:2; see also Luke 19:44 and Matthew 24:2).
The Great Revolt in a.d. 70 and the Bar Kokhba Revolt in a.d. 132 were the principal causes of the diaspora, or the dispersion of the Jewish people beyond the borders of their country and throughout the world. After a.d. 135 it became illegal for any Jew to enter the environs of Judea. This edict remained in place for the next five hundred years.
Most Christians, as well as Jews, interpreted verses in the Bible to be prophecies that one day the Israelites would again take possession of the sacred lands of their inheritance, never to be removed. A few of the most powerful “restoration” prophecies are Amos 9:14–15; Ezekial 34:13, 37:10–14, 21–22; Jeremiah 31:10; and Isaiah 66:7–8, not to mention 1 Nephi 15:20 and Doctrine and Covenants 77:14 and 110:11.
Latter-day Saints believe this restoration started to unfold on October 24, 1841, when Apostle Orson Hyde traveled to Jerusalem and offered a dedicatory prayer on the Mount of Olives, asking the Lord to remember His promises to the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and to inspire “kings and the powers of the earth” to help “restore the kingdom unto Israel” (Orson Hyde in History of the Church ٤:٤٥٧). On October 24, 1979, the Church established the Orson Hyde Memorial Garden on the Mount of Olives. A plaque featuring the words of Elder Hyde’s dedicatory prayer was once on full display, but this plaque was later removed due to vandalism.
Israel was reestablished as an independent nation by the United Nations on May 14, 1948. Despite numerous conflicts and contentions, with the animus seemingly becoming increasingly intense with many nations of the earth in the convening decades, the Lord’s promise has been fulfilled and Israel’s independence has been preserved.
Chapter 12
Hamira
I hardly required a blotch of blush on my cheeks. My embarrassment was so complete that any additional redness was unnecessary. My fingernails, eyes, lips, hair—all of it was subjected to the debasement of Salomé’s beauticians. Dissatisfied with the work of her makeup artist and hairstylist, she repeatedly commandeered the transformation personally, frequently comparing her own visage in a convex mirror to that of her “creation”—me.
I’d been forced to discard my common clothing. Additional servants had absconded with every stitch, taking them heaven knew where.
“When will my shawl and cloak be returned?” I demanded.
“Never, if I have any say,” said Salomé. “I would generously part with this gown, but unfortunately, you will have to settle for a few more-modest items. The cost of this particular dress would equal the value of the finest charger in the province—along with its chariot and charioteer! Not to worry, sweet Hamira. I will delightedly gift you a few other wardrobes, garments far better suited to your future convalescence in Rome. My closets are literally overflowing with fabrics, items I would never wear more than once. No sister of mine will be paraded in the City of the Seven Hills adorned in rags.”
I opened my mouth to remind her that we were not sisters. We were not related in any imaginable way. I sighed. It wasn’t worth the effort. Just get this over with, I told myself. Enduring this charade meant that in mere moments I’d again be with Joshua; I would be an instrument in bringing him together with his loved ones, whom my brother had kidnapped. Moments: that’s all that separated me from partaking of this reunion. The pre-seder feast could then commence. For effect, though, I did not doubt that Salomé planned for us to arrive fashionably late.
My gown encircled my shoulders, hugging my waist, and spilled to the floor like a cascade of gemstones. I repeatedly tugged at the bodice for fear it might slip farther and abandon all pretense to modesty. To think I’d considered the outfit Salomé currently wore as ostentatious! Both dresses were blue; that’s where the similarities ceased. I touched the fabric and once more scanned the skirt with its pleats and ornamentation. Had I ever beheld this variety of blue? Perhaps as a child, gazing spellbound into the depths of a sacred cenote. The raiment breathed in the lamplight and projected back a sky of stars and subtle fingers of lightning. As I raised my arm, shimmering rays danced upon the walls of the dressing chamber. Even the ceiling! How was it done? The gown was heavy, despite the scandalous delicacy of the material.
Salomé smiled, expression smug and triumphant. “You like it, don’t you? You’re wondering what makes it shimmer. Am I right?”
I gave her my attention but did not dignify the question with a response. Either way, she got no adequate answer and shrugged petulantly.
“The dressmaker in Caesarea would not reveal its secrets. Ungrateful cur! I ordered my uncle not to pay full price—and to be brazen about it! How dare he claim ‘proprietary techniques’ to the Princess of Judea. We did wheedle two confidences.” She leaned in to my ear conspiratorially. “That it is one of a kind and that its fabric is interwoven with pure golden threads.” She leaned back, wide-eyed, expecting my expression to reflect the same wonderment.
“What about yours?” I asked.
She scrunched her forehead in puzzlement. “Huh?”
“Your dress. You said you had a second one, identical.”
“Oh yes,” she said hastily. “How shameless of me! As if gasconading with cousins at court. You’re right, of course. Two of a kind. I own the only two. Who can say if the dressmaker was fully forthright? Despite his assurances, I suspect there are dozens in the Roman court.”
Her hair bounced in long curls, and multiple hairpieces were pinned to my own locks.
“Have you also duplicates of these?” I brushed my fingers past the jewelry adorning my head, neck, and wrists. “Wasn’t the ‘joke’ to enter the feast as twins?”
For the first time—the very first—she seemed at a loss for words, but she recovered quickly enough. “Absolutely. Oh, Hamira, my jewelry fills three bureaus. I have plenty of pieces that will match adequately. Quite adequately.” She changed the topic. “Which reminds me: I’d better leave Leah and Gessica to their work so I can ready myself for tonight’s festivities.”
An odd sensation climbed my spine like a tarantula beneath the gown’s form-fitting fabric.
I glanced at Salomé’s hairdresser and cosmetologist, who looked curiously uncomfortable and awkward. A little guilty? I had to wonder, why were both women remaining with me? Wasn’t the princess mutually in need of their services?
Salomé read my mind. Or else my glances betrayed my thoughts.
She clapped her hands at the older of the two women. “Come, Leah. Help me prepare.” She added to me, “I’ll return in a moment so we may make a formal comparison in the mirror.” She rubbed her hands excitedly. “What will Ariyah, Ephrem, and the others say? I haven’t had this much fun since my stepfather’s birthday feast at Machaerus!”
The older servant, Leah, followed the Princess through the door obediently, head bowed, curiously refraining from looking at me. The younger woman, Gessica, began adding another layer of cosmetics to my lips, already brighter than tanager feathers.
I started to ask, “Gessica, what’s—?”
“A moment. Don’t move, mistress.”
She kept at it for a full aggravating minute. My bowels churned with a rising presentiment of panic. My freshly painted nails gripped the leather armrests so rigidly I nearly punctured the leather. The tarantula and its hairy legs crawled incessantly up and down my spine, wriggling inside my calves and under my forearms. Gessica feigned not to notice my increasing nervousness, applying color in greater earnest. What afflicted me? Even adorned in the most luxurious gown that had ever sat upon my shoulders, I felt naked and exposed.
Finally, Gessica dipped her brush back into the makeup vial.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
Even as the question fell from my lips, I internalized the answer. My hand slapped my belt. Or rather, where my belt should have been.
“Don’t speak, mistress,” said Gessica, voice replete with disquietude. “This application hardens and brightens the scarlet, insuring it will not smear.”
“Curse the application!” I leaped to my feet. “Where have they taken my clothes? My things?”
She was alarmed at my ferocity.
I continued. “Where is Princess Salomé?! This is her private dressing room, is it not? Does she have more than one?”
The girl was trembling. “Please, mistress. Allow me to fin—”
I grasped her cloak at the collar, yanking her close to my face. “Where is she? My belt?! Where is th-th-the object that was on my belt?!”
