The blood that flows freely from the
wound, created by a ruthless cut, in which the flash of the blade draws a
second, crimson smile beneath the first, reminds me of the wine my
father uses to bury our dead in the family tomb. The sense of irony is
not lost on me. When no blood remains within, it must be laid about,
until the corpse floats freely on its own accord, as if mimicking some
River Styxx ideology will somehow transport the soul to the afterlife.
And although that’s taken from a Greek tradition, it’s what we believe
too. We are the Nabateans.
Not only does the spirit of our kin pass from this world to the next on a hazy, slippery cloud of succulents grapes-we also find our own spirits wishing for salvation from a higher place the next morning after gorging ourselves on red, red wine. Decreed by Dushara, God of the Nabateans, it would be sacrilegious to disobey his orders. And so, we drink in the amber nectar of the Gods as our relative ascends to join them.
But instead of celebrating passing tonight, what I witness before me here is a sacrifice. No humans are ever put under the knife here at Sella, as for man’s blood to run here, only in combat with the enemy is this honourable. As the animal struggles under expert hands the embers of life are extinguished in short, sharp convulsions.
We are peaceful, deeply religious folk, choosing to exist without quarrel with our neighbours in Rome, or the silk and spice merchants who pass through our kingdom by the King’s Way, heading for Damascus. All that we ask is they pay us a tax for this journey, just as we offer this sacrificial lamb up to Dushara to mark the pilgrimage of the many Nabateans who have clustered, as moths to a flame, on the sacred High Place at Sella.
These master craftsmen have travelled for many, weary days across the desert to pay homage to our most revered of subjects. A strange Nabatean force pulls them in, like the sand devils that seem drawn to our caravans of camels, blinding us with grains of distraction and carrying off our most precious cargo-gold.
The Romans, those nomadic wanderers of the modern world, whose ambitions grow far and wide, are masters of their own destiny. Something tells me they are not to be trusted. Perhaps the wine we deliver to the Emperor each year is not enough, even though we choose the sweetest tasting drop. Just as water enables survival in the desert, and at Sella, so our substantial gifts maintain a healthy relationship with the Romans, for now.
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Our water supply, the main artery to the hidden city, poisoned! They have discovered our hidden means of transporting this elixir into the heart, polluted it with hatred and and greed so, I fear, all is lost. Greed is a rotten apple, and the worm that lives within, Rome.
Phalanx’s appear as tortoise-shells, ridged and impenetrable. We are but master-carvers; our knives are no match for spear and arrow and might of the Roman Empire, which crashes down on us as if from the heavens themselves.
In the flash of an eye, with the army almost upon our tomb, I take my dagger, for so long creator of ornate, beautiful carvings, symbols of peace and culture, and draw it across my neck, reminding me of the lamb and it’s drip, drip, drip viscous blood life-spirit slowly ebbing away, being absorbed, welcomed even, into the light, sandstone earth below.
All the wine in the world could not elicit this feeling of delirium.
Not only does the spirit of our kin pass from this world to the next on a hazy, slippery cloud of succulents grapes-we also find our own spirits wishing for salvation from a higher place the next morning after gorging ourselves on red, red wine. Decreed by Dushara, God of the Nabateans, it would be sacrilegious to disobey his orders. And so, we drink in the amber nectar of the Gods as our relative ascends to join them.
But instead of celebrating passing tonight, what I witness before me here is a sacrifice. No humans are ever put under the knife here at Sella, as for man’s blood to run here, only in combat with the enemy is this honourable. As the animal struggles under expert hands the embers of life are extinguished in short, sharp convulsions.
We are peaceful, deeply religious folk, choosing to exist without quarrel with our neighbours in Rome, or the silk and spice merchants who pass through our kingdom by the King’s Way, heading for Damascus. All that we ask is they pay us a tax for this journey, just as we offer this sacrificial lamb up to Dushara to mark the pilgrimage of the many Nabateans who have clustered, as moths to a flame, on the sacred High Place at Sella.
These master craftsmen have travelled for many, weary days across the desert to pay homage to our most revered of subjects. A strange Nabatean force pulls them in, like the sand devils that seem drawn to our caravans of camels, blinding us with grains of distraction and carrying off our most precious cargo-gold.
The Romans, those nomadic wanderers of the modern world, whose ambitions grow far and wide, are masters of their own destiny. Something tells me they are not to be trusted. Perhaps the wine we deliver to the Emperor each year is not enough, even though we choose the sweetest tasting drop. Just as water enables survival in the desert, and at Sella, so our substantial gifts maintain a healthy relationship with the Romans, for now.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Our water supply, the main artery to the hidden city, poisoned! They have discovered our hidden means of transporting this elixir into the heart, polluted it with hatred and and greed so, I fear, all is lost. Greed is a rotten apple, and the worm that lives within, Rome.
Phalanx’s appear as tortoise-shells, ridged and impenetrable. We are but master-carvers; our knives are no match for spear and arrow and might of the Roman Empire, which crashes down on us as if from the heavens themselves.
In the flash of an eye, with the army almost upon our tomb, I take my dagger, for so long creator of ornate, beautiful carvings, symbols of peace and culture, and draw it across my neck, reminding me of the lamb and it’s drip, drip, drip viscous blood life-spirit slowly ebbing away, being absorbed, welcomed even, into the light, sandstone earth below.
All the wine in the world could not elicit this feeling of delirium.
