by T. K. Thorne
“A man,’” I say in halting interpretation, “who—?”
“Takes.”
“‘A man who takes the eye of a noble, if he is a noble, shall give his eye?’”
She nods. “Close enough. And this one?”
“If a man takes a woman to wife, but has no—”
“Intercourse,” she supplies.
I begin again, wanting to please this woman as if she were Sarai or my father. “If a man takes a woman to wife, but has no intercourse with her, this woman is no wife to him.”
She purses her lips, appearing intrigued with me. “Where are you from?”
By this time, Nami has returned to stand at my side. My hand rests on her shoulders.
“From the land of Canaan and the tribe of Abram.”
Her brows rise. “The Abram who fought the kings of Chedorlaomer?”
Despite myself, my shoulders straighten in pride that she has heard of my tribe. As my father often quoted, News is the fleetest of goods traveling the desert. “Yes, that is he.”
Her mouth twists—in amusement or vexation? “Are you his son?”
“No, I am a cousin of Abram’s house.”
“And is your father here in Babylon?”
A tightness in my belly reminds me I do not know who my enemies are. Still, I see no reason not to answer her. “No, my father is … dead.” I am surprised the word emerges without choking me.
Her eyes and voice soften slightly. “My sorrow to your house.”
“Thank you, Lady.”
I do not know who she is, but my father taught me to read strangers and to learn their desires by listening and observing, so I would know when tongues shaped lies. I gave her the due of her rank without thinking about it.
“Was your father a trader?” she asks.
My brows lift. Did this woman read me as I read others?
The wind shifts, bringing me the scent of her perfume. This is the second time I have inhaled that fragrance, and I almost fall to my knees. The first occasion was as a child when my father and I were allowed briefly inside the temple at En Gedi where the balsam is used by the priests to entice the gods’ favor.
“Are you unwell?” she asks.
“I am well.” I have forgotten her first question.
“Was your father a trader?” she asks again.
“Yes, he was.”
How did this woman come to possess the balsam? Who was she? Was it merely a coincidence? Father had possessed only a few vials of it, at least since I was born, but he could have brought it here … or it could have been stolen when the raider slew my father. It could mean our trek across the desert was not in vain, as we so feared. If the balsam is here, Raph could also be.
She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Traders travel and often speak other languages—?” She pauses, but I do not leap into the void of her question. A subtle shift in her expression makes me think perhaps I have earned a bit of respect from her, as well.
“Do you speak other tongues?” she asks directly, the softness gone from her demeanor.
“I do, Lady.”
“Do you know the language of the Egyptians?”
“I do.”
She considers me. “What is your name?”
“I am Adir, son of Zakiti of the tribe of Abram.” My shoulders refuse to hunch, though I instruct them to do so.
Her eyes narrow, her voice now all command. “Come to the king’s court in two days at the hour of the sun’s peak.”
Abruptly, she turns in a swirl of robe.
“Lady!” I call, panic rising into my throat. “Whom do I say sent for me?” I know better than to appear with some vague story about being summoned.
Over her shoulder, she says, “Say you are there at the will of Tabni.”
CHAPTER
29
Wonder … is the seed of knowledge.
—Francis Bacon
IN A STOLEN MOMENT OF peace, Mika, Chiram, and I sit in the small walled garden at the back of our house in the shade of an old fig tree, drinking beer through long reed straws to avoid the floating barley hulls. Bearing a tray of full cups, our elusive slave appears and serves us, saying with a slight bow, “He who does not know beer, does not know what is good”—the first words he has spoken. It seems our hosts are happy for us to stay as long as we wish.
A chameleon crawls onto a stone ledge, catching Nami’s attention. It is almost invisible, its coloring matching the stone. As a child, I would sometimes grab one by the tail to see it turn darker. Perhaps it thought that made it appear fierce. Nami takes a step toward it, fascinated.
I have told neither Mika nor Chiram of my early-morning encounter the previous day or my summons. I would confide it to Mika, but have not had the opportunity to speak to him in private. He will not leave the house.
When the chameleon rotates one of its bulging eyes toward Nami, she is unable to stand the suspense and lunges, sending the chameleon scampering into the refuge of a crack. With the sigh of a hunter that has missed, she settles at my feet.
The garden is lush with leeks, cucumbers, watercress, onions, and garlic, watered by the small canal that runs through it and also runs in clay pipes through the walls into the house. Chiram kneels in the dirt, investigating the size of a garlic bud. “Too early,” he sighs, covering it back up.
A grape vine winds up the brick wall that provides privacy, though we can hear the shouts of our neighbors’ children and must keep our voices low.
“I should stay inside as much as possible,” Mika says.
Chiram looks up at that. “Why? It is your forsaken brother we are here for.”
As always, Chiram’s resentment fails to provoke Mika. I wonder if Chiram would speak with such contempt had he seen the blue fire in Mika’s hands. But Chiram always had little respect for anyone except my father and has never shown any interest in obedience to El. Whatever gods he worships, he keeps silent about it.
“I am fully aware Adir came here because of Raph,” Mika responds evenly, “and you are here only because of Adir.”
Chiram waves a dirty hand. “A splitting of a hay blade. Why do you stay inside while we are to tromp the streets to find word of your brother?”
I lean toward Chiram. “His name is Raph. Why can you not call him by his name?”
Chiram spits and glares at me.
I close my eyes. Why do I even make the attempt?
Mika stands, towering over us both, spreading his hands. “This is why. If you are to ask questions quietly, my presence will ruin it.”
This is true. There is no way anyone with half a mind would not connect Mika with Raph, and no way he could walk upright through the city and not attract attention. I doubt he could stay bent over in the manner he entered the city for very long. The last thing we need is for the people who stole Raph to take Mika. What would I do then?
“Why would anyone here want your brother?” Chiram grumbles, echoing the question that has plagued me countless times. I have not shared anything with him about the box, though he saw the raiders’ interest in it when they took Raph. He has not asked about any connection, and I find that strange. Chiram is not stupid. Mean, yes, but not stupid.
“Chiram,” Mika says, “the longer you fight against helping us, the longer we will be here.”
Chiram cannot argue against this logic. To avoid acknowledging it, he goes to the dâlu, a counter-weighted dipper that dips into water and allows one to lift it without effort. He draws a bucket, takes a long drink, and then pours the remainder over his head. It runs down his grimy face and into his beard, beading in the thick fold of his neck. We are not long enough from the desert to lose the wonder of water’s abundance here. I wish he would douse himself several times more and lose the stench that clings to him, but turning my head, I sniff my own clothes, and I am not much better, despite my baths.
Finally, when enough time has passed to save his face, Chiram blinks at Mika. “So what is it exactly you want Adir and me to do?”
Mika sits back on the brick bench. “Just see what you can learn. All we know that Raph is here.”
“But we do not really know that,” I say, weaving my fingers together. “He could have been brought here and then taken somewhere else.”
“Or that son of a desert rodent might have lied,” Chiram adds, taking a knife from his belt and examining the edge.
“He was not lying,” I say. I am certain of this.
“You cannot know that.” Chiram’s thick finger shakes in my direction.
It is an old argument, one rehashed many times during our long journey across the desert. I could mention the balsam, but I am not certain my father shared the secret of its source, even with Chiram, and I do not wish to endanger the people of En Gedi.
“Perhaps,” I say tightly, “we would have learned more if your knives had not been so eager to bite.”
“I killed the man who killed your father. Not a grateful bone in your body, boy.”
“I—”
“Enough!” Mika’s voice is one of command, and we both fall silent. Mika’s ire is not easily provoked, and I regret yielding to the lure of an argument with Chiram.
WHEN WE LEAVE the house the following morning, Chiram grasps my shoulders. “Stay within my sight,” he says, his fingers biting into my flesh.
“All right,” I mumble and crinkle my nose.
As soon as he turns his back, I slip away, disappearing into the throng. He will yell at me later, but his shouts, though they frightened me as a child, have never been more than that. Then a thought arises. Perhaps he restrained his hand only because he would have to answer to my father. Would Chiram strike me, now my father is with the ancestors? And once again, that most perplexing of questions: Why did he follow me across the desert? He says it was to honor his promise to my father, but I wonder if that is really so.
The smells and sights of the bazaar swiftly capture my attention—hills of spices the colors of desert sunset mound reed baskets. Dates, figs, lentils, and barley heap more baskets. The complex scent of spices bites my nose, and both Nami and I catch the tantalizing whiff of meat fat sizzling in sesame oil. Despite the generous breakfast brought by the slave, my mouth waters, and my stomach insists that sufficient room exists should I stumble upon the smell’s source. It is unfortunate such aromas must compete with those of men and women who are not wealthy enough to have the bathing rooms or, like Chiram, have simply not availed themselves of the canals or public cisterns.
A man holds out his palm with a well-oiled story about his ill fortune. I ignore him, but am unable to resist the upturned face of a thin child. He grins in delight when I press a small ring of copper into his hand. “May you be invisible to the demons!” he says and disappears. I move quickly along, lest he tell other urchins of his good fortune with me.
At the street’s edge, I stop at a display of clothing. With an alertness for movement that rivals the falcon’s eye, the merchant catches my gaze and moves in. “This is an exceptional shawl. See the fineness of the pattern and the tight braid of the fringes?” she says. “A lovely gift for your mother or sister!”
I stare at her for a long moment. Finally, scarcely aware of my thoughts, I say, “I will buy it and that one too.” I point to a plain wrap that will not draw attention to me. “Do you have a woman’s sheath dress to go with it?”
She is taken aback that I do not even ask the price. I note the space behind her goods where she stores other material and slip inside, stripping off my woolen robe and breast bindings. I roll the finer scarf and stuff it into my leather satchel, donning the plainer wrap. When I step out, aside from my short-cropped hair, I am a woman.
Among a thousand women dressed as I am, I still feel I am walking naked through the streets and all eyes are on me. After wearing woolen robes all of my life, the linen brushes my skin like a cloud. However, as much as I hated the bindings on my breasts, I am not sure how I feel about the little jounces caused by my steps. A glint from a display catches my eye, and I stop to purchase a pair of silver loop earrings and endure the piercing. Then I reward myself for the pain by buying a pretty multi-strand necklace of blue glass.
And thus, I present myself at the palace.
“What is your business?” An officious man stops my progress through the chambers.
I repeat what I have told the guards. “Tabni sent for me.”
He eyes me with a narrow gaze. “Whom should I announce to the Priestess Tabni?” His emphasis on the word “Priestess” is meant to be a curt reminder of manners, but it is the first actual knowledge I have of her position.
“Please tell Priestess Tabni—” I hesitate, as I had named myself Adir, the cousin of Abram, to her. “Tell her Adira, cousin of Abram, has responded to her summons.”
With a curt nod and wave at a series of wooden benches, he leaves.
I settle myself on an empty seat and am at once the object of a searing scowl. The disagreeable expression belongs to a woman who sits across from me. At first, I cannot imagine how I so quickly earned her disapproval, and then I realize I have sat in my customary manner, my legs spread in a position no respectable woman would assume. Hastily, I send my knees together. It will not be easy to change the mannerisms I have spent my entire life cultivating.
The woman sniffs and plucks a cup from a serving tray presented by a slave. I do the same. And then we wait.
I do not wait well. After a long enough time for the sun to shift its position, I ask the man beside me how long he has been waiting.
“Only three days,” he says and goes back to the clay tablets he has been studying.
Only three days.
It occurs to me I have an opportunity I may not regain. Besides, it is uncomfortable to have to hold one’s knees together for long periods of time.
I rise, paying attention to the way I hold myself, and walk down the long line of people waiting to see the court. In the graceful, unobtrusive manner I have observed in the slaves, I pick up a small tray with a half-full copper cup that has been left on a low table and continue with it down the aisle.
“Slave,” a man gestures, “bring us something to eat; it is nearly noon.”
I nod, pleased I have succeeded in establishing my new position as household slave merely by changing my demeanor. At the first doorway, I turn and walk through it without hesitation, as if the guard knows me on sight.
He does not, of course, and gives my shorn hair a hard glance. I feel my cheeks burn and lower my gaze even more. His spear blocks my way. “What happened to your hair, girl? Did you displease your mistress?”
At once I understand his discernment that I have displeased a mistress and not a master. Only a woman would punish by cutting off another woman’s hair. “You are very astute, sir,” I say in a humble, sincere voice, staring at his sandals and hairy toes.
With a derisive snort, he lets me by.
Elated, I absorb the persona of a slave girl who has displeased her mistress and must look and act as if her shorn hair does not bother her. This, I decide, requires an extra boldness to compensate. The next guard who stops me gets a fleeting glare before I lower my gaze. To my surprise, he laughs and reaches for me, pulling me hard against him. He smells worse than Chiram, something I thought impossible. His beard scratches my cheek. “I like women with some salt to them,” he says, his hot tongue probing my ear.
My gasp is not an act, and I wrench away from him, very conscious of the fact that had we not been in the king’s apartments he could have forced his way on me. I have never felt this vulnerability before. Suddenly, I wish for the rough woolen robe and the bindings I discarded so casually behind the merchant’s stall along with the security of being a boy. No wonder my father had supported and encouraged this deception. Women are not safe alone in the world.
It is a realization I always knew, but had never felt.
I do not like it.
CHAPTER
30
Love work; and hate lordship; and make not t
hyself known to the government.
—Shema’iah, Sayings of the Fathers
I CONTINUE THROUGH THE EMPTY ROOM in the king’s palace, stealing glances at the fine furniture, rugs, and pottery I know must come from distant lands. The urge to examine the weavings is strong. My time with the desert women only deepened my interest. From travels with my father, I could discern differences in patterns and the single knot of the south versus the northern double knot, but I am certain there are many variances throughout the world. I want to know how people make their clothing, the foods they eat, the animals they raise, and the gods they worship. For a moment, I forget my oath to my father and dream of traveling to distant lands and learning these things.
Then I remember the strength of the guard’s hand and his invading tongue and my father’s plea for me to go to Sarai. She would find me a husband if one would take me. If I were not carrying a tray, my hand would have found the bridge of my nose. My hair will grow out, and perhaps she will find a young man who will have me, and I will bear him children, and we will grow to care for each other. Or perhaps we will find Raph, and when he sees I have crossed the desert for him, he will realize his love for me and take me in his arms. Of course, we must go to Sarai and be married in order to fulfill my vow to my father, but that should not be too much to ask, after all I have done.
I move to another room where several finely dressed people are deep in conversation. There is talk of war and conjecture as to which land poses the greatest threat. I keep my eyes downcast, listening to the conversation for some clue or reference to Raph. The hand that reached the great distance from Babylon to snatch him held a large amount of silver. Could it have been the king himself? And if so, why?
Someone reaches for the cup on my tray and then, realizing it is not full, sighs and turns back to his conversation with another, ignoring me. “The south is a brew of trouble. If Rim-Sin II makes an alliance there and threatens a trade embargo—”
How astonishing. I have never realized the power of a slave to slip through the world practically unnoticed.
