by Mesu Andrews
“Sitis, I spoke with—” Nada burst through the tapestry, her face turning gray when she spotted Dinah.
“Nada!” Sitis leapt from her knees, spilling half the barley from her mill. “I’m so glad you’re back from the market!” Her voice was shrill and unnatural.
Dinah had no idea what errands had occupied Nada’s morning, but these women were poor liars. Dinah had grown up in a camp of four imas—a blood mother, her ima’s sister, and two jealous handmaids—where a complex web of deceit was daily bread. She had no intention of becoming ensnared by treachery in Job’s house and therefore had no desire to know where the nursemaid had been.
Nada grasped Sitis’s hands and inspected her palms. “Mistress! You have blisters! What are you doing?” Her eyes narrowed accusingly at Dinah. “How dare you ask the lady of this house to help you grind grain!”
Dinah opened her mouth to explain, but Sitis intervened. “Nada, we must all work since our servants are gone.”
Nada set balled fists on her hips. “But mistress, you shouldn’t—” Her protest was once again cut short, this time by Dinah.
“Mistress Sitis, I have gum-yamin in my midwife supplies to soothe your blisters.” She glanced from Nada to Sitis and hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. “I haven’t had a chance to unload my things from the Hebron caravan in the stable. Would you like me to get them now?”
The kitchen fell awkwardly silent. Sitis tilted her head, assessing Dinah as if deciding whether to keep or discard an old blanket. “Yes, Dinah,” she finally said, her voice controlled and calculating. “Now would be the perfect time for you to unpack your things from the caravan. I’ll send Nada to your chamber when we need further help in the kitchen.” She smiled, and gooseflesh rose on Dinah’s arms. In the few moments since Nada’s arrival, Sitis had changed into something sinister, like a snake emerging from its skin.
Grasping Nogahla’s arm, Dinah nearly dragged the girl from the kitchen.
The Cushite’s eyes reflected the dread Dinah had felt in the pit of her stomach. “The mistress looked like she would eat you with the midday meal.”
Dinah motioned Nogahla to be quiet, and they proceeded through a grand banquet hall filled with intricately carved wooden tables and benches. Dried flowers decorated each table, and the pungent aroma of frankincense filled the air.
“I don’t know why Mistress Sitis wanted us out of that kitchen, Nogahla,” Dinah said, hurrying toward the stables, “but I’ve never been so happy to unpack a camel.”
“Come in, Sayyid. My mistress is waiting for you.” Nada met him at the canopied courtyard gate. Sayyid inspected the workmanship of the Hittite iron bars, a gift from Job’s merchant cousin, Zophar. Eyeing Job’s trinkets and calculating their value, he thought, I must tell the bandits to enter through this gate. The bars are iron but have no locks.
“Nada,” he began casually, “how can you feel safe when one of the gates remains unlocked?”
The old woman waved away the question as they passed through the beggars’ dining room and then into the grand banquet hall. “Master Job never locks any of the gates, so the servants—” She stopped as if suddenly reminded of the awful truth. “Our servants used to remain alert through the night to offer bread to beggars in need. All Master Job’s doors remained open.” Her sadness slowly turned to resolve. “Master Job is a good man, Sayyid, but you would be better for our Sitis.” A curt nod, and she continued guiding Sayyid through Job’s palace while he pondered the revelation of his new ally. The old woman could be of great help in his quest for Sitis’s affection.
Nada led him into a private courtyard teeming with life. A small fountain bubbled merrily and a vegetable garden boasted ripe melons and lentils. Surrounded by a high sandstone wall with olive trees and flowering shrubs lining the perimeter, a lone figure reclined in the center of the lush garden on a red-cushioned stone bench. Sayyid could see only the shapely silhouette of a woman’s left side—her shoulder, waist, and hip, shaking as she wept. Nada cleared her throat loudly to unsettle the resting form.
Sayyid quietly approached the stone lounge. “Good afternoon, my Sitis-girl.”
Hearing his voice, she sat up immediately but kept her back to him. “Sayyid, you shouldn’t call me that. Someone might hear you.” She wiped her face, and he watched the contours of her shoulder blades through her gray linen robe.
Closing the distance between them, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “There’s no one here except Nada, and she knows that I love you—that I’ve always loved you.”
Sitis leapt from the bench and away from his touch, staring toward a climbing vine on the wall. “Others are here who might tell Job. Please, Sayyid, you must be careful.”
Who could be here? He’d seen Job and his men leave this morning. They’d trotted off on camels and donkeys toward Job’s death fields. Then he remembered. Ah, the tall beauty and the Cushite I saw in the dining room last night.
“All right, Sitis. I’m sorry.” He moved around the bench and sat down. “Come. Sit. Tell me why you’ve summoned me.”
She turned, and his heart shattered. Her eyes, ringed by dark shadows, were nearly swollen shut from weeping.
“Oh, Sitis.” His shock came out in a whisper. She raised her hands to calm him, and the bleeding blisters on her palms sent him into a rage. “By the gods, I’ll kill Job!”
“They’re only blisters, Sayyid.” Sitis pressed her hands against his chest but winced and drew back. “I’ve been grinding grain. Please, just listen to me.” She sat timidly beside him.
He cradled her hands gently, turning them, examining them, caressing them. He could think only of destroying Job. He would protect Sitis, provide for her, give her the life she deserved.
“Tell me everything.” He paused and kissed her palm. She drew back and glanced nervously at the doorway. Sayyid blew gently on her neck, and she gaped at him, startled. Smiling at her renewed attention, he said, “I will do anything you ask of me, my Sitis, but you must listen carefully to what I have to say.” He saw his reflection in her ebony eyes and wondered if she truly saw him. Would she see the wealthy, respected grain merchant of Uz, or would she still see the poor farmer’s son from their childhood village?
“Would you finally take a wife if I asked it of you?” She whispered the question.
Sayyid chuckled, thinking at first she was teasing, but her expression remained an enigma, her emotions undecipherable. Was it regret? Was it hope? What could cause the determined set of her jaw but the hesitant furrow of her brow?
“I suppose it depends if that wife is you,” he said finally. “I vowed never to marry any other woman, my Sitis-girl.”
“I told you not to call me that!” she shouted. “Why do you torture me with our past, Sayyid? I have been Job’s wife for forty years. That will never change.”
Now Sayyid’s anger flared. “Did I mention that Bela has convinced the city elders that Job is cursed by the gods?” He paused, letting his words hit their mark. “And were you aware that this morning, at Bela’s suggestion, the elders rescinded Job’s position as chief judge?”
All Sitis’s bluster faded, and Sayyid easily read the new emotion on her features. Etched into the fine lines around her eyes, fear transformed her into workable clay.
A smile played at the corners of his lips. “I have been named Uz’s newest city elder, filling Job’s open position.”
“They gave you Job’s seat?” Sitis’s voice held the slightest glimmer of hope. “Could you not refuse it if I asked you?”
Sayyid rested his elbow on the back of the bench and brushed her cheek with his hand.
“Please, Sayyid,” she said, moving closer. “You said you would do anything for me.”
Sayyid studied the woman he’d loved most of his life. He was forging new territory in their relationship, and a strange satisfaction settled in. Sitis had always been the one in control. She was the prince’s daughter and he the lowly farmer’s son. She had condescended to l
ove him when they were children, deigned to befriend him when he arrived in Uz as a young grain trader.
He moved closer and placed his arm around her shoulders, whispering in her ear, “I said I would do anything for you, and I will, my Sitis-girl.” Sayyid waited for a protest to his nearness. None came. “But what are you willing to do for me in return?”
She leaned into his nearness and gently cupped his cheek with her hand. “I am willing to be your loving friend and offer you a beautiful wife named Dinah.”
Her intoxicating touch softened the sting of her denial. But why did she deny him, and who was this Dinah? With every fiber of restraint, he quelled his anger. Reaching up to cover her delicate hand, he locked it in place. “What if your husband never regains his wealth and power, Sitis-girl? Will you be satisfied to live as a beggar or become my second wife?”
Sitis jerked her hand away and glared daggers at him. She drew a breath to speak but hesitated, quaking as an evident inner storm gathered strength. When words finally came, she spoke eloquently, as expected from a prince’s daughter, her back as straight as the measuring rod Sayyid used for his grain.
“My husband will regain his wealth and power, and it is to your benefit to curry his favor now, Sayyid. Heal old wounds, and show him kindness during our time of need.” She leaned close, her sweet breath warm on his neck. “Someday men will bow to Job again as they would a king, and when that day comes, he can crush you or bless you.” With a wicked grin, she kissed Sayyid’s cheek. “Offering a dowry for Dinah will bring you into Job’s good graces.” Drawing a finger seductively from his cheek to his shoulder and down his left arm, she added, “And I assure you, my friend, I will never be anyone’s second wife.”
“Ahh!” The fire of her touch drove him mad. Sayyid grabbed her and kissed her firmly.
She struggled out of his embrace, slapping him. “Stop it!” She looked breathless, shaken.
He smiled and waited for more words. She was silent, breathing heavily now. Did he see pleasure on her face? “I will wait a little longer for you, my Sitis-girl, but I will not wait forever.”
“Excuse me, Mistress Sitis and Master Sayyid.” Nada appeared at the doorway with a beautiful blonde woman. “We didn’t realize we were interrupting.”
Sayyid saw the maid’s disapproving glare the moment she glimpsed their kiss. Nada’s squinty eyes and puckered frown still made him feel like a naughty child. But why should he wait for divorce to reap the harvest of Sitis’s sweet lips?
“I’ve come to introduce Mistress Dinah to Master Sayyid,” the old maid said, tugging the tall, elegant woman toward the stone bench.
The stunning blonde was as red as a pomegranate. Sayyid stood and bowed, inspecting the woman as she walked stiffly behind Nada. She must have seen or overheard some of his interchange with Sitis.
Sitis also rose from the bench and stepped toward the young woman, extending her hand. “Dinah, I’d like you to meet my friend Sayyid. The last time you saw Sayyid in this house, it was under similar misleading circumstances.” The mistress coaxed the beauty to sit on the bench beside her, but Dinah looked as if she’d rather kiss a camel than meet Sayyid. “Please, Dinah,” Sitis nearly begged. “Look at me.”
The woman hesitated, as if not bound by the dictates of the lady of the house.
Hmm, Sayyid mused. She does not obey like a servant.
Dinah boldly met Sitis’s gaze. Another clear indicator that this woman was not a handmaid. “I will meet your friend, mistress, but you have no obligation to explain your actions to me.”
Sayyid raised an eyebrow, studying this suddenly interesting creature as the woman turned her azure eyes on him. Dinah, he thought, where have I heard your name? You are exquisite. Perhaps he would take her as a concubine when he claimed the rest of Job’s possessions. He paused at the thought. Why was Sitis so anxious that he marry Dinah? Why would the marriage curry Job’s favor? Does this Dinah hold a special place in Job’s heart, or is my Sitis-girl simply trying to get rid of her? The flush of Dinah’s face dimmed, but her cheeks still budded like roses.
“Dinah, Sayyid is a childhood friend,” Sitis said. “He is like a brother to me.”
A brother, Sayyid fumed inwardly, casting a chastising glance at Sitis. He returned his gaze to Dinah, noting her sneer. You’re reading my thoughts, Mistress Dinah. She was perceptive, this one. He chuckled inadvertently as Sitis chattered on.
“Sayyid, this is Dinah. She is the daughter of Jacob, Great-Abba Esau’s brother. Job brought her to Uz to marry—”
“Well, Dinah!” Sayyid heard nothing beyond “daughter of Jacob.” He was too mesmerized by the presence of the infamous Dinah, the poor raped girl of Jacob’s clan, the murderess of Shechem—whichever story one chose to believe. No wonder merchants had wagged their tongues for twenty years about her. She was extraordinary.
Sayyid bowed with exaggerated formality. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said smoothly to his newest challenge.
“As I was saying, Sayyid . . .” Sitis enunciated as though interpreting for a slow student. “Job brought Dinah to Uz to marry our Ennon as the patriarch Isaac commanded.”
This time Sayyid heard clearly, and the information sweetened Dinah’s mystery. Sayyid casually returned his gaze to Sitis, but her fresh tears startled him. Suddenly his wolfish game lost its luster. “Sitis-gi—” Coughing, he tried to recover before finishing the familiar name. His heart broke as he watched a single tear slide down Sitis’s face and sadness seize her lips. “Mistress Sitis,” he said, working to portray a formality that might please her, “I can’t imagine your pain at the loss of your children. I’m sorry.” And he meant it with every fiber of his being.
Sayyid’s breath caught when Sitis reached out and tenderly touched his cheek. “Thank you, my friend,” she said. “I know you will do all you can to help us.”
10
~Job 2:1, 3–7~
On another day . . . the LORD said to Satan, “Have you considered my servant Job? . . . He still maintains his integrity, though you incited me against him to ruin him without any reason.” “Skin for skin!” Satan replied. “. . . Stretch out your hand and strike his flesh and bones, and he will surely curse you to your face.” The LORD said to Satan, “Very well, then, he is in your hands; but you must spare his life.” So Satan went out from the presence of the LORD and afflicted Job with painful sores from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.
Afternoon stretched into evening, and Dinah’s patience wore thin. Surveying the kitchen, she wondered again what she and Nogahla might find to occupy their time. After Dinah’s disturbing encounter with Sayyid, she’d fled to the kitchen and found Nogahla kneading mounds of bread dough. Remembering Sitis’s mention of the public ovens, the two escaped the house with baskets of dough to explore Uz. When they returned with their warm brown bread, the house was as quiet as a tomb. They’d baked as much bread as was prudent and had ground all the wheat and barley. Without further direction, they were at the end of their usefulness.
“Mistress, why did those women at the ovens run away when they discovered we lived in Master Job’s household?” Nogahla’s eyes were distant, her thoughts obviously reliving the scene of their afternoon.
“Well, my friend, the Ishmaelites believe Master Job is cursed by their goddesses, and the Edomites believe he is cursed by Yahweh or their mountain god, Kaus. And they all believe that whichever god is punishing Job will attack anyone who associates with him or his household.”
Nogahla seemed to absorb the words like a soft woolen cloth. She bent over one of the stone tables, her elbow balancing on a pomegranate, chin resting on her hand. Plucking a grape from a platter of fruit with her free hand, she placed it between her lips and sucked it into her mouth. Dinah chuckled at the entertaining way Nogahla chewed on the little fruit, much like she must have been chewing on the afternoon’s events.
“Why do you think Widow Orma didn’t run away? Doesn’t she believe in the gods?”
Dina
h too took a grape from the fruit tray and considered her answer. She and Nogahla had approached the serving women who encircled the cone-shaped clay ovens, each heated cylinder as high as a ram’s head. Heat waves rose from the top and side openings, while idle gossip and busy hands bound the women in a common bond. When they discovered Dinah and Nogahla belonged to Job’s household, however, the docile scene erupted.
Amid shrieking and confusion, Widow Orma remained rooted to her reed mat, a look of consternation on her face. “What foolishness!” she had said, and then motioned Nogahla and Dinah to move closer so she didn’t have to shout her welcome. “Master Job has always made room for me at his widows’ tables. I can at least help his guests learn to bake bread.” She spent the remainder of the afternoon demonstrating the art of plastering bread circlets against the sides of the ovens and retrieving the golden brown loaves with a stick and clay platter.
Dinah sighed deeply at the memory and was brought back to the moment by Nogahla’s slurping noise. Another grape met its destruction as she spoke. “So, what do you think, mistress? Why did the widow help us today?”
Eyeing her friend, Dinah saw a spark of challenge in those ebony pools. “Why do you think Widow Orma helped us, Nogahla?” This little Cushite had proved to be a deep well of wisdom.
“I think it’s easier to know why people do bad things than to understand the true meaning of kind acts.” Before Dinah could comment on Nogahla’s newest insight, the girl asked, “Do you think Nada will be angry that we gave some of Master Job’s bread to Widow Orma? I could sacrifice my portion if you think that old crow will be mad.” Nogahla’s furrowed brow indicated she’d given the matter special consideration. While waiting for Dinah’s answer, she rearranged the grapes to hide the bare spots.
Dinah tried to restrain her laughter by pressing her lips into a stern line. She felt the same animosity toward Nada but mustn’t show it. “Nogahla, we must be respectful to Sitis’s nursemaid.” But after spending such a lovely afternoon with the kindhearted widow, she didn’t care if Nada begrudged a few loaves of bread either.
