by Ann Burton
I glanced at the shed, which stood across the field, away from the barn, and shuddered at the memory Tarn’s warning had brought back. I had wept and cringed, hearing poor Balaa’s screams as the master had beaten him, and then later, his weak cries for mercy. But no one had been permitted to help him, for Ybyon had chained guard dogs to the door of the shed, and they barked at anyone who had approached.
“Every word said to Hlagor is heard by the master’s ears,” Meji said, and grimaced. “If your belly pains you, eat a handful of grain. That will fill in the holes as well as qali.”
“Eat uncooked fodder from the animal troughs?” Chemesh sounded revolted. “I am not a sheep.”
“Let the master or the stableman catch you eating grain or any stolen food,” Tarn said, looking from the new slave to Meji and me, “and they will chop you up and feed you to the dogs.”
Meji went on eating, wholly unconcerned. I suppressed a shudder. Tarn might be old, but he had sharp eyes for misbehavior among our ranks.
We did not linger; as soon as the last food had been eaten, the men rose and went back to work. Another of my daily tasks was to carry the empty pot and basket back up to the main house. I disliked this chore even more than cleaning the matted plugs of waste from under the chubby tails of the sheep, because the kitchen slaves were considered superior to those of us who worked out on the farm. Most of them ignored me, but there were a few who took pleasure in finding ways to taunt and torment me.
I tried to slip into the kitchen without attracting notice. The slaves who worked preparing food were constantly busy, for Ybyon’s family numbered twenty-nine, including his grandparents, his parents, a wife and her widowed mother, his three sons, five daughters, their wives and husbands, and seven grandchildren. Although the master’s sons and daughters lived in their own small pillared houses next to the master’s, the entire family gathered twice daily in the main house for their meals.
Ybyon did not begrudge his own kin food, and the meals prepared for them were very grand: cooked stews of kid and pol, flavored with spices and onions and thickened with hitta; qali soaked in broth until the grains burst and became a mush, to which honey and sesame were added; lehem made from the finest hitta; cakes of tahan-rolled dates; zetim pickled in brine, pitted and stuffed with pistachio nuts; whole roasted haunches of mutton studded with cloves of garlic; and wild fowl baked in wine with whole eggs from their own nests. Then came the sweetmeats, honeyed pistachios, figs laced with fruit syrups, and cakes of every size and variety, from grainy ugot with raisins to delicate emmer crisps dotted with flecks of cinnamon and tiny currants.
The food was another reason I disliked going to the kitchen so much: it was forbidden for slaves to touch a crumb of the delicious foods prepared for the master’s table. My perpetual hunger made seeing and smelling the contents of the heavily laden bowls and platters as much an ordeal as mucking out the stable.
To resist temptation, I never lingered, but that did not always work. As it did not on this day.
“Stable girl,” one of the wenches called out as I tried to slip into the kitchen unnoticed. It was the big wench whose old middo I had inherited. She was forever making dove eyes at Meji, who would not give her a second glance. “Come here.”
I placed the pot and basket where Seres, the master’s present cook, desired them, and walked slowly over to where the older women were preparing meat for the master’s grand meal of the evening.
A young goat’s carcass had already been spitted and was being slowly turned over the heat from glowing white-edged scarlet coals. Most of the fat was saved and coated the meat with each turn of the spit, but a few drops fell to sizzle on the coals, and lent a delicious, smoky scent to the air.
Meat, something slaves were never fed, was a particular torment.
My stomach twisted into a knot as I crouched on my haunches in front of the female who had called to me. She was one of the younger females purchased by the master to serve in the house. She was not pretty, only ordinary-looking, but the One and True God had blessed her with an ample bosom and broad hips, which swayed with enticing movements whenever she walked. Often I saw her jiggling herself in front of Meji, so much so at times that I thought she might do herself an injury.
“Stable girl,” she repeated, although she and every other female working in the house knew well my name, “hand me that bowl there.”
I followed the gesture she made and saw a huge block of honeycomb oozing golden sweetness into a shallow wooden bowl. I had tasted honey only once or twice before, spread on cakes that the old cook had given me as a special treat. Carefully I picked up the bowl and brought it to her, and watched as she poured a measure of honey into the sauce she was mixing. Then she ran the tips of three of her fingers over the comb, and lifted them dripping with honey to her lips, where she licked and sucked each one clean.
“Mmmmmm. You would like some of this, wouldn’t you, stable girl?” the wench asked as she moved the bowl toward me, as if offering it.
I knew her game, for she played it often. If I said yes, she would laugh and take the bowl away. If I said no, she would laugh and call me a liar and still take the bowl away. So I kept my eyes on the oiled dirt floor, said nothing, and hoped she would quickly tire of taunting me. In my mind’s eye, I saw a flash of two images—a foot drawn back to kick, and honey spilling on dirt. Such things often popped into my head just before they happened.
“Do you know, it is so sweet”—a honey-coated finger wagged under my nose—“that it makes your teeth ache?”
“Wasi.” A big, grease-smeared fist boxed the girl on the side of the head, so quick and hard, she nearly fell into the cooking pit. “Get that sauce made and baste the meat proper ere I take a switch to your ass.”
I stayed where I was, for I feared Seres almost as much as I did the master.
“You.”
Knowing he was speaking now to me, I looked up into the kitchen steward’s angry eyes. Seres was an enormous man, his bulk easily that of three men put together. His head was bald, and his face clean-shaven, but the rest of him was quite black with hair. Odd tufts sprouted from his nostrils and ears, and grew down his neck to cover his back in long, wiry patches. He was one of the few slaves Ybyon owned who was not a Hebrew, but a Libyan. He had been brought to the farm to replace the old cook when she had died, but had instantly taken over the kitchen and all who toiled in it, and ran it like a slave master. No one had yet dared to call him Cook; to all, he was the kitchen steward.
“What do you here?” he demanded.
I bowed my head a little lower. “I return the pot and basket, Zaqen.”
“She crept over here to steal from the master’s table,” the kitchen wench sniveled. “I stopped her.”
“Steal that which you near rubbed in her face?” Seres clouted the wench a second time, and she huddled, weeping as she covered her head with her hands. He then glared at me. “Get you back to the stable, girl, before someone sees you gone.”
I nodded and rose to hurry away, but as the big man turned, he drew back his foot to kick the wench. I saw that one of his feet would collide with the bowl of honey, which remained where the wench had dropped it. My tormentor dropped her hands and screeched as she saw the same, but she covered her face instead of reaching for the bowl.
Seres did not see the bowl at all.
The thought of wasting such a precious thing made me react. A moment after Seres’s foot knocked into the bowl and flipped it over onto its side, I crouched down and caught it with my left hand.
“No!” the wench shrieked. “Don’t touch it! Your hand is filthy!”
I was left-handed, something that made the superstitious slaves uneasy, for it was custom to use the left hand at the privy and the right hand for eating and everything else. I could not help that I had reached with my left hand, but I was careful not to touch the contents as I lifted and offered the bowl of honey to Seres.
He took it and gave me a sharp look. “You are the daug
hter of Dasah, are you not?” I nodded. “What do you here, girl?”
“I brought back the master’s vessels from the stable.” Was he angry? Did he mean to punish me for laying hands on the master’s food? His fists were so big that my shoulders wanted to shrivel.
“You are very quick, Deborah, even if you do not use the right hand.” He nodded as if to himself, and then made a terse gesture. “Go, return to your work.”
CHAPTER
4
I wanted to return to the warmth of the kitchens the moment I left them, for thick dark clouds covered the sun, and the midwinter wind had risen, hard and biting cold. But from the shadows cast on the ground, I knew the shepherds would return soon. The goats and ewes would need to be milked, and the early lambs brought to suck, and a thousand other tasks waited to be finished before sunset. We would have nothing else to eat this day. Perhaps it was as Tarn said, and the master believed we would sleep less and work more if we went to bed hungry.
No, I told myself, thinking of the thin bodies of the other stable slaves. Ybyon knew how to keep his animals plump and in good health; there was no reason he would not do the same with his slaves unless…Does he starve us for his pleasure?
To add to my misery, a silver torrent of hard rain swept over me before I could reach the barn, soaking me through. When I felt the sting of ice against my arms, I covered my face with my hands to protect my eyes. Larger frozen balls struck my scalp and shoulders. A few steps from the closed barn door, I ran into something almost as large and hard as a massebot—only this standing stone had arms that pulled me away from the door and wrapped me in smothering cloth.
“Hold still, boy,” a familiar voice said as hands adjusted the cloth to uncover my face. “I mean you no harm.”
At last I could see, but I was nearly pressed against the plain wool of a kesut. I looked up into kindly brown eyes, the centers of which were flecked with light green specks. It was the Hebrew merchant, Lappidoth, and he had pulled me under one of the corner eaves, behind a stack of rough-hewn wood planks used to repair the pens.
“No, wait here,” he said, placing his hands on my shoulders, holding me when I would have darted away. He had large, strong hands, the palms and insides of the fingers callused. No pampered merchant of Hazor had such hands. “The hail is too thick. It will crack your head open.”
I eased from under his touch. The sound of the hail striking the barn roof and trees was so loud, it hurt my ears, and I had to speak loudly to be heard. “I must go inside and see to the animals, Adon.”
“They can wait, as well, boy—and my name is Jeth.”
Knowing his given name made me more uneasy. I could not call him by that or any title but Adon. This close, I could smell the strange spices scenting his kesut, and feel the warmth of his strong, gentle hands as it burned through the shabby yoke of my middo. He had to be the cleanest person I had ever seen in my life; his teeth, his skin—even his hair gleamed with care and good health.
The next instant I realized how filthy I must seem to him; my face sweaty from hurrying down to the barn, and my ragged, castoff middo smelling of sheep and manure. My own hair I kept as clean as I could, pulled back from my face in a rough braid tied at the end with a bit of twine, but I had nothing but my fingers with which to comb it, so even braided it was a mass of tangles.
I bit my lip and tried to edge away, but he caught my arms. “I must go.” I squirmed out of his hands. “I am needed.”
“When the hail began, I tried to go in there myself, but the door is bolted from the inside.” He gave me an encouraging smile. “I will not harm you, boy.”
Did I look so boyish, then? Why was he lurking about the barn? “What do you here, Adon?”
“I came to buy sheep. My mule is stabled inside with the others.” He sighed and gazed out at the horizon. “I hope the storm passes soon. I must return to my rooms before sunset, or the innkeeper, Dhiban, will rent them over to another for the night.”
“Is it so crowded in town?” We were never permitted to leave the farm, and so I had seen little of my birthplace.
He nodded. “Many merchants have come up from the southern lands, looking for livestock to replenish their herds. Ephraim’s markets belong to the armies now.” He gazed down at me, his expression growing puzzled as he picked up my long braid with his hand. “Now I see that you are not a boy, or a child. What is your name?”
I wanted to lie to him, afraid that he had known my mother or had been one of those who had sinned against her, but my tongue would not cooperate. “I am called Deborah, Adon.”
There was no recognition in his eyes. “That is a Hebrew name.”
I nodded. “My mother was said to be Hebrew.” No one would speak of who my father had been, save to tell me that he was not a Hebrew. I guessed that he must have been one of the shepherds. Tarn had told me that my mother had been enslaved since childhood, and while she never spoke of her people, that it was likely that her own tribe had sold her or cast her out.
Jeth seemed startled by my admission. “I should have guessed as much from your coloring and the shape of your eyes.” He glanced down at my middo, and his mouth became a hard, straight line. “How does a daughter of Jehovah come to be living here, among the Canaanites? Did your mother wed outside the tribe?”
I had to swallow a bitter laugh. Did he not see the rags I wore? Did he think a daughter of the house would work in the barn?
“My mother was not wed, Adon. She was a slave.” I pulled up my sleeve and showed him the scar left by Ybyon’s branding iron on the inside of my forearm. “I am slave-born. I belong to Adon Ybyon.”
A small line appeared between Jeth’s smooth dark brows, and he put out his hand and traced the shiny lines of my scar. “How can this be? Who could have—”
“Deborah.” Meji appeared, and his face paled when he saw me standing beside Lappidoth. “Hlagor comes.”
I nodded and looked up at my savior and tormentor. “I am needed in the barn. Safe journey, Adon.” Before he could speak again, I went with Meji into the side door of the barn.
“Here.” Meji tugged me into one of the stalls and took me by the arms to turn me while he looked all over me. “You were caught in the hail.”
“Almost. That wench who forever ogles you had to taunt me.” I tried not to think about the honey I hadn’t tasted. “The storm came before I could reach the barn, but the merchant helped me.”
“Merchants.” He spat on the floor before renewing his inspection. “They care only for silver. What else did he do to you?”
“He protected me from the hail. We spoke a little.” Why was Meji behaving like this? “Jeth is a Hebrew, from Ephraim. A good man, I think.” My friend seemed deaf to my assurances. “Meji, he did nothing to harm me.”
“He had his hands on you. Maybe he did not have time enough to do more.” He parted my hair to inspect my scalp, then seemed satisfied that I had no injuries. He rested his hands against my cheeks briefly. “If the master had seen you near him…No, I do not wish to imagine that. You cannot speak to that man again.”
I felt a strange pain in my breast as I remembered the kindness in Jeth’s warm eyes. “I do not think I will see that man again.”
The shepherds came late with the flocks, as the storm had forced them to drive the herd into a grove of trees and keep them there while the branches provided a little protection against the hailstorm. Many of the flock had still received small injuries to their heads and backs, which we tended, and all the animals were tired and distressed. Some of the men had bumps and bruises from being struck by the hail, as well.
“It is an evil omen,” one of the older shepherds claimed as Meji washed a bloody wound on his head. “Jehovah weeps tears of anger, and hurls them at those who have wounded His heart.”
“It is rain that froze while it was in the clouds, seba,” Meji said. “It comes often enough, no matter what Jehovah’s mood is.”
I brought a poultice of mashed grain, water, and a l
ittle of the yellow powder the shepherds used on the sheep when their feet festered, and gave Meji a length of rag to use to bind the wound. “Jehovah has no reason to be displeased with us. We are faithful to Him.”
“We do not keep the Sabbath,” the old one argued. “We live under the yoke. Our master is a—”
“Good, fair man who indulges us too often,” Tarn said suddenly, and very loudly. “As Adon Hlagor has told us, many times.”
The old shepherd glared at Tarn, and then saw the steward walk in and fell silent. From Hlagor’s gloating expression, he had been standing outside eavesdropping on us, and had heard every word said.
“So, Eban, you think your One pitiful God is angry with you?” He gazed around at the wounded animals. “Wait until the master hears of how poorly you have tended his flock, and how much you have complained. More things will be bruised than your head.”
Chemesh muttered something ugly under his breath.
Hlagor heard and pointed to the new slave. “You, there. Brave one. Come here and say that again where I can hear it.”
I saw Chemesh pick up a length of wood as he rose to his feet, and tuck it out of sight behind his leg. In my mind I saw him charging at Hlagor, shouting and clubbing him over the head. If Chemesh killed the steward, Ybyon would have him tortured to death.
“Adon Hlagor,” I said, stepping between him and Chemesh to block his view. I had to get him out of here. “I must tell you of a strange man who was here, just outside the barn, when the storm came.” I remembered that I was not supposed to have seen him, and tried to make my words sound confused. “He was a rich man, I think, for he was dressed in fine kesut. Perhaps a caravan master.”
