Since we’d arrived in the early afternoon, Shuah and his group had not yet set up all of their tables and canopies, but there were still a few lingering customers at his pottery stall, ogling the beautifully painted jars he’d carried from the south. Catching sight of us, Shuah waved and gestured for us to come closer.
“How is your servant?” He tapped the table in front of his scale—a demand for the customer he was tending to add more deben to one side of the scale. “Not quite even,” he said, scrutinizing the balance of the hanging plates.
When the two sides were level, Shuah smiled and handed the man his purchase. But the customer grumbled that the weights must be rigged.
“You are welcome to test my weights against any others here in the marketplace,” Shuah said with a tolerant grin. “I have no reason to lie.”
Without another word, the man spun around and walked away. Shuah shook his head. “All afternoon I’ve been accused of unfair trading. Happens every time I come through Megiddo. But now, tell me, how is your man?”
“He is alive. There was indeed an Egyptian well-versed in surgical techniques. He stitched Yuval’s wounds, but there is no way to tell whether he will survive. We will return in the morning for him.”
“You left him there?” Shuah said, as he dropped the bronze pieces the man had given him into his purse and pulled the drawstring tight.
“We had little choice. The Egyptian did not want him moved and we can’t jeopardize his health any further.” I caught sight of Binaim and the two Egyptians securing a tent against the side of a wagon. “Is your offer of shelter still open?”
“Of course, my lady!” He gestured to a few of his men standing nearby. “I will have my men on guard throughout the night so you will be safe here with us. Do not venture beyond our camp. Megiddo is not safe at night.”
I nodded, a shiver slipping up my spine as unwelcome memories of the violence and perversions of Jericho’s dark nights made an appearance in my mind.
Shuah called out for Zendaye. She emerged from a makeshift tent attached to the side of her wagon, her infant cradled against her chest.
“There you are!” Her broad grin as she beckoned me was a welcome sight. Something about it reminded me of home, of my father and our little house tucked among the green vines and poplars. I nearly sighed with relief when she wrapped me in one long arm. “How is your servant?”
“He is alive.” I smiled at her little boy, whose big brown eyes blinked at me with wonder. “I pray that in the morning I can say the same.”
I asked Darek to give me the bandit’s pouch from around his neck and fished out three pieces of silver. “Two of these are for Lilit.” I placed them in her palm. “The other is for you, for the clothing and food.”
She shook her head, handing me back one of the pieces with a bold frown. “No. They were gifts.”
“Are you certain?” Although I wanted to insist, I sensed she might be offended if I refused her hospitality.
“Of course. Come now. You have not eaten since this morning, have you? You must be famished.”
I pressed a hand over my stomach’s loud confirmation. “Truly, I am.”
As we followed Zendaye into the circle of wagons, she ordered a couple of women to bring us food. To my relief, the bowls they brought us contained nothing forbidden, only an assortment of tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions tossed in olive oil and dressed with parsley. Zendaye brought us a loaf of bread, a large chunk of yellowish cheese, and two mugs of barley beer. Darek and I devoured the delicious meal as the traders discussed their future travels. Curious, I asked Shuah about Tyre and Sidon, fascinated by the coastal cites. He indulged me with detailed descriptions about the ports where ships arrived from distant places, bringing with them tin, exotic spices, gold, and rare jewels.
“I’ve always wanted to dip my toes in the sea,” I said.
Shuah tilted his head. “I thought you said you were from Yaffa? That is on the coast.”
My mind spun, trying to get purchase on an explanation. “Oh, well . . . I lived just east of Yaffa, in a very small town. I did my best to stay away from any city after Jericho.”
His gray brows bunched together for a moment, and then with a shrug, he returned to his stories of travels, from Egypt to Damascus.
Using the last of the bread to sop up the olive oil in my bowl, I sighed. “If only I could see all the places you’ve gone.”
“Come with us then!” said Shuah.
“Me?” I glanced at Darek. “Oh, no.”
“And why not? I’m sure you are quite a skilled businesswoman,” he said with a wink.
Indignation flared high. “I do not sell my body.”
Shuah lifted a palm. “Apologies, my lady, that was not what I was insinuating. Simply that with that beautiful face and sweet smile, you’d be a natural at trading.”
“Oh . . . thank you.” Heat flooded my skin. “But once Yuval is able to go, we will be on our way.”
He nodded. “I figured as much, but just remember we’d be happy to have you.”
“Thank you, Shuah. I appreciate your kindness.”
One of the Egyptians entered the circle with a drum in hand, followed by a few other men with instruments—a lyre, a harp, a reed pipe, and a few more drums. One woman sat down cross-legged with a strange, long-stringed harp across her lap. Anticipation thrummed inside me as the rest of the musicians took their places and began to play.
The music was beautiful, exotic, and at times discordant, yet the rhythm inspired my fingers to tap on my knees.
Zendaye stood and handed the baby to Binaim. “Come,” she said with a brown palm extended toward me. “Let us dance.”
“No,” I shook my head. “I will watch.”
She clapped her hands at me. “I know you want to—I see your fingers tapping.”
“I will enjoy the music from here, Zendaye.” I’d spent the entire day without my veil and still felt as though every eye was on me. I had no desire to encourage more attention.
She shook her head, a chiding expression on her face, but turned to join the five other women who’d taken up the dance in the center of the group. She towered over all of the brightly clad dancers by a full head. Soon she was smiling and twirling like a graceful oak tree among the flowers.
Darek’s voice was in my ear. “Go dance.” His warm breath tickled my neck.
“No. I am happy to watch.”
“You are desperate to be out there with her.”
“I am not.”
“You forget I saw you at the festival. Out there swirling around like a storm.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was—”
“Hiding?”
I did not answer.
“You were hiding in the bushes. Hiding behind that scarf.”
“You cannot understand what it is like.”
“Can’t I? Have you forgotten what I told you in that cave?”
His mother’s death. The stigma that would be attached to such a thing. I’d not considered how others might view him, as the son of an executed adulterer.
“I had a choice, too, Moriyah. I could hide myself, be a coward and run from the people who mocked and ridiculed me. From those people with sharp tongues who questioned my father, in front of me, whether he was even certain that I was his son.”
I choked on a gasp. “Surely not.”
“Yes.” He paused, moving so close that his bare shoulder leaned into mine, muddling my thoughts as he continued. “But no one here is judging the mark on your face, so why are you still doing so? The Moriyah I’ve come to know over the past few days is anything but a coward.” He raised his brows. “What are you afraid of? Go. Dance.”
I pursed my lips in annoyance, staring at him. But the more I did, the more I saw myself. His challenge to me from earlier whispered in my heart. “Who, then, is the true Moriyah?”
I closed my eyes and pulled a breath through my nose. Darek was right. I was
being a coward, and I did very much want to dance. Without a word, I popped up and strode toward Zendaye, only faltering for a moment when I glanced back at Darek, who was unabashedly grinning at me. So I ignored both him and the dangerous flutter that began its own dance in my stomach as I considered just how much I enjoyed the feeling of being the subject of his attention.
Zendaye grabbed my hand and pulled me into the circle where the women were performing an unfamiliar dance. Although I stumbled a time or two as I pieced together the rhythm of the steps, soon I was moving back and forth with the other women, laughing at my many mistakes but thoroughly enjoying the complicated dance. We clapped our hands to the beat and stomped our bare feet in the dirt.
When the other women burst out with exuberant ululations, I joined in, so energized by the camaraderie that I realized just how desperately lonely I’d been over the past few years. Even before my sisters had married and followed their husbands south, I’d found myself avoiding their lively chatter, as if my presence might sully their youthful joy.
How had I allowed myself to be so thoroughly chained inside a prison of my own making? I’d not only hidden behind the veil, I’d hidden inside my house, and eventually curled up on the inside, too, letting the barrier grow thicker and thicker as the years went on—my pride wounded, my spirit broken—until the real Moriyah lay thoroughly hidden in plain sight. In doing so, I’d let that evil priestess win. And perhaps it was not Yahweh who had stopped whispering to my heart seven years ago, but me who had built a wall between us.
As if to confirm the revelation, a warm breeze stirred, weaving around me as I danced, reveling in the feel of it touching my face, caressing my skin. My long black hair swirled around me as I spun. I tilted my head back and breathed deeply, letting the sheer euphoria of the moment sweep around me.
I lifted my arms above me, palms open wide to the sky, and danced.
It had been over a year since I’d slept in a tent, and the familiarity of the fluttering walls ushered me back to the years of laying nestled with my sisters on our sleeping mat listening to the night sounds of the Hebrew multitude around us: whispers of mothers comforting children, cries of newborn babes, shuddering calls of sheep and goats from the herds, the rustle of warm winds stirring the sands. Nostalgic for such peaceful nights, I lay on my back, peering through the seams of Zendaye’s makeshift tent, wishing I could see the stars, and perhaps—if I was honest with myself—a glimpse of Darek where he lay beneath the open sky, guarding me even in sleep.
I’d done my best to keep my eyes off him all evening, but every time I failed, there he was, watching me with a satisfied half-smile on his face. Although I kept reminding myself of who he was and why he was here in the first place, whenever I allowed myself to meet his brown-eyed gaze, I forfeited the ability to care. Therefore, to avoid making a fool of myself, I’d stayed as far away from him as possible from the moment the music stopped until I slipped inside this tent. Unfortunately, my thoughts refused to do the same.
“Your eyes are still open, my friend.” Zendaye whispered to avoid waking the baby between us. “What are you thinking of?”
Hoping she could not see me blushing in the dim light from the fire outside, I said, “How grateful I am that your group has been so kind to us, when you have no cause to do so.”
“We all have suffered in one way or the other, Moriel, so we do what we can to help others in need.”
“Please let me pay you for the dress and the food we’ve eaten.”
She smiled broadly. “I will not accept payment. They are gifts.” She leaned in closer to whisper in my ear. “But whatever you do, do not let the people of this city know who you really are, or my gifts will go to waste.”
I startled, my breath caught in my throat. “What do you mean?” I whispered back.
“The stew. The only people I know of that don’t eat pork are—” she dropped her voice even lower—“Hebrew. We did some trade among the Hebrew tribes on the east side of the Jordan, and I remember noting the strangeness of such a tradition.” She lifted a brow. “Neither you nor your man finished your meal, even though it was obvious you both were famished. The looks on your faces when I revealed the ingredients gave you away.”
My pulse skittered as I blinked at the all-too-perceptive woman, unable to come up with a way to contradict her.
“Do not worry,” she said. “Even if Shuah or the others found out, you have partaken of a salt covenant. They would protect you with their lives. It is as binding as a blood covenant between us.”
“Does Binaim know?”
“Oh yes, I hide nothing from my husband.”
“Will he reveal us?”
“No, he trusts my judgment. And I sense that you have no intention of harming us.” She whispered, “Are you spies?”
I shook my head, the truth scalding my throat. Would her trust melt away if she knew she harbored a killer tonight?
“Then I have just one question . . .” She paused, and I waited for her to ask something that would compel me to reveal my crime. My muscles tensed as she held still, her eyes searching mine. “What of this God of yours? Are the stories true?”
I nearly laughed aloud, my breath escaping in a huff. “Yahweh? What have you heard?”
“When I was a young girl and taken to Egypt, I was so terrified. There was nothing to cling to—nothing to give me hope. I was sold three times before ending up in the possession of a good master, one who did not see his slaves as animals.” Her voice cracked. “I spoke little during that time, afraid of being beaten, or worse. But one advantage to being considered no more than a piece of furniture is that my masters and mistresses, along with other servants, spoke in front of me with unusual candor, and although my lips were sealed, my ears were wide open,” she said with a mischievous grin.
“Most Egyptians did not speak of you Hebrews,” she continued. “It was as if you’d been erased from the official records and, thereby, the memories of the people. But still, I heard whispers, whispers of a God who had shattered Egypt long before I was born. Even thirty years after your people left, the cities were still reeling and fear seemed to reverberate through the people—as if you all would turn around in the desert and return, come to snatch up the crumbs your Yahweh left behind.”
I thought of my father’s parents and how they’d turned their backs on everything they knew to leave Egypt with Mosheh. Had their own families wiped away their memory as well? Not spoken their names again, as if they had died along with the firstborn sons? Although all I’d ever known was the Hebrew way of life, my own heritage was Egyptian as well.
Zendaye placed her hand on my arm. “But tell me,” she said, with a plea in her voice. “Did it really happen as they say? The frogs? The blood? The sea splitting in two? Surely these are exaggerations? Or myths to explain how slaves could possibly escape Pharaoh?”
“No, they are not an exaggeration. My grandparents told me many stories of the wonders they experienced during that time.”
She shimmied closer, tugging her son closer to her breast. “Tell me, Moriel. Tell me the stories.”
“Moriyah,” I said, relieved at speaking my own name aloud. “My name is Moriyah.”
Zendaye smiled, the gleam of her white teeth glowing in the flicker of firelight from outside. “Tell me the stories, Moriyah. And when you are finished, tell me yours as well.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-Four
“Your servant is awake, my lady. Please follow me.” The physician’s assistant led us up the porch stairs toward the Healing Chamber. I did my best to hold my head high as a group of priestesses passed by us, their curious gazes lingering on my cheek and then traveling with undisguised appreciation to Darek behind me. It took almost as much effort not to turn around and gauge his reaction to the scantily clad and heavily painted women.
The assistant paused at the top of the steps, his lively expression revealing his interest in his master’s work. “He seems free of fever this morning. I have
changed the bandages. Masaharta is unrivaled in his skills, excepting of course Pharaoh’s personal physicians.”
“So you believe my man will live?”
“Perhaps, but one can never second-guess the gods.” Glancing up at the ornately carved cedar lintel above us, he touched the center of his forehead, as if apologizing to the gods on display there for such a traitorous thought.
I, too, allowed my eyes to briefly linger on the carvings of Isis, Thoth, and Sekhmet. The Egyptian deities of healing were interspersed with a few local gods, Ba’al, Ashtoreth, Dagon—all images I was familiar with from my time in Jericho—and yet these icons were distinctly Egyptian in their design, a strange amalgamation of Egypt and Canaan and all too reminiscent of the Asherah pole I’d been tied to seven years ago. Dropping my eyes and brushing away the latent sensation of those sharp-edged deities biting into my skin, I latched my eyes on the assistant as he led us down the short hallway to the Healing Chamber.
Yuval was lying on the same table upon which he’d been sewn back together, and I had to restrain myself from dashing to his side. His eyes were closed but his color was no longer sallow, and the dark stubble that covered his face made him appear more like his usual self.
“Is he well enough to come with us now?” I said to the assistant, approaching with carefully measured steps.
The assistant glanced toward the door, his expression souring for only a moment before he turned back with a composed smile. “It would be best if he stayed here, my lady. At least for a few days. Masaharta wants to ensure that the stitches do not come apart. You understand, of course, how important it is to keep him still or the wound may not heal properly.”
A wisp of suspicion crowded out my worry for Yuval. Why would the Egyptian care whether he healed correctly—a slave who would mean nothing to him? I guarded against the instinct to turn to Darek for affirmation of my notion.
“We will ensure he is cared for. He will come with us now.” I gestured to Darek and Mehmet who’d trailed behind us into the chamber, indicating that they should retrieve Yuval and load him onto the wagon Shuah had again graciously provided.
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