It had been nearly four months since I’d spoken to Nicaro at an early harvest festival and subtly indicated that I had ideas for a new sort of festival in Ashdod, one that would eventually draw competitors from all over the region and bring our city unparalleled prestige among the Five Cities—and eventually, if my instincts were correct, the world. Having been very careful not to seem too ambitious but at the same time making clear that I would welcome the chance to discuss the matter further, I’d been fairly disheartened when I’d heard nothing from the king since then, other than the customary public commendations for each match I fought and won.
But then, to my great surprise, while I was being oiled head to foot and my hands wrapped in leather strips for the fight this morning, the king himself entered the chamber set aside for my personal preparations and said he expected me to come to the palace tomorrow afternoon in order to discuss the imminent retirement of the current Master of Games. Oleku had been in charge of organizing not only all fighting matches in the city but also bull-leaping, archery contests, and any other competition event that took place during the larger religious festivals ever since Nicaro’s father, Darume, had occupied the throne. Although the seren had not explicitly said he’d decided to appoint me to the prestigious position, it was strongly implied. And I was more than ready to accept any appointment that would ensure my cousin no longer had any control over me.
“Think of the possibilities, my boy,” said Mataro, waving his bloated fingers in the air. “There is an abundance of wealth to be had in far larger cities than this one. And with every place we travel, our purses will overflow even more. We will live like kings, indulge in all the pleasures the nations have to offer, and the entire world will know your name.”
But they wouldn’t, of course. Because even though I was a famous champion, Mataro had introduced me at my first real fight by the moniker my enemy had given me to mock my dual-colored eyes—a secret I’d unwittingly divulged while drowning in my cups not long after my return to Ashdod. So, instead of being known as Lukio to the crowds who screamed for me, I was only known by the curse Medad had repeatedly thrown in my face in the years after our friendship had been severed—Demon Eyes.
When I’d aired my frustrations about this to my cousin, he had dismissed them as histrionics and insisted that the name would lend me an air of mystery and madness that would enflame the imaginations of those who gambled on the bloody matches that at times ended with broken appendages, cracked skulls, and even death.
At least in that instance, he’d been right. Within only a month of that first fight, which had taken place in the same alley where I’d once rolled dice with my friends as a child, the name Demon Eyes was being whispered all over the city with reverence tinged by fear, and young men all over the region were clamoring to challenge me. It had taken far longer to get used to hearing an epithet being called out over and over in worship, and years before I stopped thinking of Medad whenever I heard it. Somehow, I had the sense that Mataro had known exactly how deep that wound went from the start and counted on it to inflame my rage.
My cousin may have outsmarted me back then, using my pride and pain to manipulate me, but tomorrow I would finally outmaneuver Mataro and shatter those shackles for good. And he would never see it coming.
Four
Remnants of yesterday’s festival littered the courtyard of the king’s palace as I entered through the northern gate. An army of slaves was busy sweeping up shards of drinking vessels, trampled food, bright strips of tattered ribbon and abandoned banners, and even a few odd sandals into piles.
The rich dirt I’d fought upon with the Phoenician had been hauled away, likely added to the extensive garden beds on the southern side of the palace. My blood and sweat would even now be mingling with the roots of the many vibrant blooms cultivated to fill this enormous palace with perpetual life and color.
Once I made my way up to the wide porch that led to the main hall of the palace, the guards at the entrance directed me toward one of the king’s dining chambers. A buzz of nerves went through my limbs as I passed between two scarlet-painted columns, whose girth reminded me of some of the more ancient oak trees I’d felled atop Kiryat-Yearim. All the years of honing my body, of training my mind, of deferring to my cousin while my teeth dug grooves into my tongue came down to this moment.
Finally, I would become my own man, walk the path I’d cleared with my own two hands, and all the seeds I’d planted along the way would come to fruition. Any whispers of regret I may have harbored over my past choices would be nothing compared to the victory of attaining a goal I’d had in mind for so long. Not even hazel-eyed ghosts could haunt me today.
Using the skills I’d perfected after years of stepping onto fighting grounds with countless competitors of all shapes and sizes, some of whom had killed opponents without mercy, I shook off any trepidations, pulled in a slow, deep breath, and focused on every step toward my victory.
Like the courtyard, the towering hall before me remained a testament to the wild happenings from the night before. The patterned tiles were slick with wine and beer; cups and bowls and half-eaten morsels littered every available surface. I wondered how long it might take the slaves to return the palace to the pristine order I knew Nicaro demanded. Everyone I passed on my way toward the king’s private dining chamber looked half-asleep on their feet as they went about their duties. I guessed that none had even slept last night. I’d attended the raucous celebrations after this annual festival for the last two years and was well aware that mountains of food and rivers of drink were served all night long. In honor of the gods, every sort of indulgence would have been partaken of around a blazing fire at the center of the chamber. Charred remains of the huge logs that had burned throughout the night atop the round stone-tiled health still glowed faintly from within, and smoke hung in the air despite the wide opening in the roof above.
Hearing voices as I approached the open door to the king’s private dining chamber at the far end of the hall, I paused, hesitant to barge into a conversation.
“How many soldiers did we lose?” said a voice I recognized as the king’s.
“Only fifteen,” replied another man, likely one of Nicaro’s commanders.
“Only fifteen?” snapped Nicaro. “We shouldn’t have lost one. I sent you two to capture Tzorah! Not run away with your tails between your legs.”
“Somehow the Hebrews knew we were coming, my lord,” said another man. “Even though we attacked in the middle of the night.”
There was no reply to the pitiful explanation, and I imagined the seren’s bright blue eyes boring into the man’s face. There was something eerie about the way Nicaro fixed his eyes on people, as if he could see past their skin and into the very depths of the soul within. I did not envy these commanders their position defending losses to the Hebrews.
I knew that my countrymen hated the people I’d lived among from my seventh year to my fifteenth, and I was well aware that in the past few years they had stepped up attacks on the outlying Hebrew communities, determined to overtake the fertile shephelah region that lay between the coastlands and the hill country.
The five kings of Philistia made no secret of their desire to drive the Hebrews out of the territory they’d taken from the Canaanites hundreds of years ago, lusting after the rich farmland and bountiful crops, the hills that boasted thick forests of impossibly tall oak, cedar, and pine trees, and the enormous flocks of cattle, sheep, and goats tended by men they considered only little more cultured than those beasts themselves.
“It is past time for us to be rid of the remaining Danites. We should have annihilated them the moment their champion”—he sneered the word—“brought down the Gazan temple on my father’s head.”
If Azuvah, the Hebrew woman who’d raised my sister and me after the death of our mother, hadn’t filled our heads with fantastical bedtime stories about that same champion—a man called Samson, who she insisted was imbued with supernatural strength—I lik
ely wouldn’t know much about him at all. But he had been a continual burr in the sandal of Nicaro’s father for many years, and his final act of defiance killed not only Darume himself, but Nicaro’s three older brothers, along with a vast number of other Philistines—a tragedy so devastating and humiliating it was still never spoken of in public arenas. It was a shock to hear Nicaro speak now of the incident that had handed him the throne at seventeen.
One of the slaves approached, head down and carrying an armful of tattered pillows that were leaking goose feathers—victims to the night’s revelries, I guessed.
Not wanting to be seen listening in on the king’s conversation, even by a slave, I took the last few steps and paused in the doorway while Nicaro and his two commanders continued discussing a second attack on Tzorah, one that would be so quick upon the heels of this last one that the Hebrews could not possibly anticipate it.
All three of the men were nearly as tall as me, with bodies honed for battle, if not built for the style of brutal fighting I was famous for. But from what I’d heard, although the seren did not go on most raids himself anymore, leaving that honor to his commanders, his gleaming chariot was always the first onto the field in larger skirmishes. No one would ever dare accuse the king of Ashdod of cowardice, of that I was certain, even if he was younger than all the other lords of Philistia.
Finally, the king caught sight of me hovering in the doorway like an unbidden child.
“Ah! The champion of Ashdod,” called the king, inviting me inside his chamber with a sweep of his bejeweled hand. “In the crush, I did not have the pleasure of congratulating you on your win yesterday. You must have slipped out right after your victory was announced.” His tone was faintly chastising.
That had been foolish on my part. By slinking off without making a public bow to him and not playing up my hard-won reputation for the crowd that had come to root for me, I’d wasted an opportunity. I could only hope that I’d not done anything to jeopardize his offer with my impetuous departure from the festival.
“Apologies, my seren,” I said, hand on my heart as I dropped my chin in a show of submission. As tempted as I was to make excuses for my exit, I held back, knowing that it would only be seen as a sign of weakness by these warriors.
The king let his scrutinizing gaze rest on me for a few drawn-out moments, then his black brows lifted as a slow smile spread over his face. “Well, the important thing is that we are sending Tyre’s champion back to the north with much less cause to boast than before.” He spread his hands wide in a magnanimous gesture. “Of course I have nothing against the Phoenicians, as they’ve been excellent trading partners as of late, but the king of Tyre can afford to be brought down a notch or two.”
The three of them laughed heartily at his jest, but I knew there was nothing casual about the reference to displaying our superior strength to our distant neighbors. I suspected that once the kings of Philistia had the Hebrews in hand, they might cast their sights to the north and the fleets of seafaring ships the Phoenicians were so famous for. Of all the lords who governed the five city-states of the Philistines, Nicaro, son of the great Darume, was the most ambitious. He made no apology for his determination to honor his father’s memory by making Ashdod the most prosperous port on the Great Sea and proving himself worthy of the formidable legacy he had inherited, by any means necessary.
“Make preparations for another raid tomorrow,” said Nicaro to his commanders, effectively dismissing them. “I have matters to discuss with our champion.”
They bowed, both of them eyeing me with curious—but not disrespectful—glances before they silently quit the room. I’d wondered if they would cast aspersions on me for not joining the army, but it seemed they, like the rest of Ashdod, valued my role on the fighting grounds more than on the battlefield. And, if I had my way today, that would never change. My weapons of choice were my fists and feet, which had profited my purse far better than the wages of a soldier ever would—even the generous wages Nicaro offered his most trusted men.
“Come,” said the king, gesturing for me to sit on one of the plushly cushioned couches built into the back wall of the chamber. “Let’s you and I have a drink and talk of the future before our meal arrives.”
As if they’d been hovering outside the door for just such a pronouncement, three female slaves entered the room: one with a basin of warm water to bathe my feet and hands, one with a swan-necked jug of wine, and the other with two silver-wrapped drinking horns in the shape of lions. As they set about their duties, silent as specters, Nicaro leaned back on the pillows and fixed those disconcerting eyes on me. He’d occupied the throne for nearly as many years as I had been alive but had always seemed a bit ageless to me. So I was surprised to note more silver at his temples and laced through his beard than the last time I’d spent significant time in his company.
“Tell me, Lukio,” he said, stroking thoughtfully at that well-trimmed beard. “I assume you’ve been chewing on our discussion from yesterday.”
“I have,” I said evenly, then took a long draft of wine to steady myself and ensure that the explosion of excitement sizzling through my limbs did not show on my face. “Although I do have some questions.”
He lifted his brows, seemingly intrigued.
“If I am appointed as the Master of Games . . .” I paused, tipping my chin curiously. “That is, if I understood you correctly and am not being presumptive . . .”
“Not at all. That is what I am proposing.”
“I am honored to even be considered, seren,” I replied, with all sincerity. “Would I be charged with coordinating all state-sponsored matches? Fights? Archery? Bull-leaping?”
“Yes, as well as the boat races,” he said.
A thrill went through me. I’d not even considered that the races held between some of the smaller ships to celebrate the opening and closing of the trading seasons would also come under my purview.
My own father had been a foreign sailor from some far-flung place rumored to be covered in ice half of the year, so the call of the sea seemed to be in my blood. In my youth, I’d entertained ideas of setting sail to search for him in those unknown northern wilds, either to beg him for answers as to why he’d abandoned my sister and me after our mother died or to pay him back for doing so in the first place.
However, once I’d discovered the satisfaction of knocking a man senseless or using certain holds on the ground to incapacitate an opponent, I’d never given another thought to stepping foot on a ship. Still, the idea of organizing races between vessels stirred up a bit of that latent seawater in my blood. I could feel the rush of it as I imagined lines of bird-prowed boats bobbing up and down in the waves, banners flying, sails fluttering, and oarsmen chanting as they fought for victory against their seafaring brethren.
“I can tell the idea pleases you,” said Nicaro, grinning.
“That it does.” I accepted another refill of wine in my cup and tipped it back with a hum of pleasure as the perfectly aged vintage caressed my tongue.
“Excellent,” said Nicaro. “It will be the first event you’ll be in charge of organizing. Oleku will be discontinuing his position immediately upon your acceptance.”
The temptation to press for an explanation as to why a man who’d been in charge of all such events for decades had suddenly decided to step down was strong, but the immovable expression on the king’s face gave me no leave to do so. The decision had been made. Who was I to question it?
“I suppose you might be wondering why I chose you for this position.”
With care born from long practice facing opponents, I remained impassive, even though that very question had kept me up half the night. There were plenty of men more qualified than I to step into Oleku’s sandals.
The king surveyed me over the lip of his cup. “You heard my conversation with Virka and Grabos.” My heart jolted and my gut twisted. It was not a question. He’d been well aware that I’d overheard the conversation between himself and his comman
ders. But I was nothing if not skilled at holding my composure, on and off the fighting grounds, so I only tipped my chin in silent agreement.
“Tzorah is not the only loss we’ve suffered recently.” He stared into his wine, as if the disappointing images were playing out over its surface. “When we took Beth Shemesh a year and a half ago, I felt certain that the rest of the foothills would fall into our hands easily. But that hasn’t been the case.”
I was astounded to hear Nicaro admit to defeats that were in no way common knowledge—and also to discover that the very same city to which Risi and I had followed a wagon laden with the Hebrews’ greatest treasure all those years ago had fallen into Philistine hands. I knew no one in Beth Shemesh, of course, having remained on the mountain of Kiryat-Yearim the entire time I’d lived in Hebrew territory, but an unexpected pang of melancholy hit me at the knowledge that the Levitical town had been sacked.
“Timna is ours,” he said, “Along with Ba’alat. But the Hebrews prevented us from taking Tzorah. They anticipated our raid somehow, and a surprisingly large force met ours. Virka and Grabos retreated after a few days, knowing it was a lost cause. But I will not give in. I want the entirety of the Ayalon Valley.”
Another chill of recognition went through me. Tzorah was not far from Kiryat-Yearim. I could see the city from the hillside cave that I’d escaped to whenever I desired to get away from the disapproving scowls of the Hebrew family who’d taken in Risi and me. If Timna and Beth Shemesh were all in the grasp of the Philistines now, and Tzorah might soon follow, did that mean that Kiryat-Yearim might too be at risk? I had no way of knowing whether my sister still lived there. On the day I’d left, I’d overheard some talk between her and Ronen about moving to Ramah, which was at least two days walk to the northeast, after their marriage. But even if Risi did not live in Kiryat-Yearim anymore, the rest of Elazar’s family did, of that I was certain. And regardless that I’d never been able to call Elazar and Yoela my parents like Risi did, nor accept their large brood as my brothers and sisters, I could not stomach the thought of harm coming to any of them.
Between the Wild Branches Page 3
