Between the Wild Branches

by Connilyn Cossette

  I couldn’t breathe. I needed to get out of this house with all its suffocating emptiness. A house that would soon be just another prison to my Tesi. I needed to go outside, inhale fresh sea air, and think as I wandered the streets like I did when I was young.

  However, everyone in the city knew my face. Whenever I left my villa, I was constantly asked about my next fight by men who could not wait to lay down their wages on me. Women giggled and batted their lashes, blatantly offering themselves up for my pleasure, and groups of children trooped along behind me, desperate for an encounter with Demon Eyes so they could tell their friends.

  I needed to get out of this house, but I had to go about it unseen.

  “Teitu!” My voice echoed off the vibrant walls. “Teitu!”

  My manservant appeared, breathless and his one eye wide as he took in the shattered horn and the mess of beer and pottery across the hearth.

  “Get me a cloak,” I said.

  “My lord?”

  “And something to cover my head as well. And nothing made of fine fabric. Only rough and dark cloth. Threadbare, even.”

  His brows furrowed. “It’s very hot today. Are you certain?”

  “I am. Go.” I guessed that the rest of my servants would be gossiping about my strange behavior within the hour, but I did not care.

  He did as he was asked, and I left behind my grand and gleaming white villa shrouded in Teitu’s own brown cloak and headscarf, feeling that for the first time in months I could draw a full breath into my lungs.

  Determined to lose myself in the maze of the city and escape the overwhelming barrage of emotions that had plagued me since I last saw Shoshana, I ambled through the streets of Ashdod, head down and blissfully unrecognized. By the time I looked up, I’d left the part of town where everything was color and excitement and realized I was near the southern end of Ashdod, where the houses were squashed together like crumbling mudbricks. Beggars murmured from every alleyway, and the stench of waste and refuge backed up in the street drains filled my nostrils.

  Just as I’d made up my mind to turn around and go back to my desolate home, a series of shouts and snarls reached my ears.

  Drawn by morbid curiosity, I followed the noise and found a large group of people surrounding some sort of commotion. It reminded me of many of my first fights—some fought right here on these same streets when Mataro challenged anyone who dared to pit themselves against a sixteen-year-old boy who was built like a man. But as I pressed through the crowd, earning more than a few curses for blocking their view with my large frame, I saw that it wasn’t a fight between two men after all but between two dogs.

  One, a brindled canine with nearly as many scars as me, had the other dog—a black-and-tan brute who was smaller but stockier—by the neck.

  With his jaws clamped tightly at the black-and-tan’s throat, the dog let out a menacing growl through drool and bloodied foam, his every muscle locked tight.

  The crowd roared its approval of the brindle’s attack, but my fists were clenched tight beneath my cloak and my insides in knots. I’d never been able to stomach any animal hurting, but knowing that the black-and-tan was suffering for the entertainment of this crowd was almost more than I could bear.

  There was also little difference between the sound of these spectators crowing for the brindle to finish off the other dog than when they called me to destroy my own opponents on the fighting grounds. As they screamed for the dog, who was apparently named Jackal, they might as well be calling out for Demon Eyes.

  For so long I’d reveled in the shouts from the crowds, felt vindicated for coming back to Ashdod because I’d achieved the fame and fortune I’d set out to grasp. But did they see me any differently than this dog at the center of the ring of rabid spectators? They wagered on my fights the same way they did this one, after all. In fact, it was my cut of those winnings that had built that luxurious house I’d once gloried in.

  Mataro had certainly never seen me as anything more than an animal, a dog he could throw into a fight so he could collect his disproportionate share. More than likely, he was furious that he no longer had control of my leash.

  When the black-and-tan dog collapsed, his neck bleeding profusely and his limbs going still, celebration broke out around me. Wagers exchanged hands as someone yanked at the cord around the brindle’s neck, pulling it tighter and tighter until he finally released the neck of the dead dog, but only to snap at his handler. The man twisted the cord until the brindle yelped and submitted to the choke.

  It was then that I realized I recognized the dog’s handler. It was Tombaal, one of the boys I used to run the streets of Ashdod with, playing endless games of sheep knuckles and getting into all manner of trouble. At seven years old, I’d fought my very first fight with Tombaal—the same one Mataro had happened to witness and found that it took little more than a dangling of silver in front of my greedy little eyes to bait me into fighting again.

  Tombaal handed off the brindle to one of his companions and then lifted his hands to quiet the crowd. “I hope you’ve all enjoyed the bout so far. For those of you who wagered on Jackal, I congratulate you, and for those wagered on Bear, may the gods of fortune be with you next time.” He grinned widely, showing a gap where one of his front teeth used to be. The very front tooth that I had knocked from his mouth during our second match.

  “And now, for the last fight,” he shouted, “we have a special treat for you all—a new dog.”

  The crowd brayed and whistled.

  “That’s right. This one has had no training at all. He was found wandering in a barley field not too far from here. But you’ll soon see why he was brought to me.” His gapped grin stretched even wider. “I ask you to wait to place your bets until you see him. But since this is the last match of the day, shall I let it go to the final end?”

  The crowd went wild at the suggestion, getting so loud that my ears rang from the noise. Hadn’t the last dog been killed at the end of the match? What more could they want?

  Giving in to curiosity, I leaned toward the man on my left. “What does he mean by letting it go to the final end?”

  Barely taking a look at me, the man responded, “It means his pack will tear apart the loser. He doesn’t feed them for days before a bout like this one. The crowd loves it.”

  Nausea flamed up my throat. How could watching an animal be torn to pieces and cannibalized be entertaining to these people? And how had I turned a blind eye for so long to how truly vicious the people in this city were? This was no small crowd. And it was growing.

  Before I could turn around and flee this bloodthirsty gathering, the new dog was led into the ring of cheering people, and now I knew why Tombaal had brought it here. The gray-coated canine was enormous. Its shoulders would be nearly to my hip—and I stood a head taller than most men in Philistia. The dog’s head was also nearly twice the size as most other dogs I’d ever seen. But what I noticed next after his extraordinary size was that his muscles were quivering and his eyes were huge, wheeling about as he was half-dragged forward, paws scrabbling against the ground in his terror. Seeing his distress, the crowd began to jeer and shout, which made him tremble all the more.

  And now instead of simple disgust, a swell of anger began to surge in me at this display, growing in tandem with the savage calls of the crowd for the beautiful flesh of this animal to be shredded by a pack of ravenous dogs.

  When Tombaal gestured for the brindle to be brought forward, I moved forward as well, pushing past two men who snarled curses at me. Then, when two more dogs were led into the circle, I nearly lost all restraint. In fact, I was shaking nearly as violently as the gray dog.

  Before I could open my mouth, Tombaal’s friend released the brindle, who immediately lunged at the gray, teeth bared and blood from his last fight drooling from his jaws.

  At the same moment the cur sank his teeth into the shoulder of the gray dog, I dropped the cloak from my body and yanked the scarf from my head, all caution burned aw
ay by my concern for the terrified dog.

  And even before I stepped into the circle, I heard “Demon Eyes” being called out from among the crowd. I cared nothing for my lost anonymity now. All I cared about was preventing the gray dog from being annihilated.

  Heedless of Tombaal’s furious shouts, I grabbed for the brindle, yanking the cord around his neck the same way Tombaal had done and pulling him off his prey. The brindle turned on me, his powerful teeth clamping down on my forearm, and instinctively I kicked with my dominant leg—the same one I’d trained to deliver blows that would level a man larger than me in one hit to his gut.

  With a strangled yelp, the brindle flew across the circle to land near Tombaal’s feet in a pathetic heap. The crowd seemed to gasp as one and then went quiet with gape-mouthed shock.

  I moved to stand in front of the gray dog, who was on the ground, bleeding from the shoulder and shaking violently. A steady trickle of blood dripped from my own arm into the dirt.

  Tombaal’s face was the very picture of disbelief. “Demon Eyes? What are you doing?”

  I ignored the fact that someone I’d spent years climbing trees and tossing dice with would use my fighting name instead of my given one, then stretched to my full height, allowing all my anger to funnel into my furious glare. “I won’t stand by and watch this animal be torn apart. This is over.”

  His mouth gaped like a fish on the beach. “But this is . . . wagers have already exchanged hands . . . you can’t just—”

  I used the full force of the intimidating stare I’d perfected, as if he were an opponent whom I was facing across the fighting grounds. “I can. And I will.”

  I turned to the crowd, making a swift decision that I hoped I could convince Nicaro to support. “I am the Master of Games in this city. And from now on any fighting matches, be they human or otherwise, must be sanctioned by myself, and thereby, the king of Ashdod.”

  I glanced over at Tombaal, who blinked at me in profound confusion. “I am taking this dog with me.”

  “You have no right!” Tombaal stuttered, his face the color of a pomegranate. “That animal is mine.”

  I narrowed my eyes at my childhood friend, setting my jaw like granite, while at the same time shifting into a relaxed fighter’s stance. I lifted a hand, beckoning him with a mocking gesture. “Then come and take him from me.”

  Tombaal’s jaw twitched, and I could practically hear the curses he must be screaming at me from behind his clenched teeth, but he made no move to engage the champion of Ashdod in a fight he could not win.

  “That’s what I thought.” I huffed a small laugh of derision, giving in to the urge to twist the knife. “You couldn’t even beat me when I was seven and you were eleven.”

  Ignoring the confused buzz of the crowd around me and the feeble protests of the man I’d just humiliated, I knelt beside the gray dog, which was now trembling so fiercely that his paws were shaking.

  Slowly, I stretched out my hand, murmuring assurances that I would not harm him and looking him directly in the eyes. He flinched as I touched his coat, cowering, but I laid a gentle hand on his quivering back. Then I brought my other hand to his head and stroked him behind his silky ears. Although he was still tense, he pressed into my palm, taking comfort in my touch, and I felt victory in the center of my bones.

  “It’s all right,” I said, hiding all the fury still pumping through my body in order to keep my voice soothing, “I won’t leave you behind.”

  I stood slowly, gently tugging at the cord around his neck to urge the giant dog to stand. When I began walking, the canine hesitated for a moment but then let me lead him forward. In bewildered silence, the crowd parted for us as I strode away without looking back, the gray dog limping along beside me as if it had always been at my side as we headed for home.

  Fourteen

  Shoshana

  Mariada and Jasara had been playing the same game for hours. Each of them had won three rounds of Hounds and Jackals, an Egyptian game that consisted of moving carved ivory pegs around a board filled with tiny holes. The set had been a gift from one of the emissaries sent by Pharaoh to Ashdod and was a favorite pastime of the royal ladies whenever they gathered in this upper courtyard in the center of the women’s quarters.

  My legs ached from standing in one place for so long, my muscles twitching with the need to move and also from frustration. I had a message for the man in the garden shed. One that might mean life or death for a Hebrew girl. And since I’d been forced to stand here since late morning, waiting for Mariada to finish playing her game with Jasara, I’d been unable to get away.

  I’d cycled through every excuse I’d used before when Oshai had asked me to risk delivering messages during the day, trying to decide which might give me enough time to run down to the shed and back without notice. In the past, I’d offered to fetch fresh flowers to decorate Mariada’s room, after pouring a small amount of vinegar in the vase the night before to make her current arrangement wither. I’d also said I needed to borrow a new bronze needle from another maid to repair a loose seam, after ensuring that the ones I’d used before had been misplaced or bent. I’d once even chanced the wrath of my mistress by spilling an entire pot of henna down the length of her favorite gown as I was painting her fingernails with the reddish dye, and after dashing to the shed to meet my anonymous friend, had to collect natron powder from Avel, who used the gritty substance for killing pests in his beautifully manicured gardens, to scrub the stain on the dress. But no matter how many ideas I came up with to take my leave, I could think of nothing today that would not be suspect.

  Across the small courtyard, Tela and Amunet sat in the shade, talking quietly, their maids busy braiding their hair into intricate plaits, interspersed with carnelian and bronze beads and even a few tiny white shells. It did not matter that at the end of the day the maids would be forced to undo all their hard work; Amunet insisted on a new and unique hairstyle every day, lately even eschewing the use of Egyptian-style wigs for the complicated fashions of the Philistine women. I took advantage of her and Tela’s distraction to covertly watch my daughter, who lay on a soft cushion of layered blankets nearby.

  She was cooing at her nursemaid, who’d been entertaining her with a variety of carved dolls and fluttering hand motions above her head. Everything in me screamed to run across the courtyard and snatch up my precious girl, to feel her soft skin, breathe in her sweet fragrance, and bury my face in the downy thatch of dark hair that now covered her tiny head. She’d grown so much in the past few weeks. Each time I went a day or more without seeing her, she changed in some subtle way. At eight months of age, she was becoming more vocal, experimenting with various sounds and blowing bubbles with her lips as she flailed her chubby arms and legs about.

  When a delighted giggle erupted from her body in response to something the nursemaid did, I was at the same time thoroughly enchanted and distraught. It should be me eliciting those joyful noises from her mouth, not some Egyptian wet nurse. I blinked back hot tears and swallowed down my sorrow. There was nothing I could do but watch her across the room, drink in every sound, and pray that Yahweh would protect her even when I could not. Even so, I yearned for her every moment of the day, desperate to feel the beat of her heart against my skin and wishing that the first word from her mouth would be to call me Ima instead of naming Tela as her matare.

  “Lukio!” cried Mariada, jerking my attention away from my baby to the man taking up most of the entryway with his large frame. I wondered how long he’d been standing there but knew enough not to look too closely at him while the rest of the women were nearby. So, I tilted my chin downward and feigned disinterest as he entered the courtyard. However, when a few stifled gasps came from the mouths of Nicaro’s first wife and his three daughters, I was helpless to restrain my curiosity and looked up once again to find that he was not alone.

  An enormous gray dog padded into the room at his left flank, the creature so hulking that it would likely stand almost as tall as Lu
kio on its hind legs. It looked like an odd mix between one of the king’s boar-hunting hounds and a wolf.

  “What is that?” demanded Amunet with vehement disgust.

  “This is Igo,” said Lukio, scrubbing the dog behind its ears, unabashed that the queen of Ashdod was unsettled by the sight of such a beast in her lushly appointed abode. I could not help but be amused that the dog was named horse in the language of the Philistines. It was certainly almost as large as one.

  “Where did it come from?” asked Mariada, whose ocean-blue eyes were trained on the dog with both awe and fear.

  “I rescued him from an unfair dogfight,” he said, a hard edge coming into his voice that reminded me just how partial he’d always been to the donkeys he’d tended in Kiryat-Yearim. He’d had a way of speaking to them in such reassuring tones, and always in his Philistine tongue, that calmed them and caused the stubborn animals to follow after him with complete loyalty. I had no doubt that Lukio would throw himself in front of a bronze arrow if it meant saving the life of any animal, even one that looked as terrifying as the one at his side now.

  “And you thought it wise to bring such a beast here?” said Tela, who had, in a rare show of maternal protectiveness, picked up the baby.

  “There is nothing to fear,” said Lukio. “He’s harmless. He was so terrified when the other dog was set upon him that he did nothing more than cower, even though he was nearly twice the size as his attacker. He is as gentle as a lamb, even if he looks more like a lion.”

  Lukio stroked Igo’s back and gave him an affectionate smile, and the dog looked up at his master with boundless adoration. “He hasn’t left my side since that day, even to sleep. In fact, I was concerned he might knock down my house when I tried to leave him behind this morning. He practically tore the door from its hinges to get to me after my manservant made an attempt to lock him in a room. So, it seems that for the present, wherever I go, he goes too.”