But perhaps there was something to fear after all. Azuvah certainly thought so. I remembered the way my skin had prickled as she’d whispered “Mercy. Have mercy on us” when the soldiers returned with their war trophy. She’d said the box itself did not contain magic, but what other explanation was there for what happened this morning? And would this be the last such occurrence?
The image of Dagon filled my mind: his once-powerful hands useless on the ground and the obsidian eyes now like black holes in the severed head that lay at the threshold before the golden box. Somehow I suspected that it would not matter how grand a replacement Harrom lifted in its place. For if Dagon was now powerless and sightless, perhaps the God of the Hebrews had not been bested after all.
Four
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
I dodged a mule-drawn wagon as I passed through the marketplace, desperate to find Lukio before the sun melted into the sea. He’d never been this late coming home from roaming the streets with his friends, and the gnawing worry in my gut had driven me to leave behind the floor I’d been scrubbing to look for him. Thankfully, Azuvah had promised to finish the task I’d abandoned.
Instead of the insistent calls of traders hawking pottery decorated with red and black swirls or fabrics from places I would never see with my eyes, the market was nearly as desolate as the dusty wheat and barley fields all around the city. Although a few tenacious merchants still tended their stalls, their goods were offered for nearly twice their worth and their stock was of questionable quality. Outside traders refused to come inside the gates of Ashdod anymore.
A plague-ridden city and its impoverished inhabitants did not make for good business, after all.
Two rats scuttled across the road in front of me as I jogged toward the place Lukio and a few of the other boys gathered to play games almost every day. There was a time when I might have jumped and squealed at the sight of rodents so near my sandals, but they’d become as common as stones in the street over these past few months. After consuming the majority of our crops and a fair amount of the grain in once-overflowing community silos, they’d taken to scavenging in our homes. At night they skittered over the plastered floor beneath our bed, making the skin on my arms crawl until I forced myself to sleep, praying to any god who might listen that the horrible creatures would not find their way beneath the blankets Azuvah tucked so diligently around us. The few remaining dogs that braved the streets had given up the fight against the invasion, as they were too busy fleeing the cooking pot to bother chasing their own prey.
Even months after the Ark of the Hebrews had been whisked away following an outcry by the people of Ashdod, its effects lingered over us like a foul odor, as permeating as the smell of death. A scent I knew only too well now.
Within weeks of the fall of Dagon, Harrom had perished, his body overtaken by black boils that not only distorted his face beyond recognition but had choked the breath from his lungs. After days of hiding in her chamber while the growths enveloped her body, Jacame succumbed as well. Three of their sons followed them to the grave, along with two of the wives and at least six of Jacame’s grandchildren. There’d been so many deaths over the last few months that bodies were now either dumped in mass graves or taken out to sea to be tossed overboard before fishermen dropped their nets. Any respect for the dead had been drowned in the overwhelming number of corpses.
I scratched just above my elbow, where the last of my own boils had healed months ago, but still felt tender to the touch. Not long after Harrom had died, both Lukio and I developed painful sores on the inside of our thighs, the first sign that we too had been stricken with whatever plague had descended upon Ashdod. But Azuvah had stolen a portion of olive oil in the chaos, anointed both Lukio and me with it in secret, and prayed over both of us in the name of her God as she tended our fevered bodies, washing us with water tinged with strong-smelling herbs and feeding us hearty vegetable broth. Although I’d not expected anything more than to watch my brother die in the same horrific way my uncle had, somehow both of us had recovered within a few days, and any sores we’d developed withered away.
Through it all, Azuvah’s skin had remained untouched—a fact that Mataro, the only survivor among our cousins and inheritor of all, did not miss. Nor did he forget where the blame for these plagues lay: with her people and their sacred Ark. Jacame had treated Azuvah no better or worse than any of her other slaves, but Mataro seemed to take pleasure in humiliating her, entertaining his loathsome friends with a litany of foul epithets for her as she served them. And last night she’d crawled into bed far past the rise of the moon with a deep bruise along the edge of her jaw. Seeing the woman who’d always protected me and my brother beaten like a dog had filled me with equal parts disgust and fury, making me wish Mataro had joined his parents and his brothers in the grave. And yet, for Lukio’s sake, I could say nothing, do nothing. Mataro had made it very clear that the two of us stayed in the household he now lorded over only at his pleasure.
Lately, I’d been too busy acting the part of a servant to keep a close eye on my brother at all times, as I had done in the past, so Lukio had been increasingly unruly and prone to wander around the city with his equally unruly friends. I hurried along the desolate streets, determined to find Lukio and return to the house before Mataro discovered I was gone. The longer I was away, the greater the chance he’d discover I’d left my duties behind.
The sounds of cheering met my ears as I neared the wide alleyway where I knew Lukio and the other boys passed their time tossing sheep knuckles, a favorite game that mimicked those of the men who wagered far more than shells or bragging rights on the roll of a die. However, when I came around the corner, it was not only young boys gathered in the alleyway but a group of grown men whose shouts and jeers echoed off the two-story buildings on either side.
Confused, I hovered near the corner, trying to discern why they would be circled around a youthful dice-throwing game, carrying on as if the outcome were of some importance.
A final roar of approval went up as I scanned the crowd for Lukio’s golden-brown curls, but there were too many bodies crammed into the alley. I had little doubt my brother was there in the midst of the melee since he liked nothing more than a raucous game of dice. I did not like the older boys he’d been passing time with, but they seemed to accept him easily, the unusual height he’d inherited from our father fooling them into seeing him as their equal.
The crowd began to dissipate, the men moving off in pairs or threes, some exchanging silver as they walked away. The clench of my stomach tightened, and my heart thudded sickly. I’d never seen grown men wager on a boys’ game of dice . . . but a fight was a different matter.
And then, to my great relief, I saw Lukio coming toward me with an enormous smile on his dirty face. He slipped free of the crowd and broke into a run, his hand outstretched and my name on his lips.
“Risi! Risi! Look what I won!” he called out at the same time I realized it was not only dirt on my brother’s sweet face but blood. A dark smear of crimson trailed from his nose to his chin and already a bruise was forming just below his left eye. By the time he reached me, panic had me tightly in its grip.
“Lukio, what did you do? Why are you bleeding?” I demanded, caring nothing for his spoils.
His mismatched eyes fluttered in confusion. “I’m all right Risi. I won.”
“You won? What sort of dice game causes a bloody nose and a black eye?” I swiped at his face, my palm coming away red.
“No, we weren’t playing dice. Well, we were. But Tombaal tried to cheat, and he stole my best die. But I got it back,” he said, digging into the little pouch at his neck where he carried his treasures. He held out a sheep knuckle that had been smoothed on all four sides and had tiny holes drilled into each side. “Look! I couldn’t let him take that one. It’s my favorite.”
“Lukio, I don’t care about your dice. Why are you bleeding?”
“I told you, Tombaal tried to steal it. So I knocked him
down and took it back,” he said with a shrug, tucking his reclaimed die back into his pouch. “And Mataro saw me.”
I sucked in a breath, my eyes darting around until they landed on none other than my only remaining cousin. He stood a few paces down the alleyway, talking with a few other men, with a large grin spread across his face. Nausea rippled up my throat.
“He saw you?” I choked out.
“Yes, and then he said I would be rewarded if I fought Tombaal for real. And I did. See!” He stretched out his palm to display two lumps of silver the size of my smallest fingernail.
“You fought another boy?”
“It was easy, Risi.” His voice pitched high with excitement. “After I won over Tombaal, I wrestled Nasso. That’s why I got two pieces instead of one.”
It had been months since I’d seen Lukio so excited about anything. The excruciating deaths of our aunt and uncle had been horrifying, and he was not unaware of the large numbers of other casualties, some of his friends among them. I was torn between gladness that he was not curled up on our bed weeping and horror that Mataro had somehow cajoled my gentle little brother into this world. Wrestling and fistfights were among the most popular activities in Ashdod, the wagers far more than the tiny pieces in my brother’s palm. It was common for boys to take part, but it turned my stomach to think of Lukio pummeling other children for gain.
“You earned it, cousin,” said Mataro, who’d appeared beside us as I reeled from the revelation that it had been Lukio in the center of that crowd of bloodthirsty men. Mataro clapped a palm on Lukio’s shoulder. “Those boys were at least two years older than you.”
“Tombaal is ten,” chirped Lukio, beaming.
“Even better,” said Mataro, who then leaned down to look him in the eye. “He didn’t have a chance. They’ll be much more silver in your future, little man.”
“He can’t fight,” I said, pulling Lukio toward me and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “He’s too young.”
Mataro narrowed his eyes at me, the glare causing the flesh on the back of my neck and arms to prickle. “Why are you here?” he said. “You were told to scrub the sanctuary floor.”
A spike of pure fear shot through my blood. “I . . . I will finish. I was worried about Lukio. The sun will set soon.”
“You were not given permission to leave.”
“But Azuvah said she would finish—”
“You are under my authority.” He leaned down a handspan from my face. “The house is mine and mine alone. You do what I say or you will regret it. Understand?”
Trembling head to foot from the menace in his voice, I nodded.
“Good,” he said with a sneer. “And I will make sure that crazy Hebrew sow understands it as well.”
The memory of Azuvah’s bruised jaw arose in my mind. He would mete out my punishment on her skin, I had no doubt.
“It was my fault alone,” I pled. “I won’t disobey you again, Mataro. I promise. I lied to Azuvah and told her you said I could go.”
His lips pinched together as he stared at me, seeming to gauge whether I was telling the truth now. “All right,” he said. “But this is the last time I grant mercy. Next time the Hebrew pays your debt. Is that perfectly clear, cousin?”
I nodded, my eyes burning.
“Go on home,” he said. “And tomorrow you’ll scrub the walls of the sanctuary as well.”
“Of course. Thank you, Mataro,” I whispered, then slipped my hand into Lukio’s before turning toward home.
Behind me Lukio jerked to a stop, causing me to nearly stumble. When I turned back I realized that Mataro had my brother’s arm in his grasp.
“Oh no,” said my cousin, drawing Lukio back toward himself. “He stays with me. We’ll be along shortly.”
My gaze flew back and forth between Mataro’s arrogant smile and Lukio’s wide eyes. The thought of walking away from my brother caused every bone in my body to turn to water, but if there was anything I knew about Mataro, it was that he was ruthless. The threat on his face was evident as his large fingers dug into the skin of Lukio’s arm.
It was not only Azuvah he would go after if I disobeyed.
I had no choice. Choking back a sob, I released Lukio’s hand, and then, on shaky legs, I turned and walked away, feeling every step of separation between my heart and his.
Five
Water dripped down into the arms of my tunic, tickling my sides as I pressed harder on the sodden rag. My shoulders ached from scrubbing up and down for hours, and my knees throbbed from kneeling to reach the corners, but I was certain that not even Mataro would find fault with my meticulous handiwork.
Years of incense and smoke had dulled the bright murals in this small sanctuary, but my diligence had brought them back to life. They gleamed in the sunlight that shone through the window, greens and blues and reds depicting the glorious arrival of our ancestors on this shore, as well as the distant island from which they originated. Thanks to me, the story on these walls was no longer hidden.
These depictions were full of triumphant boasting for the heroes whose blood ran in the rivers of my own body, yet somehow Azuvah’s stories of the Hebrews were more real to me. Mosheh, Avraham, Yosef, Yehoshua, and Rahab felt more like my people than those I had been born to. The thought made me glance over at the altar in the corner, as if the collection of silent statues arranged there on the low stone pedestal might have overheard my treachery.
The earthquake seven months before had destroyed many of the gods within this household sanctuary, their parts carelessly strewn across the floor like dice tossed by Lukio and his friends. But Jacame had replaced them with ones that were far more costly than those that had been damaged, and two new oil and incense burners hung from the rafters, the large ceramic rings decorated with ornate depictions of seabirds and swans.
Taking a moment to rest my weary arms, I sat back on my haunches and looked over the baalim my aunt had selected with so much care. Foremost among them was the Great Mother goddess, the ancient deity worshiped by our people back in our homeland, her exaggerated bosom and benevolent smile a promise of great fertility. The rest were a collection of Egyptian deities: Isis, Osiris, and Thoth, and a few Canaanite ones as well, such as El, Ba’al, and Ashtoreth. But regardless that most of them glittered with jeweled and gold-plated glory, and regardless of the countless sacrifices offered on their behalf, none of those gods had saved Jacame or Harrom from excruciating deaths.
Azuvah claimed that the fervent prayers she offered to her God on Lukio’s and my account had healed us, and truly they had seemed to protect us from the worst of the tumors. However, the Ark of the Hebrews had disappeared from the temple porch within days of the fall of Dagon, likely melted down as Senamo had suggested in an act of retribution for the plagues that befell us in Ashdod. How powerful could a god be if its most sacred treasure could be so easily destroyed?
If even Azuvah’s Yahweh could not be trusted, then there was no god I could plead with for help. No one to beg protection from our cousin’s capricious whims and whatever plans he had for my brother.
Lukio had returned well after sunset last night, full of excitement over his victories and talk of more in the future. He’d balked when I said I did not want him to fight again, but after I’d tearfully explained how frightened I’d been, he’d apologized and meekly crawled into bed. Even so, I could tell that he’d been torn between pleasing me and pleasing the cousin who had filled his head with grandiose tales of fame and fortune.
What Lukio did not comprehend was the savagery of such matches, of men beaten until they were unrecognizable, of broken limbs and shattered teeth, and the fickle affections of the crowds once their favorite fighters were no longer lining their purses with silver. I’d heard such talk from my uncle and cousins for years, not to mention witnessing the aftermath of my own father’s bouts, and I refused to let Lukio be abused for sport. This was a boy whose thumb had only stopped finding its way into his mouth at night a little over a year
ago. I could not allow the last of his innocence to be pummeled from his young body on the fighting grounds. But how could I protect him from Mataro’s schemes? The filthy rag in my hands and the ache in my neck and shoulders was a reminder that although I’d been born into wealth and privilege, I was little more than a servant in this house now, a young girl dependent on my tyrannical cousin for every bite of food and every scrap of clothing. I was nothing. Alone.
Azuvah padded into the room, pulling my attention from the powerless gods in front of me.
“I’m nearly done,” I said, my smile as weak as my legs as I stood.
Instead of inspecting my work, Azuvah moved in front of me and lifted her hands to cradle my face, her dark eyes seeming to peer directly into my soul and past any pretense I could conjure. “What is wrong, Arisa?”
I could do nothing to prevent the tears that slipped down my cheeks. “Mataro means to have Lukio fight against other boys. Older ones, most likely. You know what those vicious matches are like. I cannot stand to see him beaten, Azuvah—or worse. Especially when it is only for Mataro’s gain.”
She pulled me close, stroking my hair as I wept against her shoulder.
“What can I do? I can’t stop Mataro from doing whatever he pleases. No one can.”
“Give me some time,” she said. “I will think of something.”
I pulled back to stare at her. “What could you possibly do?”
“You and Lukio are the brightest lights in my sky. There is nothing I would not do to protect the two of you.” She pulled me back in for another embrace, her strong arms and familiar smell smoothing the sharpest edges from my fears for my brother. “You will never be alone, lior.”
The door slammed open, jerking both Lukio and me from a deep sleep.
“Get up,” said Azuvah, her eyes wild. “Now.”
The fear in her tone caused me to leap from the bed, Lukio scooting out behind me. “What is it?”
To Dwell among Cedars Page 4
