by Karen Miller
The scorpion amulet was still in her tunic pocket. She had meant to show it to Abajai, but his stern words had stolen her thoughts. She took it out and held it tightly, feeling its sharp edges against her skin, recalling the words of the amulet-seller.
Great lady, mother of the god’s desire, mother of the son! Rivers of blood, rivers of greatness! Wastelands of despair!
Stupid scummy-eyed old woman, gabbling nonsense. Demons lived in her babbling tongue, the godspeakers would come for her and cut them out. Hekat thrust the amulet under the pillow, rolled herself into her blankets, and fell asleep.
Days passed, drifting one into the next into the next. A little rain fell, mostly the sky was blue and cloudless. Abajai never went beneath the villa. His feet never touched the stairs leading down to the kitchen and the laundry and the workrooms and the store-rooms and the slaves’ sleeping quarters, and out to the slaves’ garden where fresh fruits and vegetables were grown. The slaves went upstairs, every day they went up to clean the villa or serve Abajai and Yagji and their Trader guests or do the things that Abajai and Yagji needed them to do.
But Abajai never once came down.
Hekat sulked. She was used to seeing Abajai every day. She’d seen him and talked with him every day from newsun to lowsun since leaving the village. Even when they’d traveled in silence, when he pinched her shoulder or tugged on her godbraids to still her tongue, he’d been there with her, a constant reassuring presence at her back. She missed that. She missed him. She was lonely.
The feeling offended her. Loneliness belonged to that nameless she-brat in the village, who’d slept under tables and chained to walls. That ignorant, naked, skin-and-bone creature destined for the dogs, or an end even worse, it had lived in loneliness the way fish lived in water. But she wasn’t that sad she-brat anymore. She had a name now, she wore fine clothes, her godbraids sang with silver godbells. She had a tutor, bought and paid for. How could Hekat, precious and beautiful, be lonely ?
Abajai’s stupid slaves did not talk to her, they talked to each other but not to her. Even when she had to work with them, because the slave Retoth said she must earn her keep , even then they would not talk to her. She thought that might be Obid’s doing, he lived at the villa, the slaves spoke to Obid and he spoke to them about her, she was certain. So they knew where she came from, the savage north, they knew what she used to be, a dirty nameless she-brat. They did not understand what she had become, and they let Obid’s maggot questions writhe in their hearts and only when Retoth said they had to, would they ever speak to her.
Not that she cared. They were jealous because Abajai was Abajai and not the master . They were jealous because he dressed her in silk and cotton and paid a stupid tutor silver coins to teach her reading and writing and how to dance, tra-la. Reading and writing were tedious, but she liked to dance.
Twenty-eight highsuns came and went without her once sitting with Abajai to talk, and laugh, and poke silly fun at pouting Yagji. Twenty-eight highsuns and she never climbed the stairs into the villa at all. One time the slave Nada caught her looking up those stairs, the slave shook a fist at her and said, Enter the villa without Retoth’s word, Hekat, and you will be beaten .
The way the slave Nada said that, Hekat knew she hoped there would be a beating.
There would not. Staying below stairs was Abajai’s want, she would obey him. But oh, his want chafed like the slave chains chafed the merchandise on the road. It poked her like Obid’s spear poked those slaves to sit, to stand, to eat, to pish. She stayed beneath the villa, she learned her lessons and her dancing, she scrubbed pots in the kitchen and sheets in the laundry, she toiled among the vegetables and sat in the kitchen with the villa’s stupid slaves and listened to them laugh and tease and joke and tell tales of Et-Raklion city, which they could visit sometimes but she could not.
She was not free here. On the road with Abajai she had been free. But he would send for her soon, he must send for her soon. Then she would walk in the world, with him. She understood why he had not sent for her yet, he was busy, he had Trader business. She knew from the slaves’ gossip how many Traders came and went upstairs—Abajai was respected, so many sought his counsel. Once he even went to the warlord’s palace, the warlord spoke to him in private conference. Aieee, he was an important man!
Even so. He would send for her soon. She was precious, he must miss her as she missed him.
While she waited she learned her Mijaki picture-letters and word-symbols, practiced writing them with her stylus on the damp clay tablets the tutor brought with him each day, and read aloud from the baked clay tablets he left behind for her to study. And when she was outside in the slaves’ garden, pulling weeds and raking leaves and spreading chicken dung on the vegetables, she would hear in her head the chiming of his tambourine, and lightly dance the steps he taught her.
When Abajai sent for her at last he would be so proud of his clever, beautiful Hekat.
He summoned her a finger before lowsun on the twenty-ninth day.
She was in her chamber, practicing her writing, when the slave Retoth entered unannounced. Such a rude man, she did not like him. “Get up,” he said. “The master wants you.”
She liked best to write lying flat on the floor, with the soft pink woven carpet tickling her skin. She leapt up. “Abajai sends to see me now? Aieee, I must dress for him!”
Retoth folded his arms. “You are dressed already.”
“Tcha!” she said scornfully, and rummaged in the wooden trunk that contained her fine bazaar clothes. “I must be beautiful for Abajai! He will wait for me.”
“Arrogant wretch,” said Retoth, under his breath, but that was all. He knew she was right.
She selected a tunic striped in emerald and lapis blue, and pantaloons the color of flame. She pulled off her yellow shift, it didn’t matter that Retoth could see her skin. He was a gelding, not a man. Except for Obid, all the villa’s male slaves were geldings. Gelding made men docile, Nada said. Otherwise they got themselves in trouble.
Beautifully dressed for Abajai, with her snake-eye amulet dangling for him to see, she followed Retoth upstairs into the villa. Abajai sat in the same lavish room as before. Yagji was there too, reclining on his favorite couch with his stupid monkey Hooli leaping and capering and spitting date stones on the carpets.
She was so pleased to see Abajai, she wanted to run to him, to dance for him, to show him he could trust her above the stairs, in the villa, in the city of Et-Raklion.
But she didn’t run, or dance. His face told her he wanted her to walk, to be silent, to hold inside all her shouting pleasure. She obeyed, because she loved him.
“Retoth,” said Abajai, relaxed on his own couch. “You give a good report of Hekat below the stairs?”
Retoth’s face was sour but he could not lie. “A good report, master.”
“And what does the tutor tell you?”
“The tutor tells me Hekat learns swiftly, master.”
Abajai turned to Yagji, who had captured the monkey Hooli and was holding it in his arms. “Was I not right, Yagji?”
Yagji shrugged. “Half right, so far.” He began brushing his stupid pet’s brown and white coat with an ivory-backed brush. “As for the rest, Aba, it remains to be seen.”
Abajai took a large clay tablet from the table beside him and held it out. “Read this to me, Hekat.”
The tablet was heavy. If she dropped and broke it Abajai would be angry. She would keep hold of it no matter how cruelly her fingers ached. She studied the tablet’s writing closely, then took a deep breath.
“‘For obedience pleases the god,’” she read slowly, sounding out each symbol with teeth and tongue. “‘Sacrifice pleases it. Offerings—offerings—’”
“Swell,” said Abajai. “That symbol means ‘swell.’ Do you know the word ‘swell,’ Hekat?”
Mute, she shook her head. She could not read Abajai the tablet. She had failed him. Pricky tears burned her eyes.
“It means
to increase,” said Abajai. “To make larger. It is an old-fashioned word. Keep reading.”
Blinking, she looked again at the clay tablet. “‘Offerings swell the—the—’” Aieee, another word-symbol she did not know. She knew the word-sounds, weren’t they enough? She stared at it, heart pounding. What did the stupid tutor say? The stupid tutor said to look at the word-symbols around the word-symbol she did not know and see if they could help her guess its meaning. She looked again at the other word-symbols. Offerings swell the something . But what?
That symbol there, it was almost the sign for the god. Almost, but not quite. Memory stirred, showed her the time she and Retoth walked through the streets to the bazaar. Godposts on street corners. Young godspeakers tipping coins into their leather bags . . .
“‘ Godbowl !’” she shouted, triumphant. “Abajai, Hekat knows this word-symbol now, it means godbowl!”
Abajai clapped his hands. “Well done, Hekat. Keep reading.”
“‘Offerings swell the godbowl. The scorpion stings the man with—with—’” It was no good. She had not been reading so very many highsuns. She could not guess the rest.
“‘With a heart like stone,’” said Abajai. “These words are given us by Et-Raklion’s high godspeaker, Hekat. Can you see his name writ on the tablet?”
She looked, hard. Yes. There was a name there. The stupid tutor had taught her to write her own name, and Abajai’s, and even Yagji’s. She frowned at it, sounding it out in the silence of her head.
“Nagarak,” she said at last. “The name is Nagarak.”
“Yes, it is,” said Abajai. “You have been listening to your tutor, Hekat. Abajai is pleased with you.”
Abajai is pleased . The words sang in her heart, she could not keep her laughter secret. Abajai retrieved the clay tablet, then from a wooden box by the chamber window took a painted tambourine. He gave it to Retoth.
“Make music, Retoth, so Hekat can dance.”
Dancing, said the stupid tutor, was a way of honoring the god. Dancing made the body lithe and supple, it stretched the muscles and strengthened the heart. When she danced her silver godbells sang without ceasing, as the music sang within her blood. She felt alive, she felt connected to the ground and the sky and the air all around her. It seemed she knew how to dance before the stupid tutor showed her one thing about it, as though the dance was already inside her, waiting to come out.
She danced for Abajai, honoring him.
When she was finished, her body warm and glowing, the last tambourine chime died away, even Yagji praised her.
“Very pretty,” he said, with the stupid monkey still in his arms. “That was a pretty dance.”
“Hekat is graceful,” said Abajai. “Graceful and beautiful.”
“Abajai . . .” She stepped forward. “Abajai, I have been good. I work in the garden, I clean in the kitchen, I study with the tutor five fingers every day. I am not savage now, I read and dance, I have sweet breath and clean skin. When can I join you in the villa?”
“In the villa?” said Yagji, and tittered. “So, Aba, not so intelligent after all.”
Abajai frowned. “You live beneath the villa. Hekat, with the other slaves. That is your place here.”
He did not understand. She clasped her hands behind her back. “Abajai, Hekat is thinking. Hekat wants to be a Trader.”
Retoth dropped the tambourine, bang jangle jangle. Hooli shrieked and leapt out of Yagji’s arms. Abajai sat up very slowly, his lips pinched, his eyes cool.
“I am not stupid, Abajai,” she said, eager to explain. “I can learn Trader business. You have no son, I can be a son to you. I can help you in your Trading.”
“ Aieee !” said Yagji, and fanned his face. “It says it’s not stupid, then asks to be one of us? Aba, Aba, did I not tell you? Did I not warn you? Did I not—”
“Silence, Yagji!” said Abajai, standing. “Hekat, are you demonstruck?”
Demonstruck? Dry-mouthed she stared up at him, so tall, so looming. “Abajai?”
He shook his head, as though he were pained with disappointment. “You are a slave , Hekat. I bought you with my silver coin. You were there, you saw your father sell you to me. You are not like a child of my bloodline, you are property .”
Property? No. No. That could not be right. Hekat was precious, she was not a slave . “But, Abajai, how can that be true?” she whispered. “I rode on the white camel, I slept in your tent. I did not eat the slave food with the slaves. I never wore slave chains. I have no slave-braid.”
“ There !” said Yagji, pouty and cross. “Perhaps now you will grant me my wisdom, Aba. Buy it a slave-braid, I told you in Todorok. Don’t make a pet of it, I said from the start. Would you heed me? No, you would not. And see what has happened? It is grown proud and ignorant, this precious slave of yours, it does not know its place in the world.”
“Yes, I am precious!” she said, ignoring Yagji. “I am Hekat, precious and beautiful. I read, I write, I dance. I wear silk and linen, I am taught by a paid tutor, your slaves are not taught.”
Abajai sighed, and dropped to one knee before her. His warm hands rested on her shoulders. “Hekat. Listen to me. It is true I have treated you differently. I bought you fine clothes, and pay a tutor to teach you. This does not mean you are not a slave. I have done these things to increase your value.”
Increase her value? It was a good thing Abajai’s hands held her shoulders, she would float away if they did not, her body felt so light, her head was a cloud.
“Abajai will sell me?” she asked him, faintly.
He could not sell her. How could he sell her? He loved her, she was certain. She knew she loved him. She knew what love was now, the tutor read her stories about men and women loving.
Stupid Yagji rolled his eyes. “ Tell her, Aba. Tell her now what you should have told her from the first. Put her straight and end this nonsense!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Heart pounding, Hekat glared her hate at stupid Yagji. She was hot, she was burning, if she touched the fat man he would burst into flame.
“Aieee!” he cried, and clutched his amulet. “See her eyes, Aba! She wants to hurt me, she is wicked ! I will not have her here anymore! You say Hekat is an investment? Investments become liabilities if they are not realized in time. She reads, she writes, I grant she dances with the god’s grace. And yes, she is beautiful. But Aba, she is a blight upon this household. The other slaves dislike her, she sows discord below the stairs with her arrogant ways! Ask Retoth. He will tell you.”
Abajai stood, his face a frown. “Am I to care for what slaves like or dislike? Am I not master of this villa?”
“You are to care if their disliking creates unrest,” said Yagji crossly. “Twelve other slaves we have here, all unhappy because of a thirteenth that daily costs us hard-earned coin. Is this good practice? You know it is not. The slaves obey because that is what slaves are for but they are not brute beasts, Aba, you have always said so. Our household is never plagued with slave mischief because you know that is true. But now you have forgot, you are so besotted with this wretched creature you cannot think past the gold coin you think she will fetch! You say the god guided you to that village? I say you listened to a demon!”
“ Tcha !” said Abajai, his hands turned to fists and the scarlet scorpion in his cheek writhing. “Speak blasphemy and the god will smite you. I am not besotted , Yagji. Hekat is blooming, true, ripe enough now to make a man look twice, but her full blossoming is yet to come. Are you deaf to me, Yagji? Have I not said to you, over and over, since we left the desolate village that spawned her: of Hekat I will create a concubine worthy of a warlord. Why else do I spend our good coin upon her? She is no common, ordinary slave, to be bought and broken and put into harness. She is a godgift, so we might be wealthy beyond our lifetimes. I will not sell her before she is ripe. I will sell every other slave here and change bed linens myself before I do such a foolish thing. Would you settle for a trickle of silver when soon enough she wi
ll give us a river of gold ?”
If Yagji said something in return, Hekat did not hear his words. Her body was breathless, and in her ears a terrible roaring, raging flames to blacken the world.
It was true. He meant to sell her. Gold mattered to Abajai, she did not. She was a thing to him, not a person, not his precious and beautiful Hekat. She was walking, talking, dancing gold. She had no words. There were no words. There was only pain like the devouring of dogs.
I loved you. I loved you. I thought you loved me.
Abajai said, “It is a pity you misread your purpose, Hekat. I hope you understand it now?”
She nodded. “I understand,” she whispered. Her throat was tight, it hurt to talk. “I am Abajai’s slave.”
“Yes. My slave. Still precious, still beautiful. But no more than a slave. It was foolish of you to think anything else.” He turned to Retoth. “Take her beneath the villa, Retoth. I think she will give you no more trouble.”
Retoth’s face was solemn but his eyes were laughing, he was laughing at her, he was pleased to see her brought so low. “Yes, master,” he said. “I think she knows her proper place.”
Hekat flinched. Retoth snapped his fingers at her in passing. She did not scold him, but followed him to the door. Five paces from it she slowed, and turned.
“Trader Abajai? You never loved me?”
“ Loved you?” said Yagji, and flapped his hands. “I was right all along, it is stupid, stupid !”
“Masters do not love their slaves,” said Abajai, impatient. “I am fond of you, Hekat, I wish you no ill. But love you? Aieee! Perhaps Yagji is right. Perhaps you are stupid.”
She ran at him screeching, reaching to claw out his eyes, his tongue, to tear his long godbraids out of his scalp. His swinging fist caught her, clubbed her sideways, she fell onto a low table and smashed it flat. The monkey Hooli screamed from the curtains and Yagji threw himself backwards, squealing.