“All the more reason he could be a good protector. And he knows where he could end up if he crosses us.” Dabir waited the space of many heartbeats and watched as conflicting emotions crossed the prince’s face.
At last he nodded. “All right, Dabir. Do as you wish.”
Dabir bowed his thanks.
Prince Nahid strode away without acknowledgment.
10
Tendaji hefted his irrigation sickle and hoe over his shoulder and strode through Jericho’s gates with the rest of the field workers. Some of the men around him whistled as they walked, no doubt thinking ahead to a good meal prepared by a wife, surrounded by children. Others, he knew, sang or whistled in anticipation of the drink that would drown their sorrows for another day.
Tendaji kept to himself, hanging back from the crowd as they allowed the king’s guards to inspect their seed baskets. Fear hung in the city’s air, hovering just above the songs of the men. And the guards’ nerves were heightened. Tendaji read it in their hardened faces beneath heavy leather helmets.
“Any news of the Israelites?” Tendaji asked as the guard sifted through his limp goatskin sack that had carried almonds and cheese for his midday meal.
The guard sized Tendaji up, then shrugged. “Nothing notable to report. The last merchants that came through here said the Israelites had moved their camp closer to the Jordan. They’ll never get across during flood season, but come the heat of summer, we could see some action against them.” The guard waved Tendaji through with a nod. “They won’t get through these walls, though.” He laughed, but Tendaji sensed the bravery was forced.
He continued into the city, walked past the closed-up merchant stalls, and passed several more blocks until he turned to the poor section and his crumbling home. He entered the courtyard and lit the lamp from the torch that burned continually near his gate. The house was cold and dark, and the heaviness he always carried with him when he returned here hit him like a fresh, overpowering wave. His mother was gone, and he could no longer afford the services of a servant to wash his feet or fix his meals. He would never be anything more than servant of the king, working the king’s fields, feeding the king’s greed.
He set the small clay lamp on a stand in the corner of the room, then sank onto a worn wooden bench, dropped his tools to the dirt floor, and bent forward, his face in his hands. His stomach growled in protest, as it had been doing for hours since his simple meal. There was little left in the cooking room, and he’d sold the goat to pay for the final visit from the physician. What he wouldn’t give for a large mug of strong drink to forget. To wallow in the grief he had known too long. First his father, then Kahiru and his son, and now his mother. How was he supposed to survive in the world, friendless, without family, and alone?
The gnawing in his stomach would not ease. He searched the wicker baskets hanging from the beam above his head in the cooking room. Happy memories mingled with ones of loss as he managed to put together some toasted grain and the last of the goat cheese. He fingered the coins in the belt at his waist. He would have to leave the fields in time to stop at a market on the way home tomorrow.
If only he could go to sleep and not awaken.
He swiped at unmanly tears, startled at a knock on his outer door. No one visited him. But his hesitant feet carried him to the door just the same. A slit in the wood showed two armed palace guards standing in his courtyard. A knot filled the space where his hunger had been. He opened the door a crack and peered out.
“Yes?”
“Are you Tendaji the Nubian?”
The knot doubled, and the muscles along his back tightened. He straightened, determined not to show his sudden fear. “I am Tendaji.”
“By order of Dabir, advisor to the king, you are commanded to come with us.”
This could not be good. But it would do no good to protest.
As he followed the guards, lights from the homes of his neighbors flickered in tall torches near the street, giving at least some illumination besides the moon to guide their way. The streets took many turns before the poor section gave way to the shops and homes of those in higher society. Houses set along the city wall were among the best protected—if a man could afford such a thing.
The Hall of Justice loomed ahead as they made yet another turn onto the King’s Highway. The palace sat above and behind it, its golden towers gleaming in torchlight.
“This way,” one of the guards said as he pointed to a hallway just inside the government building. The slap of leather against the tiles was the only sound, keeping time with the questions swirling in his head. Why did Dabir want such a meeting with him now?
At last they stopped before an ornate door that stood partway open. One of the guards knocked and poked his head in. “We have the Nubian, my lord.”
“Good. Good. Send him in.”
The guard stepped back and allowed Tendaji to pass him. He entered a brightly lit, paneled room, with one wall housing a window and another an expensive tapestry. A large table separated him from Dabir, who sat like a king on a raised dais behind it.
“Tendaji, my friend, come in. Sit.” He pointed to a stiff wooden chair placed before the wide table. Tendaji sat, sensing even more than seeing Dabir’s power. He noted the man’s multicolored robe with threads of gold interlaced in clear stripes down the sides. Except for the lack of a golden crown on his head, Dabir was the image of royalty. Tendaji mentally compared his threadbare clothing and had to force himself to sit tall, lest he give in completely to this obvious intimidation.
“What can I do for you, my lord?” He studied the man’s crossed arms and narrowed gaze. He seemed almost ill at ease, as though he did not trust Tendaji.
“It has come to my attention that you could use some financial aid. Rumor has it that your mother’s ill health, peace be upon her, drained your earnings. Am I correct?”
Tendaji stiffened, unsure why his financial business should matter at all to this man, but he went along with the conversation. “You are correct.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
He lowered his gaze. “Thank you, my lord.”
“She was all you had left in the world, am I also correct in this?” Dabir uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on the table.
Tendaji nodded. “Yes, my lord. My father passed on many years ago, and my wife died in childbirth after I returned from a rotation of duty.”
“You were in the king’s army then?”
“For a short time, yes.”
Dabir seemed to consider this, while Tendaji waited, hands clasped in his lap, studying the blunt edges of his nails.
“I have a job to offer you, Tendaji, if you will consider it. The pay is good, as long as you do your job well, and you will sleep in a home far nicer than the one you do now. Your meals will be provided, and you will no longer need to work the fields. Does this interest you?”
Tendaji looked up and raised a brow. “I am curious as to what you find in me that is worthy of such a duty, my lord.”
Dabir’s smile was subtle, as though he knew a secret no one else shared. “You are strong and loyal, Tendaji. Your loyalty to your mother speaks a great deal about your character. And you know how to use a weapon, if indeed you spent time in the king’s service.”
Tendaji nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“Then are you interested?”
“What is it that I would be doing, my lord?” He was highly interested, but not without knowing what pot of hot oil he was jumping into.
“You would be personal guard to my newest asset. Rahab.” Dabir’s gaze held his, unwavering. “You know of whom I speak, Tendaji?”
“The wife of Gamal?” Rahab was not a common enough name to be anyone else.
“The same. Since Gamal’s debt grew so large and came to such an unfortunate end, we were forced to sell him to Syrian traders. But his payment was not enough to cover his debt, so Rahab has entered into an agreement with us to pay it back.” Dabir’s look held challenge, a
nd Tendaji knew this was not a man to be crossed.
“Is Rahab’s life in danger then?”
“Let us just say that she provides a service that can bring about unsavory patrons. You must guard her against such men. And you must go with her wherever she goes. She is not even to go to market unescorted. We do not wish to see anything happen to her . . . or to you.”
Tendaji sensed the threat behind Dabir’s smooth smile. “I would keep her safe.” He had always liked Rahab. Though he did not like the implication of what this man was forcing her to do.
Dabir’s smile widened. “I thought you might see it that way. So then we have an agreement?”
Tendaji stood. “Yes, my lord. Just tell me what I need to do.”
Dabir remained seated but summoned the guards. “Take this man and see that he is fed and fitted with proper clothing. Then show him to the guest rooms on the palace grounds. I will take him to Rahab in the morning.”
11
Rahab stretched beneath fine linen covers, wanting to continue the dream, her thoughts languid. The poppy-laced tea she drank after her final guest had left and Tendaji had bolted the door behind him always left her mornings in a state of lethargy. But she didn’t care. Let her sleep the day away. It was better than facing herself in the silver mirror and continuing the lie.
Three months had nearly passed since Dabir had forced her into this life, and once Prince Nahid’s month had ended, more men than she could count clamored for an hour in her arms. She should have known the prince meant none of his grand promises to purchase her for himself, to free her from Dabir’s plans for her. Gone was his desire to sire an heir through her. He seemed content to use her and leave her to seek her own rescue. If indeed such a rescue could be found.
She tossed the pillow over her head, the dream a lost memory now. Unfortunate that she could not live night and day on the narcotic tea. If she could only forget . . . forget the lewd, vulgar, sometimes cruel men. Why had Prince Nahid ended his exclusive visits? Why throw her to the dogs of his court?
She pulled the covers to her neck and closed her eyes. Light slipped into the room around the edges of the shuttered windows, brightening the curtains that shrouded her bed.
Oh, for the chance to escape her life.
The door creaked open, and soft footfalls of a servant entered her room. The scraping of a tray against the wooden table told her that food awaited her. A moment later, the servant took the bronze urns to empty the night’s contents and shut the door without a word.
Rahab drew in a deep breath and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Despite the bath she always required before bed, she still felt stained, dirty in places no one could see. She placed shaky feet on the tiled floor, found her soft doeskin slippers, and emerged from beneath the curtains. A queasy feeling settled over her the moment she stood up. She grabbed the back of a chair and eased herself onto it, taking several deep breaths, waiting as she had for the past month or more for the feeling to pass. Had she become so disgusted with her life that each thought of it made her sick?
She gripped the edges of the chair and forced herself to stand. She had to be strong. Weak women never accomplished anything. Weak women never learned to control their circumstances.
She exhaled a breath she’d held too long, reminding herself everything was temporary. Eventually she would find a way to escape or earn enough to buy her freedom. As she had done with Gamal, she had quickly learned to do with Dabir, hiding silver beneath the floor. Dabir would not own her forever. Of that she was certain.
A knock at her door brought her thoughts up short. She walked toward it and opened it a crack.
“Mistress?” Tendaji stood at attention, his gaze not quite meeting hers. It occurred to her that he was the only man who had ever treated her with respect. She opened the door fully.
“Come in, Tendaji. I am dressed.” She stepped aside, but he stayed where he was and shook his head.
“I do not need to enter, mistress. I simply came to see if you needed my services. Can I get you anything from the market or the vendors?”
She looked at him until he met her gaze. Kindness filled his dark eyes. Regret over what she could not control washed over her. Gamal would still be here if he had not betrayed this man.
“Thank you, Tendaji, but I don’t think so. I am not feeling well today.”
“Shall I send for your sister?”
Rahab had not seen Cala in months. Such loss suddenly added to her queasiness. She nodded, too emotional to speak.
“I will hurry, mistress.” Tendaji turned and fairly ran from the house before she could respond.
The thought of his loyalty strangely comforted her . . . but a moment later, her stomach churned again and she barely reached the clay pot in time to empty its contents.
“You have all the signs of pregnancy, my sister.” Cala sat on the edge of one of Rahab’s elegant stuffed chairs a short time later, acting as though she feared Tzadok would appear in the room at any moment.
“He’s not going to find you here, Cala. And besides, Tendaji will warn me if anyone knocks on our door.”
Cala drew a breath. “He doesn’t allow me to come.” Her gaze skittered from Rahab’s face to look about the room again. “This all belongs to you?”
Rahab folded her hands in her lap, forcing back the bitter words she held for Cala’s ridiculous jealousy. “It belongs to Dabir. He allows me to use it.”
Cala nodded but did not meet Rahab’s gaze. “Mother and Adara send their love.”
Emotion swelled, and Rahab could not speak for a moment.
“Father won’t let them come to visit, though Adara has threatened to sneak away to spend time with you. I fear that child is much too curious.”
“She is not a child. She needs to wed.”
Cala did not argue the point. “Do you know who fathered your babe?”
Her babe. She had not thought of this sickness as a person. “I thought I was barren.” Even Dabir had said so when he suggested she visit the palace midwife for the silphium plant to be sure she stayed that way. But Rahab had refused, and somehow he had acquiesced. “This is not possible,” she said, reinforcing what she knew had to be true. “There must be another explanation. Could I be dying?”
“I seriously doubt that.” Cala came to kneel at her side and touched her knee. “Just because you never conceived with Gamal and Dabir does not mean the fault lay with you. Perhaps the problem was with them.”
“Men are never to blame.” The words came out harsh, like her life.
Cala nodded. “That is only their pride speaking. It is possible for a man to be the one whose seed will not take root in a woman.”
Rahab stared at her, unbelieving. And yet . . . could there truly be a babe growing within her? She met her sister’s concerned gaze. “If there is a child,” she said, “I do not know the father. I have been with too many men to count in the past three months. Prince Nahid came the most.” Even after his month had ended, he seemed taken with her. How often she had listened as he spoke of his wives, his children, even his fears of war. But he didn’t stay. He never stayed.
She looked down at her hands, twisting the fabric of her robe between sweaty palms.
“Will Dabir let you keep it?”
A servant knocked, then entered the room with steaming cups of mint tea.
“I don’t know,” Rahab said after the servant left again. She took a cup and blew on the steam, then set it on a low table beside her. “I don’t think he will be happy.”
Sympathy filled Cala’s expression. “But if the child is the prince’s? Did you not tell me he wanted an heir to come from you?”
Rahab shrugged, suddenly listless. “How could I prove such a thing? He wanted me when he thought I could be only his and give him more sons. But he has sons. Any child I would bear would mean nothing to him.”
Cala frowned, touching Rahab’s arm. “Surely the prince sees something in you he desires, Rahab. I cannot believe he woul
d cast you aside if you sought him out.” She slowly stood and took her place again in the chair opposite Rahab. “I would keep the baby for you, if Tzadok would let me.”
“He would never allow such a thing and you know it.”
Cala’s expression held sadness. “He is not as kind a man as I had hoped,” she said softly. She glanced about the room again, as though making sure they were still alone. “I think Dabir makes him feel powerless, and Tzadok likes to control.”
“All men seek control.” Rahab folded her hands in her lap, studying the patterns her servants had painstakingly created with orange and maroon henna.
“Not all men.”
Rahab looked up.
“Father does not grapple so hard to appear powerful. But we are all staggering under the weight of Dabir’s demands.”
Stunned, Rahab leaned into the chair, wishing it would swallow her. “He lied to me then.” What did she expect? “He has placed Gamal’s burden on all of you?”
Cala nodded. “Life has not been easy for any of us. Though I know you have suffered the most.”
“All the more reason Tzadok would never let you keep my child,” Rahab whispered. “He or she would be a constant reminder of the shame I have brought on you all.”
Cala’s silence followed. She did not contradict what they both knew was true. But Rahab could not shake the maternal instincts growing ever stronger within her. Suddenly she did not care who had fathered the life within her. She wanted this child. She needed him or her more than she had ever needed anyone in all of her life. Someone to love and to love her in return. Flesh of her flesh.
“I don’t know how I’m going to do it, Cala,” Rahab whispered, “but I need to keep my baby.”
Cala smiled. “I will do anything I can to help you.”
“I know you will.”
But after Cala returned home an hour later, Rahab knew this was something she would have to work out alone.
Rahab paced her sitting room two months later, her heart racing, her nerves frayed. She had waited as long as she could, her condition confirmed by her mother and the local midwife. A condition she could not keep secret any longer. Even now her belly had begun to fatten, and Dabir had mentioned it the week earlier, suggesting she was indulging in too many delicacies. Kifah had immediately begun to ration her portions, which proved challenging as her appetite grew more and more ravenous.
Crimson Cord : Rahab's Story (9781441221155) Page 9