Someone put a hand on my arm, and in my shock at being touched I jerked sideways with a cry, dropping the pitcher to the ground. The vessel shattered, spraying dark red juice all over my feet and flooding the gaps between the stones like rivulets of blood. With a gasp, I dropped to my knees to snatch up the shards of the pitcher.
Long fingers reached down to grip my wrists, stopping my frantic efforts to clean up the disaster I’d created. I flinched, pulling away and dropping my chin. Would they punish Prezi too for my mistake?
The hands, which I realized belonged to a woman, again wrapped around my wrists. She spoke to me in words I could not understand, but the tone of her voice was unmistakably gentle. In shock, I lifted my eyes to meet those of Darek’s head wife.
With long black hair that gleamed in the sunlight and eyes the color of rain clouds reflecting on the sea, the woman looked like the Egyptians who had once landed on our shore, eager to trade beads of glass and a blue stone they called lapis. The scar on her cheek looked to be old, faded from time, but the rippled cultic pattern was still a stark contrast to the smooth golden hue of her skin.
She tugged at me, indicating I should stand, and I obeyed, head down again, remembering the way my father had flogged any slave who dared look him in the eye. I would submit, difficult as it was, for Prezi’s sake.
The woman removed her hands from my wrists, but then placed a finger beneath my chin to lift my face until my confused gaze locked with hers. She spoke again, a question in her tone. With astounding gentleness, she unrolled my fingers and removed the pieces of pottery I’d been gripping in my palms. She dropped them to the ground, as if she cared nothing for the broken pitcher.
One of the jagged shards had left a small cut on my palm, and she surveyed the damage with furrowed black brows, pulled a small linen towel from her belt, and blotted the blood that had dripped down my wrist before tucking the cloth inside my palm and indicating that I should squeeze my fingers around it until the flow subsided.
She spoke again and then led me to the end of the table, indicating that I should sit down on one of the cushions. Astonished, I obeyed.
Then, to add to my confusion, she began to serve me. After filling a bowl with a thick barley porridge and then a layer of mashed dates, she handed me a wooden spoon and a round of warm, pillowy flatbread. Lifting her gaze, she pointed to the door of the room where Prezi was and asked another incomprehensible question, to which I could only reply with a perplexed shrug.
Offering me an assuring smile that contradicted the wicked scar on her cheek, the woman filled another clay bowl with porridge and headed toward our room. After her strange behavior toward me, the only explanation I could land upon was that she was going to feed my bedridden cousin.
Impossible.
Why would this woman, who was obviously Darek’s favored wife and an honored priestess, serve a slave? Bewildered, I kept my eyes on the bowl I’d been given, even as the chatter around the table resumed.
Who were these people?
CHAPTER
NINE
Eitan
Whether I would make any progress on this knife today was heavily in doubt. Everything hurt. I scraped the rasping stone over the flat of the blade, from tang to tip, arm muscles screaming with the effort, lower back aching as I bent over the anvil.
I’d labored as the town’s only metalsmith over the past two years, after my mentor, Yalon, passed from this life to the next, so my body was in no way soft. But Baz had ushered me out of the gates of Kedesh before the sun rose and forced me to run around the city so many times I’d lost count. He’d thrown off training for torture.
But I would not complain. Even when he’d made me carry a large rock above my head on the last two times around. I was too grateful that he would take the time to teach me what he’d learned while spying among our enemies. It would take much to prove my worth to Darek, but I was determined to work harder than any other trainee until he acquiesced and allowed me to serve alongside his men.
Three more passes with the stone rasp and I was forced to stop. A hiss escaped my lips as I kneaded the back of my arm.
Turning his attention from the mallet handle he was whittling from oak, Nadir looked over his shoulder. “Trouble?”
“Nothing my agonized death at Baz’s hand won’t accomplish.” I switched to massaging the other abused arm.
Nadir laughed, pointing the half-formed wooden handle at me. “You asked for it. Did you not?”
“I did. And I’ll ask for it again tomorrow.” Ignoring his incredulous stare and my body’s protests, I picked up the rasp again and resumed my work. After the loss of that knife a few weeks ago, I had to push through the pain in order to finish the final two before Darek and Baz were sent on another mission for Yehoshua. Hopefully one of their last without me.
Regaining my rhythm with the stone, I worked to remove the burrs left on the edge of the blade from seepage around the mold. Nadir and I slipped into companionable silence as we worked, and my mind began wandering back toward the inn, wondering whether a certain blue-eyed woman was settling into her new home. Lost in thought when someone called out my name from behind, I startled and nearly dropped the knife.
I turned toward the exuberant greeting and unsurprisingly Yoram stood nearby, waving his square palm at me, a brilliant smile on his wide face. “Eitan! Ima say I can watch you!”
Although Yoram was a few years older than me, his mind seemed to be more on the level of eight-year-old Malakhi’s. Along with his elongated chin, his overly broad forehead, and the widened stance of his short-statured body, Yoram’s speech was affected, as if his tongue was too large for his mouth. But there were few people in Kedesh I liked more.
I returned his smile. “Of course you can, Yoram. In fact, I saved a job for you.”
He placed both hands over his mouth, his small brown eyes sparkling with pleasure. He spoke through his fingers. “You did?”
“Indeed.” I set aside the knife and gestured for him to enter the foundry. “Nadir has been carving handles for me, but I am counting on you to polish them for me.”
A shadow of confusion passed over Nadir’s features. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he murmured.
“Of course!” I clapped a palm down on Yoram’s wide shoulder. “This man is the very best finisher I know. When given an assignment, he will not stop until it is completed.”
Yoram beamed beneath my praise. It was not idle flattery either. When he’d begun appearing at the foundry a few years ago, I’d given him a nonessential job or two just to appease him, not expecting him to stay focused on the task. But he’d surprised me time and again by applying himself to jobs with relish and following my directions with extraordinary precision. I still didn’t quite feel safe letting him near the forge while it was searing hot and, like I’d done with Malakhi, I instituted a boundary line, but on days when Yoram appeared, eager to please, I welcomed his help. It had been a few weeks since he’d come around, having been busy aiding his elderly father and mother, but I always welcomed his animated chatter and persistently joyful nature.
I showed Yoram the knife handles I’d laid out on the workbench for him, reminded him of the best way to oil the wood so it’d stay resistant to water, and left him to his task, completely confident he’d follow my instructions to the last detail.
Although Nadir turned back to his own work, the low hum he released as he did so was tainted by disapproval. However, I believed that once Nadir worked with Yoram a few times, he’d come to see that, in spite of the differences in his appearance, there was innate goodness within his compact body.
Yoram jabbered away as he dipped the linen cloth into the pot of flax oil again and again, describing his wanderings through the marketplace this morning as I’d suffered beneath Baz’s training regimen. I chuckled as he described an encounter he’d had with Huleh, the woman who sold eggs at the center of the marketplace. Three of her prized geese had escaped the cage she’d placed atop her sta
ll table, and after attempting to corral the happily liberated birds herself, Huleh had begged Yoram to retrieve them. Around stalls and under tables he chased them, upsetting a few other traders hawking their wares in the market. “I catch every one.” Yoram grinned so wide every one of his gapped teeth showed. “Huleh give me six eggs! Ima happy!”
“I’ll bet she was,” my mother said as she approached the foundry entrance, Sofea trailing in her wake, with a jug in her arms. “I’d be all too grateful if Eitan brought home eggs from Huleh. That gaggle of hers is famous for laying double yolks. No wonder she was in a state.”
Yoram dropped the stained linen cloth he’d been using and ran to embrace my mother. She kissed him on the head as if he were one of her well-loved children. “Don’t let me interrupt your work,” she said, nudging Yoram back toward his workbench. “I simply heard three rumbling bellies all the way from the inn and was compelled to bring food to head off the threat of an earthquake.”
“Thank you, Ima. Baz’s idea of training seems to include starvation, as the barley porridge from this morning is only a delicious memory.” I wiped my hands on my tunic and she eyed them with a frown. “No soot this time,” I said with a grin, but I obeyed her silent command and headed for a pot of fresh water and a clean towel.
Nadir thanked my mother for her generosity and then greeted Sofea. The young woman said nothing, but blue eyes flicked from Nadir to me and back to my mother as she hung back just beyond the shadow of the eaves. A pinch formed between her brows, as if she were desperate to understand but was wary of stepping foot inside, even though the foundry was merely three hip-high stone walls and four oak corner posts to hold the roof aloft.
She turned to cast a slow survey over the bustling marketplace, her long, unfettered curls twisting in the breeze, shimmering in spirals across her face and lips. She smoothed them away and pulled the bulk of her hair to one side, letting the fall of golden brown cascade over her shoulder. My attempt to avoid staring failed miserably.
A few girls had caught my eye over the past couple of years, and lately I’d even considered being more intentional in pursuit of one in particular, but no woman had ever drawn me like this one. Even standing still she seemed to be fluid, and her striking blue eyes, silken sun-bronzed skin, and perfect rose-colored lips combined together to set her apart from any Hebrew woman. But even more than her foreign beauty was the loyalty she’d exhibited that first night, her fierce expression making it clear to all of us that she’d gladly give her life for Prezi. Her eyes roved over the milling crowd in curiosity, as if our mundane marketplace were some strange wonder to behold.
Had she never seen a city like this? Kedesh was small by most measures, but every year more stalls joined the market and more foreign traders were drawn here, where a large portion of the inhabitants were barred from leaving the city and therefore were desperate for news and goods from outside the walls.
My mother gave Nadir, Yoram, and me each a linen-wrapped package from the basket she carried. I sat on a stool in the corner of the foundry and leaned back against the low stone wall before unwrapping the offering—a green apple, a large chunk of crumbly goat cheese, a handful of olives, and oven-warm bread.
My mother then handed each of us a clay cup from her basket and after taking the spouted jug from Sofea, who’d been holding it close to her body as if fearful of dropping it, poured us all a serving of barley beer.
“She thought she was a slave,” Ima said as she pressed the stopper back into place and set the pitcher on my workbench.
“Why would she think that?” I glanced at Sofea, who still stood watching the traders hawking their wares and the melee of wagons, animals, and people in the street with open awe. She flinched when two pipers struck up a merry tune nearby and a group of three older children began clapping and singing along.
“Considering Darek found them on that beach half-drowned, then brought them here without the ability to explain what was happening, it must have been a perfectly natural explanation in their minds.”
I hummed agreement as I took a drink of the beer, then swiped the back of my hand across my lips and asked my mother in a low tone how she’d figured out Sofea’s assumption. It was unsettling to talk about Sofea when she was well within earshot, whether she understood our conversation or not.
My mother seemed to feel the same way. She turned her back, blocking my view of the young woman as she spoke. “When she appeared in the courtyard this morning, she took it upon herself to fill everyone’s cups with pomegranate juice.”
“She wasn’t just being helpful?”
“It wasn’t the act of pouring juice that was concerning. She refused to look anyone in the eye, and practically hit the clouds when I touched her arm. Then, when she accidentally dropped the pitcher, she acted as though I would beat her.” Tears sparkled in my mother’s eyes. “Poor girl. I wish I knew what happened to her. . . . And even worse, Prezi refuses to move from the bed. She only stares at the wall, wouldn’t even touch the porridge I brought her. Something truly awful happened to them.”
My mother lifted her eyes and was silent for a while, her palm laid over her heart. I held my tongue, familiar with the far-off expression on her face. Then, with certainty in her every word, she said, “Yahweh brought them here, Eitan. He brought them here to heal. To be lifted from the depths.”
I did not respond to the declaration. I’d long understood that these confident pronouncements from my mother’s lips came from deep within, a reflection of her soul connection to Yahweh. My stomach wrenched as my gaze moved over the shadows beneath Sofea’s eyes and the perpetual downturn of her full mouth. She may not be nearly as broken as Prezi, but it was clear that grief clung to her bones. What horrors had this lovely woman endured? And how long would it be before I could coax a smile from those beautiful lips?
Suddenly, her head jerked, gaze pinned on something down the street, her lips parted in surprise or confusion. Then, before any of us could react, she ran, curls floating behind her like a wave.
After a shocked glance at my mother, I bolted out of the foundry and followed as Sofea dodged carts, people, and even a large white dog on her frenzied path through the marketplace. My first thought was that she’d been attempting to flee, yet she was not heading toward the gates, but farther into Kedesh. She moved toward a stall, one that sold dyes and perfumes. A woman stood in front of the table and Sofea approached her, both hands stretched out. I skidded to a halt, overused thigh muscles aching, stunned by Sofea’s strange behavior.
The woman’s brown eyes were large and round as she faced Sofea. I’d seen this same tradeswoman a few times, both this year and last, at times with an elderly man who I guessed to be her husband, or master. Her bright red hair stood out among the dark-headed people in the market, and her painted lips and clinging dresses did much to entice customers to her stall. Although I did not know her name, I’d heard the dyes she offered were imported from Tyre, the bustling seaport my father had just visited—the city where Sofea had been found.
The two were speaking to each other in another language. Words overlapping, they gestured with their hands. Nearly bursting with curiosity, I stepped closer, moving to where Sofea would see me, but not wanting to intrude on their animated conversation.
After a quick glance toward me, Sofea spoke to the woman again, her smooth voice stringing a long line of words together, like a necklace of finely polished gemstones. It didn’t even matter that I could not understand the words, if only she would continue talking in that lilting tone with those captivating lips.
The tradeswoman turned to me, dipping her head in greeting. “Shalom. I am Kitane. I come from a land far to the north and across the Great Sea. This young woman says I speak a language similar to hers. She heard me chastising my little son.” She pointed to a small boy whose big brown eyes peered at us from over the table. “I tend to speak my own tongue when I am angry. Loudly.” She waggled her finger at the boy with a wry laugh. “Lozano knows my l
anguage well.”
“Does this mean . . . ?” I marveled at the coincidence. “Would you translate something to Sofea for me?”
Kitane shrugged. “As long as my husband does not return while you are here and no customers stop by.”
A thousand questions vied for supremacy. I was desperate to know everything about Sofea, to discover where she came from, to understand what sort of ordeal had landed her on that beach, to know why her blue eyes held such sorrow, but somehow I came up with only one thing to say.
“Please—tell her she is not our slave.”
CHAPTER
TEN
Sofea
Not a slave.
The man whose name I now knew was Eitan had been adamant on that point. His family did not consider Prezi and me slaves, but only guests in their family inn. The relief was overwhelming. My knees trembled as Kitane continued to translate his words to me, telling me that Moriyah, Darek’s wife, was his mother and how concerned they all were for Prezi.
No wonder Moriyah had seemed so shocked by the catastrophe with the juice this morning. She’d been trying to help me and I’d acted as though she were no better than Seno or Porote.
Although I did not understand his words, Eitan gestured widely, his voice animated and his smile reassuring. He kept his hazel-eyed gaze on me as he spoke, instead of Kitane, as if he were speaking directly to me. The intimacy of the gesture provoked an uneasy feeling in my belly, so I took a step backward and again shifted my gaze to Kitane.
“He says that you and Prezi are welcome to stay as long as you like,” said the tradeswoman with an inquisitive tilt of her head. “He would like to know where you come from and how you came to be on the beach where Darek found you.”
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