Alexa stood over the fire, stirring another pot of what he knew would be tasteless lentils. Not that he would complain—any food was better than nothing—but Alexa’s cooking skills were limited to lentils flavored with dirty water, and dirty water flavored with lentils.
Alexa’s other skills, though, were impressive. She could make him break out in a cold sweat with just one look of her kohl-rimmed eyes. Then his chill would be replaced by heat as she served him his meal, brushing her body against his so often that it couldn’t be an accident. He was strong—he’d learned that as he lifted boulders the size of a man—but his strength was nothing compared to what she could do with one glance.
He felt her watching him now as he bent over a shallow barrel of rainwater. Reflected back at him was the face of a wild man. His hair hung over his shoulders and halfway down his back in thick hanks. A tangled beard clung to his neck. Even his brows were wild and unruly over eyes bruised with the shadows of sleepless nights—nights spent wondering who he was and trying not to think of the woman asleep just steps away from his rooftop bed. He scooped up water and was glad for the shock of cold on his face.
If only Alexa would avoid him like everyone else in Gerasene. The few times he’d gone into the village, women had run for their homes and the men had shouted threats. They knew who he was—what he was—and they were afraid. When he saw his reflection, he could hardly blame them.
He didn’t look at Alexa as he lowered himself onto a bench, but his body warmed from more than the feeble fire crackling and snapping before him.
Alexa sauntered toward him with a bowl of water and bent to untie his sandals. “Doesn’t a good woman wash her brother’s feet when he comes home?” she murmured in a low purr.
He didn’t feel like her brother, and she didn’t act like a sister. “Where’s Nikius?” he asked, his voice breaking.
“Gone. Who knows how long?”
Isa gripped the edge of the bench, the wood biting into the palms of his hands as Alexa smoothed water over his feet, then caressed them dry with the hem of her tunic.
He let out his breath as she finished and tried to stand.
She pushed him down again. “Nothing to say, my quiet Hercules?”
What could he say when he could barely think? He shook his head.
She leaned closer. “Let me cut your hair.”
His hand went to his shaggy head. She’d asked before to take scissors to the long mane of hair, and he’d refused. The less she touched him, the better. “No.”
She lifted her hand and ran a finger over one of his brows, smoothing it into place.
The touch of her fingertip on his brow sparked through him like lightning. Not from her caress but the shadowy memory it brought forth. A remembered joy, sweet and intimate. A face, dear to him.
Then it was gone. Only Alexa’s face was before him, her red lips drawn into a half smile, her brows arched in question. Who had he seen in that jolt of memory? If he could only get away from Alexa, perhaps he could remember.
But she had lowered herself into his lap, pinning him to the bench. She smoothed her palms over his temples and through his hair. The shadow of memory disappeared, replaced by the warmth of her body, the weight of her on his lap.
Alexa leaned against him, lifting her face to his.
His stomach turned at her cloying scent of sandalwood and smoke. His muscles tensed. How could he get away from her? He didn’t want to hurt her. Her face came close to his, and her hand slipped up his chest. His heartbeat quickened, and his thoughts scattered as she leaned closer.
At the creak of the courtyard door and the crash of broken pottery he jerked back. Nikius stood in the doorway, a broken wine amphora at his feet, his brows raised in surprise.
Shame flooded through Isa as he realized what Nikius saw. Alexa straddling his legs, her tunic hiked above her knees, her hand curled around his neck. Isa opened his mouth, but no words loosed his tongue. What could he say? This was how he repaid the old man’s kindness? He deserved the beating Nikius had saved him from.
But Nikius approached the fire without even a scowl, leaving the broken amphora in the dirt. “Get us some food, girl,” he ordered, settling on the stool next to Isa.
Alexa rose slowly, her eyes on her father but no shame on her face. When she’d brought them each a bowl of lentils, Nikius cleared his throat and jerked his head at her. “Leave us.”
Alexa smirked and sauntered into the house.
They ate in silence. When they’d both scraped the bottom of their bowls with the last hunks of dry bread, Nikius stood. Isa looked into the fire, readying himself for a blow, a beating, some punishment. But Nikius disappeared into the chaos of the courtyard, returning a moment later with two chipped cups. “Take this.”
Isa accepted the cup filled to the brim with dark wine.
Nikius sat and took a long drink. “So. She finally got you, like a spider in her web.” He smacked his lips. “That’s my girl.” His face twisted into a grimace.
Isa froze, the cup halfway to his lips. Nikius knew how his daughter had tormented him for a week?
Nikius looked into his wine, as if it held his own memories. “Her mother was much the same. Couldn’t resist her. Then she ran off with a perfume peddler when Alexa was but a baby.” He shook his head. “Don’t much know what to do with a daughter.”
Isa took a deep drink. The wine was heavy and cloying, sweetened with honey and scented with rose. It did not quench his thirst but overwhelmed his senses and made him wish for a drink of cold water.
Nikius’s brows came together like two gray caterpillars as he gazed at Isa. “You don’t say a lot, but you’re a hard worker. And I could use another man around here.”
Isa took another sip of his wine. Was Nikius asking him to stay? The thought both warmed and frightened him.
Nikius drained his cup and smacked his lips. “I don’t hold much for marriage. Didn’t work for me.” He wiped his hand across his mouth. “But if I find my daughter in your bed one of these mornings, consider yourself her husband, and I’ll be glad to consider you my son.”
Isa’s heart jolted, but not at the thought of Alexa slipping into his bed during the cold night. Nikius was offering him a home. He could stay here and make a life, have a family. He wouldn’t be alone. All he needed to do was give in to Alexa’s temptation.
Or he could leave here—alone, not knowing where to go. Was someone really waiting for him, or had that been another torture sent by the demons? Had the flash of memory at Alexa’s touch been real or a trick of his lonely heart?
When dusk finally darkened the sky, Isa climbed the ladder to the roof of the house. He felt Alexa watching him, her gaze like a silken cloth brushing over his body. He fell on his sleeping mat, dragging his borrowed cloak over his shoulders to ward off the chill of the night. Sleep pulled at his worried mind. Tomorrow he’d decide what to do.
Moments—or perhaps hours—later warmth roused him, but his tired eyes stayed sealed. The air was cold on his face, so why did he feel like the sun heated his body? A form—warm and soft—pressed against him, hollows and curves fitting to his own. The scent of sandalwood tickled his nose.
A languorous heat curled through him. Hands slipped around his neck, and fingers threaded into his hair. His sluggish mind struggled to understand even as his pulse quickened.
He pulled his eyes open. Stars burned in the sky above, and moonlight reflected off Alexa’s onyx eyes. Her face was close to his, her lips parted. The cloak slipped, revealing smooth skin above her loosened tunic.
Her lips pressed hungrily on his mouth. The taste of honeyed wine, the scent of her hair, the softness of her lips and body, overwhelmed his senses. But something clamored at the edge of his dulled mind.
This is wrong.
He jerked away. The woman in his arms . . . she shouldn’t taste of wine, but of apricots. And her touch was sure and bold when it should be innocent and uncertain. The face before him—sly and knowing—was not the
face he held dear. His heart constricted at a memory that was so sharp, so clear, he knew it had to be true.
He rolled away, struggled to stand, and staggered to the edge of the roof. He gulped deep breaths of night air as memories unfolded before him. Memories of a laughing girl with skin like polished bronze. A girl who smelled of cinnamon and fresh bread. The girl who was his only friend, his only family.
The woman he loved . . . and her name was Martha.
Chapter Twenty-Four
She enjoys the success of her dealings; at night her lamp is undimmed.
—Proverbs 31:18
AS THE SUN reached its zenith, Martha stood before the imposing door to Simon’s courtyard, her pulse racing and her hands damp. Penina stood close behind her, and Martha thanked the Most High for her presence.
Simon himself opened the door. He clasped and unclasped his hands in front of his body as he greeted her. “Peace be with you, and peace to your house.” He’d changed his clothes in the short time since he left her home. He wore a dull brown linen tunic and a wide belt of leather adorned with silver. Martha caught the strong whiff of myrrh from his freshly anointed hair and combed beard. Why did it have to be myrrh, the smell that would forever remind her of Abba’s death?
Martha answered, “And may the Lord, Our Righteousness, bless you.”
“I hope you will find my home to your liking and that all your needs are met. Please”—a silver signet ring flashed on his finger as he motioned her inside—“all that I have is yours.”
Martha’s face heated at his words. With his eyes locked on hers, he seemed to mean more than he said. She cleared her throat. “You honor me with your trust.”
“Follow me, Martha,” Simon commanded. He didn’t acknowledge Penina any more than he acknowledged the ebony-skinned slave that hastened out of his path. He led them into the house. Micah, the old steward, and the two guards lounged in the shade beside the house. A wisp of a woman, one of Simon’s servants who Martha knew from the marketplace, slipped along the wall. Martha nodded to her and received a thin smile in return. Were they wondering why she was here or glad Jael wouldn’t be the one giving orders today?
Martha followed Simon into a wide hall. His home was bigger than she’d imagined and filled with beautiful and costly items. Jewel-toned carpets cushioned the stone floors, and chests of cedar strapped with iron sat against the walls.
They passed a room with a tall table strewn with parchments and wax tablets. Through the next doorway, she glimpsed a large bed, its thick mattress stuffed with straw and covered with heavy wool blankets. Simon glanced back and caught her eye.
She looked at her feet, her face burning. What was he thinking? That she was imagining their wedding night? She glimpsed a dining table and couches through the next doorway. A bronze brazier stood in one corner, and oil lamps were set on the walls, ready to be lit when the sun went down. There was room enough for at least twenty guests. Simon had not exaggerated his wealth to her brother.
Simon stopped in front of the next doorway. “I hope that you will find all you need. My servants are ready to do your bidding, and if you need anything—anything at all—you have only to ask, and it will be obtained.” He flourished his hand toward the room.
Martha stepped into Simon’s storeroom, and her mouth fell open. It was twice the size of hers and stocked from floor to ceiling with food, spices, and cooking utensils. It was paradise.
Grain jars lined one whole wall, symbols carved on them for wheat, spelt, and millet. Ropes of fat garlic and papery-skinned onions filled another wall, along with baskets of dried figs, apricots, and pressed cakes of dates. Dried herbs—myrtle, mint, and feathery dill—hung from the ceiling. Bowls of mustard seeds, every color from pale yellow to deep brown, lined another shelf.
A neat line of small jars caught her eye, each with the name of an exotic spice scratched into the clay—saffron and cinnamon, anise, coriander and cumin, as well as some she didn’t recognize. She chose one, pulled out the carved wooden stopper, and sniffed. Its pungent aroma tickled her nose, and when she cracked a hard, black kernel between her teeth it seared her tongue, hotter than cumin seeds. She glanced at Simon.
A smile curled his heavy lips. “Pepper, from the eastern caravans.”
Pepper. It was so costly, people said that even Herod locked his pepper up with his gold. She put it carefully back on the shelf and wiped a hand across her damp brow, glancing back at Penina.
Her friend’s eyes stretched wide, and she raised her brows at Martha. If she married Simon, this would be her domain, Penina’s look said. Hers and Jael’s.
Martha fixed an expression of respect on her face. “I look forward to serving you. If you will allow me, I will begin preparations.”
Simon nodded and brought her back to the courtyard. A short man with a patch over one eye tended a lamb roasting on a spit. The thin woman bent over a hand mill, already grinding the wheat. Two slaves, a girl and boy who must be related, stood by waiting for instructions. What to do first?
Simon still stood beside her, twisting his hands. “Please, let me know if you need anything else.”
How many times must he say that, and when would he leave her to her work? “I have all I need, Simon.”
He leveled his wide eyes on her. “I look forward to this evening. With you in my home, I know I can expect nothing less than perfection for my guests.” With that, he turned abruptly and disappeared into the house.
• • •
HOURS LATER, THE feast was almost ready, and Martha felt as frayed as a ten-year-old cloak.
She sent the brother and sister from Egypt to ready the dining room. As they’d worked, she’d coaxed their story from them. Poor children, they’d been under Jael’s thumb for just a year but already were counting the days until their seven years were done.
Laman, the old man with the patch, kept his one eye on the lamb and sang to them in a surprisingly good voice. The thin woman had eventually spoken a few words when she realized that Martha wasn’t like her mistress. She’d even smiled when Martha had given her a few tidbits of lamb to share with Laman.
Simon had come out of the house several times, his arms crossed in front of his chest, watching her work. She swiped a hand over her brow. If only she could get away—go home, or to the orchard, anywhere but under Simon’s gaze—for just an hour before Jesus came for the feast. But she still had too much to do.
Penina poured a jar of heated wine over a deep bowl of dried figs, apricots, and plums. Martha spooned on dark honey and stirred, breathing in the sweet, heady scent. This would be a fitting end to her perfect meal.
Penina sniffed. She hadn’t said a word—in her way—since Simon had guessed Lazarus’s intention to follow Jesus. But her face was drawn, and now her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Martha covered Penina’s hands with her own. She glanced around the courtyard, but no one was close enough to hear her. “Tell him.” Maybe if he knew how Penina felt, he’d stay.
Penina shook her head, and her mouth firmed.
Couldn’t her brother see what he was leaving behind? A woman who loved him. And for what? Jesus was family, yes, but he also might get Lazarus killed. “Then let me tell him.”
Penina grabbed her by the shoulders. She stared with fierce eyes at Martha and shook her head. She made the sign for Jesus and then put her hand over her heart.
Martha understood. “He loves Jesus, I know.” We all do. But that doesn’t mean he needs to follow him into danger.
Penina pointed to herself and shook her head.
Martha felt tears prick her eyes for her friend. “He does love you.” He just couldn’t see it yet. Penina blinked and turned away. She wouldn’t make him choose between her and his Messiah. They both knew whom he’d choose, and it would break Penina’s heart.
Martha stirred the fruits, the scent of wine and honey closing her throat. She couldn’t do it either. She couldn’t deny her brother his greatest wish—to follow the man he believed was the Messi
ah. It was her fault Lazarus worked from sunrise to dusk on a failing farm instead of studying with the doctors of the law as he had always wanted. Only she could give Lazarus his freedom.
Martha blinked back tears. She must marry Simon.
She turned back to the courtyard and her tasks. There could be no mistakes tonight; everything must be perfect. She would show Simon what a good wife she would be. Tomorrow, when the first light colored the sky, she’d tell Simon about Zakai. She’d just have to hope and pray Simon would be as forgiving as Lazarus believed. And then pray that Jesus wouldn’t lead Lazarus to his death.
Chapter Twenty-Five
She reaches out her hands to the poor, and extends her arms to the needy.
—Proverbs 31:20
MARTHA WATCHED PENINA ladle the lamb—so tender it fell from the bone—onto a platter. She stacked hot rounds of bread on another, anxiety twisting through her empty stomach. It was a feast fit for King Herod. A Purim celebration that even Abba would approve of—rich food, fine wine, everything.
Simon would be pleased. He must be pleased. Please, Lord, let him see what a good wife I will be.
She hastened to the house. Jesus had arrived with his disciples, but there had been no joyous greeting, no embraces as when he dined at her home. Simon had greeted Jesus correctly, but his mouth turned down in a disapproving frown as he surveyed the band of poorly dressed Galileans.
She peeked into the dining room. Simon reclined on the center couch, Jesus on his left side and Lazarus on his right. Even from here, she could see Lazarus looked pale. Was he as worried as she was about tonight? He should be.
On Lazarus’s other side sat two men from Bethany. The husband of Devorah, Abel—a rotund man with hands covered in flashing rings—was a city judge and a Pharisee. Tobias, the olive grower and also a Pharisee, watched Jesus with critical eyes. Farther down the table the disciples reclined with their wine cups, already abiding by the dictate to drink well. When Matthew, the tax collector Jesus kept in his company, laughed loudly at something Peter said, Abel’s face looked like he had eaten a bad olive.
Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136) Page 14