by Angela Hunt
“No matter,” the house woman said. “Tell the master you are ten and make him happy. That is the most important thing.”
I did not understand what she meant, but the second woman took my arm and led me away. She released me once we reached the courtyard. “I am Gaia,” she said, glancing at me as we walked, “and I am the mistress’s handmaid.”
“What does the mistress—?”
“We have no time for questions.” Gaia walked me through the courtyard and stopped at the stone trough where the servants watered the livestock. Without warning she ripped off my tunic and bade me step into the murky water.
I squealed as the cold liquid touched the scabs on my back.
“Hush, girl. Don’t act like a child.” Gaia pulled a rough sponge from her skirt. “Now you must be still and let me scrub you. If you want to improve your lot in this house, you’ll need to be clean and presentable. You will also have to tame that tongue of yours.”
I bit my lower lip and remained as upright as possible as she ran the sponge over my neck, back, and trembling limbs. Then she dipped a linen square into the cold water and brought it up to wipe my face and chest.
“Your hands,” she said. “Let me see your nails.”
I thrust out my arms, displaying pudgy fingers and cracked, gnawed fingertips. I had no fingernails to speak of, for as soon as they showed even a bit of white, I peeled off the papery growth.
Gaia frowned as she studied my hands, then sighed. “You had better take better care of yourself, but whatever you do, keep your nails clean. The Jews are always washing their hands.”
She gestured for me to step out of the trough, so I did. She grabbed a horse blanket from a rail and wrapped it around me. “Come,” she said, turning toward the house. “We will get you a new tunic and take you to see the master. Then you will understand how your life is about to change.”
I had never been inside the master’s house. Though a slave should keep her eyes downcast when walking, I lifted my head and stared as Gaia led me through the tall columns at the building’s entrance. The cool and colorful floor tile cooled my bare feet, and golden accents on the column delighted my senses. Bright bits of glass formed an intricate floor design in the center of the entry, and in the hallway beyond, servants in flowing tunics moved soundlessly through the space, their sandal-clad feet gliding over the amazingly beautiful designs.
“Come, girl, and don’t gape.” The sharp edge in Gaia’s tone spurred my feet to walk faster. I followed her down a long corridor that led to an open room at the side of the house. The fragrance of fresh flowers perfumed the air, and servants wielded fans to keep the scented air moving. Yet the beauty of the room went far beyond floral arrangements. I also saw two lovely ladies, whom I assumed to be my master’s wife and her friend or relative. They were talking to a tall man, who wore a simple linen tunic. He had to be John Hyrcanus, the Jews’ high priest and a man of great authority.
Gaia approached the trio and bowed. “Master. If I may—”
“What is it, Gaia?” the first lady interrupted.
Gaia rose and addressed her mistress. “I found this girl among your servants. Will she be acceptable for the master’s purpose?”
The tall man looked at me, and so stunned was I by the power in his gaze that I forgot my place and stared. John Hyrcanus was a good-sized man, thick through the body and shoulder, with black hair spilling onto his forehead above an even blacker beard. A blunt nose dominated his face, and behind it, two dark eyes raked over me in an appraising glance.
“She’ll have to learn proper manners,” he said, lifting a brow.
Gaia turned and gave me a sharp look, which reminded me where and who I was. I fell to the floor and pressed my forehead to the polished tiles.
“Humph,” the master replied. “Age?”
“Ten,” Gaia answered. “But who can know for certain?”
“From which miserable corner of the world did she come?”
“Egypt, I believe.”
“Egypt.” He repeated the word in a thoughtful voice, then sighed. “How fitting that the country who once enslaved the children of Jacob now sends slaves to us.”
“Whenever a child is sold as a slave,” Gaia said, a slight tremor in her voice, “it is almost always because the parents are too poor to support them.”
I felt a rush of heat fill my face, but I dared not look up to see how—or if—her words affected the master.
“How did this one come to Jerusalem? And have her stand—I can see nothing of her while she’s on the floor.”
Gaia turned to me. “Rise, child.”
The high priest’s voice had sent a shiver up my back, but I managed to stand erect and keep my head down.
“I heard she was purchased from a traveling trader,” Gaia said. “The cook wanted a child to help her.”
“Does the cook still want a helper?”
“Yes, but not this one. Apparently this girl is not skilled enough for the kitchen.” Gaia gave a wavering smile. “You can speak directly to her, if you wish. She speaks Aramaic and a little Greek.”
I spoke a little Hebrew too, and my native tongue, but I did not want to appear immodest.
“Girl,” the master said, his sharp eyes locking on mine, “are you well behaved or will we have to beat you?”
The shiver traveled up my back and neck again. “I do not like beatings, sir.”
“So you will do your best to avoid them?”
“I will.”
“Good.” A brief smile flashed in his beard. “In a few days I will be giving you to a young relative who is coming to live with us. She is younger than you, and you will be her handmaid for as long as she requires your service. You will obey her in all things, do you understand?”
I stared in amazement. The situation he described sounded a hundred times better than my present position, though anything would be better than washing vegetables, sweeping ashes from the hearth, and being continually scolded. The cook did not like me, but—a girl! A young girl and I could be friends.
A tiny kernel of happiness took root within me, one that could very well replace the anger that had smoldered there ever since leaving Egypt.
“Thank you, master.” I couldn’t stop a smile from flooding my face. “Thank you so very much.”
My master turned to Gaia. “See if you can teach her some of the things a handmaid is expected to know. She has only a few days to learn.”
“Yes, master.” Gaia bowed, then turned and escorted me away. And in her sidelong look of appraisal I thought I glimpsed a faint shade of jealousy.
I slept that night in a quiet hallway, until early the next morning when Gaia shook me awake. “Up, girl,” she said, her tone sharp. “I’ve a lot to teach you, and I have to do my own work, as well. So rouse your lazy bones and come with me.”
I blinked the cobwebs of sleep away and sat up in near darkness. Gaia held an oil lamp and was already dressed. I forced myself to stand.
“Every morning, the first thing you must do,” Gaia said, speaking only after I had stood erect, “is fetch water from the well. You must always have a pitcher and basin ready for the moment your mistress wakes. She will want to wash her face and rinse her mouth. Then she will relieve herself in the basin, and you must carry it out of the house and dump it behind the barn.”
Without waiting for a response, Gaia pivoted on her sandal and led the way down the stairs. I moved quickly to keep up with her long-legged stride.
A few minutes later we reached the well in the center of the courtyard. I stood silently as Gaia dropped a bucket into the opening. She pulled up the rope, then poured the water into two glazed containers that dangled from a pole. When she had finished, she turned and placed her fingertips over my lips. “I am going to take you into my mistress’s room to show you how this must be done. If you make a sound, if you so much as sneeze in my lady’s room, I will beat you myself, do you understand?”
Terrified by the flaming light in her
eyes, I nodded.
“Follow me, then, and mind your step.”
Gaia slipped her shoulders beneath the pole with the containers, bent her knees and stood, taking the weight onto her thin frame. She walked toward the master’s house, moving steadily so as not to spill a drop of the precious water.
I followed, coming no closer than her shadow for fear of disturbing her. We entered the house, soundlessly crossed the marble-tiled entry, and climbed the stone staircase. Then we slipped into a spacious chamber, where gauzy curtains twirled and twisted in a breeze from the window. I glimpsed a bed in the center of the room, with two enshrouded figures on it.
Feeling like an intruder, I lowered my gaze and followed Gaia to the far side of the room. A small but beautiful table stood next to the wall, accompanied by an upholstered bench. Gaia bent her knees until both clay vessels stood on the floor. She then set the pole down, lifted one of the vessels, and poured water into a beautiful white pitcher on the table.
Holding my breath, I watched as she crossed the room and went to another table, a sturdy, heavier type. She emptied the second vessel into another pitcher, then jerked her chin toward the door and led the way out of the room.
“You may have realized,” she said once we were halfway down the stairs, “that the beautiful table belongs to our mistress. The other table belongs to our master. They both require water in the morning.”
“I am going to serve a girl,” I said, thinking aloud. “I will not have to pour water for a man.”
“Is that what you think?” Gaia lifted both brows. “In a few years your mistress will have a husband, and when that time comes, you must serve both. Do not fail to serve those your mistress loves, or she will be unhappy and sell you in the slave market. Would you like that?”
I don’t think Gaia meant to be cruel, but a tremor of mingled alarm and horror shot through me at her words. With difficulty I swallowed my fear and shook my head.
“Your job is to perform the services your mistress needs before she knows she needs them.”
I took a deep breath to calm my heart, which had begun to beat double time. “How is such a thing possible?”
Pity filled Gaia’s eyes. “You are only a child, but you will be surprised at how quickly and how well you will come to know your mistress. One day you will know her better than she knows herself.”
I did not see how such a thing could be possible, but Gaia had years of experience. “Is it . . . is it like that with you and your mistress?”
The slave pressed her lips together for a moment, then turned and stared toward the horizon as if watching something I could not see. “I have served the lady Alena since I was about your age, and if the gods are willing, I will serve her until the day I die.”
I heard no bitterness in her tone, only resignation. And as Gaia walked away, I wondered if I would feel the same way about the girl who would soon arrive.
The next day, Gaia taught me how to curl hair, steam wrinkles out of a tunic, and tie a himation—the long, colorful mantle fashionable women wore over their sleeveless chitons. “You must ask your mistress how she wishes to wear the himation,” Gaia said, holding the fabric strip in both hands. “Sometimes she will wear it over one shoulder secured with a brooch. Sometimes she will tie it around her hips, or drape it across her chest and fasten it with a pin. Sometimes she will wear it like a shawl, and other times she may use it to cover her head.”
“Why would a woman wear it at all?” I asked, wondering why free women wore so much clothing. We slaves wore simple tunics and were probably much more comfortable in the dry heat.
Gaia lifted her gaze as if imploring the gods for help. “Silly girl.” She smiled. “Women wear them because they wish to display their wealth and sense of style. These fabrics are expensive. The more himations a woman owns, the wealthier her husband.”
I said nothing as my gaze drifted toward the overflowing trunk in our young mistress’s chamber. Dozens of himations lay jumbled within it, and a mound of linen chitons filled another. A third chest, a smaller one, held gold pins for our lady’s hair and silver brooches to adorn her clothing.
Gaia pointed out a box of silver pins with pearls attached to the end of each pin. These, she told me, were for securing a woman’s hair after it had been set and curled. Pearls were a true mark of wealth, even more valuable than gold or silver because they were more difficult to obtain.
Over the next few days I learned how to clean a lady’s garments; how to rub her shoulders and feet to bring pleasure, not pain; and how to heat stones so they could be placed in a lady’s bed to warm it or ease pains in her inner parts. “At certain times of the month, your lady may experience pains here.” Gaia patted her abdomen. “You should heat stones, wrap them in linen, and place them in her bed. She will lie with her belly close to the stones, and the heat will bring relief.”
Overwhelmed by Gaia’s instruction, much of which hinted at a mysterious womanly world I knew nothing about, I sought out a quiet corner in the barn. I finally slipped into the stall of a gentle mare and curled up in the corner, out of the way of her hooves. The fresh straw made a comfortable bed, and the earthy smells reminded me of Egypt . . . and home.
For the first time in many nights, my throat did not burn with resentment when I thought about my parents and the awful men at the slave market.
The mare looked over her shoulder and whickered as if asking why I had come. But she did not seem alarmed and made no move to kick me.
“Perhaps you and I shall become friends,” I told her as I closed my eyes. “Because I could surely use one in this strange place.”
Chapter Four
Shelamzion
Two months after we buried my father, Mother returned the pots and clay bowls she had borrowed from neighbors and threw out the flowers I had placed in the window. Then, with a quivering chin, she opened the trunk that contained our belongings and pulled out the tunics that had belonged to Ketura. As tears flowed over her cheeks, she carried them into the courtyard, dropped them onto the packed earth, and set them ablaze. While I watched, she went back into the house and returned with Ketura’s sandals, which she also tossed onto the burning pile.
Avigail saw the smoke and came running outside.
Her face twisted in consternation as she watched from her courtyard. “What are you doing?”
“I am burning Ketura’s belongings,” Mother replied in a calm voice.
Avigail stared at me as if I might have an explanation. I didn’t.
“Your younger daughter might have worn those garments,” Avigail pointed out. “Or you might have given them to the poor.”
Mother folded her arms and sighed heavily. “John Hyrcanus has sent word. We are leaving as soon as the wagon arrives from Jerusalem.” Her voice trembled. “I . . . I want to start a new life, and these things only remind me of my loss.”
“You are so fortunate,” Avigail went on, “to have such a kinsman! He reminds me of Boaz, who redeemed the widow Ruth—”
“And married her.” Mother blinked as if an idea had just occurred to her, but then her brow furrowed. “You do not think he intends—”
“I am sure he has a wife already,” Avigail assured, apparently following Mother’s thought. “He is doing this because he is a kind and generous man.”
“Is he?” Mother bit her lower lip and looked at me. “Or does some other reason lie behind his generosity?”
“Perhaps HaShem sent him to save us,” I said, offering what I considered a perfectly logical explanation. “HaShem sent Moses to lead our people out of Egypt. He sent Jehoahaz to save our people from the Arameans. Why wouldn’t He send the high priest’s son to deliver us from being poor and alone?”
“See how she knows the Scripture!” Avigail beamed at me. “That is a girl who listened to her father.”
“Indeed,” Mother murmured. “But I hardly think the Almighty God would send anyone to help a woman and child.” Then she went back into the house where she would r
emain until it was time to go.
Avigail gave me an understanding and compassionate smile. “I hope you like Jerusalem, Shelamzion,” she said, using the pet name my father had given me. “I hope you won’t forget Modein. Important leaders have come from this village. Indeed, a great life can come from small beginnings.”
She had no sooner finished speaking than we heard a commotion from down the street. We turned and saw a wheeled vehicle approaching, a cart drawn by two horses and guided by two servants. Only a wealthy man could afford such an extravagant conveyance.
Avigail leaned over the courtyard wall. “Sipporah! Your wagon is here.”
When Mother opened the door, I saw that her hands had begun to tremble. “Are you sure?”
“And who else would it come for?” Avigail smiled when the wagon halted outside our gate.
One of the men jumped down and halted when he saw Mother. “Sipporah, widow of Ittamar, John Hyrcanus has sent us for you and your daughter. Now that the period of mourning for both families is over, the high priest invites you to become part of his household. You are a kinswoman, and neither you nor your child will go wanting.”
Mother swallowed hard even as something that looked like relief crossed her face. “The high priest is most generous,” she said, “but I would not want to cause him or his family any difficulty.”
Puzzled by Mother’s restrained reaction, I turned to Avigail. “Why did she say that? She wants to go to Jerusalem.”
Avigail pressed her finger to her lips, then bent over the wall to reply in a low voice, “She does not want the people here to think she was eager to leave. Do you see?”
I nodded, though I felt a long way from real understanding. The adult world seemed a confusing and difficult place where no one said what they truly meant.
“Are we going, then?” I asked.
Avigail squeezed my shoulder. “You are, little Shelamzion. Trust HaShem with your future and never doubt that He will take care of you.”
The high priest’s house was nothing like our home in Modein. First, it was called a palace, not a house. Second, I thought such a holy person would live in a building that looked like the Temple, with richly colored blue curtains and golden bowls at each entrance. I pictured John Hyrcanus wearing his sacred tunic and breastplate as he welcomed people to his home, and eating at a table fashioned like the altar used for the morning sacrifices.