The Gate of Heaven

by Gilbert, Morris

  “That pitiful, plain thing! She’s doesn’t have the personality of a snail!”

  “But she’s the richest heiress in Minoa. She’ll have all of Haemon’s money when he has the good sense to die. He’s old, you know.”

  “If you’re so worried about riches, why didn’t you marry Xenia, the daughter of Claus? She would have married you in a moment.”

  Knowing he was trapped, Metus kept his face straight. “I didn’t like her voice—too shrill. Aside from that, I would have gladly taken her and all her money.”

  “You would not. You were so in love with me you would have married me even if I hadn’t had any money at all.”

  The two argued amiably. The room they were in had a high ceiling and the walls were covered with colorful frescos. The Minoans were famous for this art, painting on wet plaster, and had spent much effort in developing the oils that gave them their colorful hues. Done in life-size patterns, some of them portrayed the Minoans at sport—such as that of two boys boxing, each wearing only one glove on his left hand. Others portrayed antelopes at a full run across the wall. There were landscapes with lilies and swallows, and one showed the Mother Goddess standing with her arms outstretched, holding a serpent in each hand.

  At a voice, both turned to see Demetrius enter. He came at once, kissed his mother, and then clapped his father on the shoulder. “Well, I’m on time for a change.”

  “You’re not on time. You are half an hour late,” Metus snapped.

  “Metus, be still.” Theodora smiled. “Are you hungry?”

  “Always.”

  “Come, then. Everything is ready.”

  The three of them went into the dining room and took their seats. The walls of this room were also covered with frescos, and as they sat down, Theodora glanced around at them. “I don’t know why you painted that horrible picture there.”

  Demetrius turned to look at the fresco she indicated. It portrayed a monkey of a bluish color scrambling over orange rocks. Strange flowers of an unusual aqua color filled the background.

  “I’d never seen a purple monkey, and I thought there ought to be at least one.”

  “You could have made a good career as a painter,” Theodora said. “You have the talent for it.”

  “You could have made a fortune as a metal worker too, if you had set your mind to it,” Metus put in.

  “I’m just a simple sailor, dear beloved parents, nothing more.”

  This was hardly true, as all three of them knew. Demetrius had tried several careers, including painting and two years in a foundry learning the art of making bronze and other metals. He had a good ear for music and was an excellent dancer, as were most Minoans. Still, the many avenues he had tried had narrowed down his choices until finally, after his first long voyage, he had come back sparkling with excitement and announcing that the sailor’s life was for him. Since then he had learned his seamanship well and was now captain of his own ship, the Argus.

  “Why do you have to go just now? The festival has just started.”

  Demetrius had heard this protest often enough that he knew how to handle it. “This will be a profitable voyage, Father. I’ve got the ship loaded down with olive oil and the best wine, and I’m coming back with a cargo that’ll make us a fortune.”

  “We have a fortune.” Metus sighed. “You’re still like a boy—always looking for some kind of adventure.”

  “Don’t scold him—not on this night,” Theodora pleaded, and Metus at once grew gentle.

  “All right. I won’t say any more.”

  They finished the meal without further talk of the voyage, but as soon as it was over, Demetrius said, “That was such a fine meal. I won’t get one that good until I come back.”

  “I wish you would stay at home and marry and give us grandchildren,” Metus said. Then he managed a smile. “But go on your way, son. Maybe you’ll get enough traveling on this voyage.”

  Demetrius embraced both his parents and kissed his mother. “This is farewell, then, but it won’t be a long journey. We’ll unload our cargo at Syria, where we’ll take on the return load, and we’ll sail right back. Just a few weeks, depending on the winds.”

  Theodora clung to her son, and when he left she turned to Metus. “He’s the only son we have left,” she whispered. “May the gods give him safety.”

  Metus sensed that his wife was having difficulty. He himself hated these voyages of their only living son. They once had three sons, but two were now dead. Demetrius and his sister, Thea, were their treasures. Now they clung to each other, both of them silently yearning for the day when Demetrius of Minoa would have his fill of dangerous adventures at sea.

  A gloom settled on Demetrius as he made his way through the city to the ship. Night was coming on now, and overhead the stars glittered. He looked up, recognizing his old friends, the stars, for he had learned much about them as he used them for navigation. As he pondered the starry expanse, a troubling thought occurred to him: How easy my life has been! I’ve known no hardship at all. He well knew that there was much misery in the world. He had seen the suffering of the slaves in Egypt, in Greece, and in other exotic places. He knew that the peasants on his island home had their share of trials. He himself had been born into a good family, rich enough to provide him whatever he needed, but he was aware of a world that was crueler than the one he inhabited.

  He passed by a shrine of the Mother Goddess and hesitated. He was not particularly religious, but suddenly he felt the need to make at least a token sacrifice. He turned and went in and was greeted by the priestess, whom he did not know. He went at once to the glazed statue of the Mother Goddess, which stood with her large staring eyes, her hands holding up twin serpents. The enormous eyes of the goddess kept him transfixed for a moment.

  Like most Minoans, Demetrius worshiped nature, and he had a reverence for almost everything in the natural world, including mountains, snakes, bulls, trees, and flowers. He considered these sacred. Most people kept private shrines in their homes but were just as likely to worship on the mountaintops or in one of the many caves formed in the limestone by dripping water. It was common to leave homemade offerings at the shrines and worship places in hopes of pleasing the spirits of the netherworld.

  He stood before the Mother Goddess of the nation and noted the dove perched on her head and the writhing snakes in her grip that reminded the faithful of her close ties to the mysterious underworld. Quickly he breathed a prayer, left an offering, and exited from the temple. He made his way through the streets quickly until he got to the ship and drew a sigh of relief. It won’t be a long trip, he told himself. I need to stay home more and be with my parents. Maybe even give them grandchildren. The thought pleased him, and he boarded the ship, greeting his first officer with a cheerful shout. “Hello. Everything loaded, Nestor?”

  The ship keeled over so suddenly that Demetrius only had time to grab the mast. He screamed, “Take hold!” But it was too late. He saw four of the remaining hands go over the side into the crest of white water and then disappear. The storm had caught them unawares and blown them so far off course that he had no idea where he was. Demetrius had been in storms before, but now as he clung to the mast, he felt that the Argus was no more than a tiny woodchip, tossing in the churning water. It was a killer storm! The waves were twenty feet high, and he knew that most of the crew had already been swept overboard.

  Struggling to his feet, he felt the Argus slowly right itself and turned to Nestor, who was clinging to the handle that controlled the rudder. “Forget that, Nestor!” he screamed to make himself heard. “Find something to hang on to. We’re going into the breakers.”

  Nestor shouted something back, but the wind carried the sound of his voice away.

  As Demetrius peered through the driving rain, his ears filled with the roaring wind and the fierce rushing of the surf, he thought briefly of how another storm had caught them almost a week earlier. They had been driven far off course, but there had been nothing to do except
run before it. Now he figured they were somewhere off the coast of Syria, but he had no way of knowing.

  He heard Nestor shout something and turned to look. His heart seemed to stop as he saw an enormous wave—a solid wall of green-gray water—taller than any he had ever seen in his life, moving toward them! It rushed forward, and Demetrius knew that all was over then. He had a sudden poignant wish that he had stayed at home with his parents. Now he would never marry. He would never give them a grandchild. They would go to their deaths without seeing their own blood in the faces of grandchildren.

  He had no thought of praying, for the wall of water could not be prayed to. It was a monstrous thing that blotted out the sky, and Demetrius of Minoa felt despair as it struck the ship. He felt himself tossed high into the air, and then he was under the water upside down and whirling and being tossed. He tried to fight his way to the surface, but soon the breath he held was forcibly expelled, and as the cold water rushed up his nose and into his lungs, he thought, This is death…!

  Demetrius coughed and at the same time felt something nudging at his ribs. Something gritty pressed against his cheek, and he moved slightly to get away from the nudging, but it only became more persuasive.

  “Wake up! You’re not dead!”

  Demetrius felt a harder blow and in protest rolled over. His head was swimming, and he began coughing. His lungs felt raw, and the blazing sunlight blinded him for a moment. Finally he caught his breath and looked up, but the sun was brilliant overhead, and he quickly shut his eyes. The voice was rough, but he understood it, for his tormentor was speaking Syrian, a language he had found it handy to master on his trips. He finally opened his eyes to slits and saw a man standing in front of him. He blinked his eyes, and then his vision cleared. The man was short and broad and held a whip in his hand. Demetrius started to speak, but he had no chance, for the man bellowed, “Masud, the fair one is awake!”

  Another man came, a skinny man also bearing a whip. Demetrius’s mind was spinning when suddenly the first speaker said, “Get up! You’re all right.”

  The world seemed to whirl as Demetrius got to his feet. He swayed and looked around, noting that others were there. He saw that they were on a beach and that the figures he saw were all chained together. Startled, he looked down and saw that his own feet were shackled with chains.

  “Well, he didn’t die after all, eh?” The man called Masud laughed, stuck the butt of the whip under Demetrius’s chin, and forced his head up. “He’ll fetch a fancy price, Captain!”

  Demetrius struck the whip away and stared at the two. “What am I doing in chains?”

  The broader man who had spoken first said, “My name is Khalid. You are my property now and nothing else.”

  Instantly the truth came to Demetrius. Somehow he had escaped death and had been cast up on the shore. Looking down the line, he saw three of his sailors already chained in a line of captives. They cried out to him, but he had no chance to respond, for Khalid struck him a blow on the side of the head. “Keep your mouth shut and you’ll be all right.”

  Demetrius had never been hit in his life, and without even thinking, his fist flew out and caught the short, bulky man and drove him backward. But Demetrius had no time to enjoy his triumph, for Masud struck him with the heavy end of his whip. It drove him to his knees, and as he struggled back up, the rawhide began to sing through the air. He felt the sharp pain as it cut across his shoulders, then again lashed across his face, narrowly missing his eye.

  “That’s enough. I think he knows who’s the master now, Masud.”

  “Yes, Captain Khalid.”

  Demetrius struggled to his feet, the pain from the lashes stinging. “Look,” he said, “you can get a large ransom by taking me home.”

  “Where is home, pale one?”

  “Minoa.”

  Captain Khalid merely laughed. “I’ll get my money out of you, and we won’t have to cross the great sea to do it. You’ll bring a good price. Put him in the line, Masud.”

  Masud flicked his whip at Demetrius, but he was ready. He caught the whip and gave it a jerk, and when Masud was dragged forward, he dealt him a hard blow right in the mouth. The slaver fell backward, but instantly Khalid shouted and Demetrius was swarmed by other guards.

  “Hold him down!” Masud shouted, and he came forward and began lashing Demetrius furiously.

  Khalid watched this and finally said, “That’s enough. We want him in good shape for the sale.”

  Demetrius struggled, but there was no hope. His feet were now bound in the line of chains with the rest and his hands tied behind his back. A steel chain was forged around his neck, and the chain attached him in the line to the man in front and the man behind. Masud said, “All right, you scum, walk!” He moved up and down the line of slaves, slashing them with his whip and paying careful attention to Demetrius.

  Demetrius stumbled forward. He was sick, and the beating had drained him. It was all he could do to keep up, and when he looked back, he saw the sea vanish as the long line of slaves headed off into the desert.

  Demetrius could hardly move. For a week he had marched along the coast, and every day Masud had beaten him and starved him. He had developed a special hatred for Demetrius and missed no opportunity to mistreat him.

  The break had come at high noon and the slaves sprawled out, panting under the sun. They had all swallowed their pitiful ration of water, but Demetrius’s mouth was dry and his tongue swollen.

  “Here, eat this.”

  Demetrius looked up to see the slave who was linked directly in front of him. He had something in his hand, and when Demetrius took it, he saw that it was a fragment of half-rotten meat. It was filled with maggots, and he doubted he’d be able to keep it down.

  But it was a sign of kindness, not from the slavers but from one in as bad a condition as he himself. “You need it yourself,” he said.

  “No, eat it and listen. Don’t fight them. Masud likes it. He’ll kill you if you don’t give in.”

  The slave had no chance to say more, for Masud suddenly appeared above him. He saw what had happened and struck Demetrius’s hand. “You’ll get something to eat when you bow down and kiss my feet.”

  Demetrius looked up and cursed him, and immediately Masud began slashing at him with the whip. The beating continued until Khalid intervened. “Don’t kill him, Masud. We’ll get more for him if he’s not all marked up.”

  Masud struck him twice more, cursed him, and then spat in his face. As he walked away, Demetrius wiped the spittle from his face and turned to the man who had given him the meat. “Thank you,” he said. He picked up the offering, brushed the sand off, and began to eat.

  Chapter 26

  Joseph crept into Dinah’s tent, tiptoeing and with his eyes alert. When he caught sight of her, he grinned broadly, and his dark eyes began to dance with merriment. She had her back turned to him and was looking into her bronze mirror. She was primping, as usual, and Joseph moved silently across the rugs that covered the floor of the tent. He made no sound, and then he leaped and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her high up and shouting in her ear, “I’ve got you!”

  Dinah uttered a piercing scream, dropped the mirror, and began to flail with her arms and kick with her feet. Twisting around, she saw it was Joseph and grabbed a handful of his thick hair.

  “You beast! You scared me! I’ll kill you!”

  “You can’t. You’re too little,” Joseph said, laughing. He grabbed at her hand that was pulling at his hair, and the two wrestled around. He was a strong young fellow, and grabbing her, he pulled her down. He straddled her and grabbed her wrists and pinioned her. He leaned forward, ignoring her yells and whispered, “Happy birthday.”

  “Let me up, Joseph!”

  “You promise to be nice?”

  “No.”

  Joseph laughed and came to his feet. He helped her up and avoided her blows as she beat at him. “Happy birthday, Dinah. You’re an old woman today.”

  “Seventee
n isn’t old.”

  Indeed, Dinah, the daughter of Jacob and Leah, did not look old. There was a freshness about her that reminded Joseph of one of the desert flowers early in the morning when the dew was still on it. Her hair was thick and glossy, brown but with a touch of auburn in it, much like Jacob’s. Her gray-green eyes were a beautiful almond shape. They were her best feature, except, perhaps, for her complexion, which was smooth and very pale with only a touch of the olive coloring that her brothers had.

  After Dinah stopped struggling, Joseph said, “I hope you’re not expecting a present from me.”

  “Of course not. Father will give me everything I want.”

  Joseph glanced around the tent and laughed. “I guess he already has.” The tent, indeed, was filled with Dinah’s robes and sandals and headdresses. A small shelf contained several boxes filled with jewelry, and another set of boxes held ointments and cosmetics. Joseph shook his head. “I wish Father would give me things like he does you.”

  “You don’t need as many things as I do,” Dinah pronounced.

  “What’s Father going to give you for your birthday today?”

  “A servant.”

  Joseph stared at her. “A what? A servant?”

  “Yes. I’m going to have a maid of my very own.”

  “You can’t own maids. A woman can’t own servants unless she’s married.”

  Dinah pouted. “She’ll be mine, though. Father’s already promised me.”

  “I’d hate to be her.” Joseph shook his head and tried to look sorrowful. “She’ll probably run away after about a week of your temper.”

  “No she won’t. She’s going to be very pretty, and she’ll have to do everything I say—or I’ll beat her.” She went and picked up the mirror and studied her face and began arranging her hair again. “A slave trader has come to town, and the sale’s today.”

  “I’ll go with you. I’ll pick out a pretty one.”

  “You’re too young to think about girls.”