Melah quickly followed. “She makes the most delicate pastries, and when she washes your feet, she works her hands over the skin so well that it makes your whole body want to melt.”
Sarai came to an abrupt stop and faced her niece. “Lot bought you your own Egyptian slaves. You had no business engaging my maid to do the work of your servants.” Anger flared at the thought that Hagar had not bothered to ask Sarai’s permission for such a thing, and that neither Melah nor Hagar seemed to respect their place.
“My servants were busy. Hagar seemed willing enough. Besides, they’re Egyptians. What does it matter whose needs they attend?”
“I should not have to remind you that it was I who endured the pharaoh’s harem. I was the one torn from my husband, from all I love. The Egyptians came as my bride-price. Mine. They are not yours to command. Don’t forget it.” Sarai clenched her fists, trembling with each word.
“You didn’t end up as the pharaoh’s bride, though, did you? Seems like you came away the richer for your trouble. Perhaps you even enjoyed the luxury.” She smirked at Sarai, then turned and hurried down the hill.
Sarai stood stunned, watching her go. Emotion rose within her at the unexpected barbs. How dare she! Melah had never spoken so rashly or so accusingly. She had no idea how awful that week apart from Abram had been, how abandoned and betrayed she had felt. How dare she!
A tremor shook her from head to toe, anger and hurt rushing through her. Such unkind words over a slave girl?
The scent of the sacrifice wafted to her as she looked down over the camp bustling with life. The Egyptian tents stood out, colorful among a sea of black goat’s hair. She spotted Hagar emerging from one of them, a clay jug on her shoulder, a striped robe on her back.
Melah could admire her slaves all she wanted. But Sarai had earned the right to keep them, and as childish and petulant as it might seem, she did not intend on sharing.
Lot sat with his feet propped on a small rock, watching the Egyptian slaves he’d recently purchased from passing Hittite merchants pound the last of the tent pegs into the ground. A female Egyptian slave came toward him carrying a skin of wine and a tray of sweetmeats. He paused, admiring her lack of dress, his heart beating faster. Melah would give him a dour tongue-lashing if she could read his thoughts. But he let his eyes feast on the girl just the same.
“Taking your ease already, Nephew?”
Lot started at Abram’s tone. “I didn’t see you there, Uncle.” He quickly stood, offering Abram his seat. “Would you care to join me? The girl brought plenty for two.”
Abram ran a hand over his beard, his gaze taking in the slave girl. “Go to Mistress Sarai and tell her I sent you for some proper attire.”
The girl’s eyes widened, looking from Abram to Lot.
“Go now!” Abram faced Lot as the girl hurried away. “I thought I made it clear from the start that the Egyptians are to dress as everyone else. There will be no distinction between them and us.”
Lot crossed his arms over a slightly protruding middle, but he could not meet his uncle’s gaze. “They have proper robes. Sometimes I ask them to wear the costumes of their homeland. You have to admit, the Egyptians’ dress does hold a certain appeal.” He grinned, glancing at Abram, but quickly sobered at his uncle’s glower.
“Is this how you want to raise your daughters—to think such dress is appropriate?”
Lot felt heat rush to his face, suddenly ashamed. “I appreciated the view. Is that so wrong?” He drew in a breath, irritated with this intrusion into his personal affairs. “Besides, she is my slave. If I want my Egyptians to dress like Egyptians, what is that to you?”
Abram’s brow lifted, his gaze never wavering. “This is my home. We share the same campsite, the same meals. I will not have men and women exposing themselves for all to see, no matter what their culture dictates.”
Lot shifted from foot to foot. His jaw clenched. “So as long as I live under your protection, we do things your way, no discussion?”
“Not when it concerns more than just you.”
The slave girl returned, fully clothed in a striped robe like every other woman in the camp, her beauty no longer enticing. “Here is the wine and sweetmeats you requested, my lord.”
Lot looked from the girl to Abram, anger settling where his appetite had been. “I’m not hungry.” He dismissed her with a wave, then looked at his uncle once more. “I will accept what you say.” He whirled about and stormed toward his tent, muttering, “This time.”
18
Melah wrapped a thin scarf over her head, grabbed a basket from the floor, and stepped out of her tent. She glanced around at their servants, irritation rising at the sight of an Egyptian slave girl among the women grinding grain, while another shooed small children from the fire.
Since her confrontation with Sarai, which she admitted had not gone as she’d intended, her life had been in upheaval. She should have known better than to ask Sarai to give Hagar to her, especially not that way. But when she’d complained to Lot about it all, he’d seemed almost too eager to leave Abram’s campsite.
Were these Egyptians why he was so happy to heed her suggestion? She had barely hinted, had not even worked herself into a whining pout yet at moving away from Sarai, when he jumped at the chance. Normally he never gave in without at least a small argument.
Heat burned her cheeks. Lot’s gaze had lingered overlong on these women since leaving Abram’s camp, especially when they wore their native clothing for him and he didn’t know she was watching.
The thought made her blood pump fast. While she wanted to live as mistress of her own estate, that did not mean she wanted to sacrifice her husband’s affection. But did she even have his affection? He had vowed to never take another wife, and he could never legally divorce her, but what would stop him from having an illicit relationship with a slave?
“Where are you going, Mama?” Her oldest daughter, Kammani, hurried to her side, out of breath. Her younger sister trailed behind. “Can we come with you?”
Melah brushed a strand of hair from the girl’s face and straightened her head scarf, which always seemed askew from the moment she left the tent each morning. She looked into the eager dark eyes so like her father’s. “Of course. Only do not wander. We are going to the fields to see your father, and I do not want you waylaid by some fool rogue.” Though the girl was only eleven, she was already showing signs of maturity. Soon enough—too soon—men would come seeking her hand. But not here. Not yet. Surely there were better men in the nearby towns than the ones in her husband’s company.
“We won’t wander, Mama.”
Melah nodded once and set out walking again. Ku-aya, her younger daughter, skipped ahead while Kammani stayed at Melah’s side.
“Are we taking food to Abi?”
“Yes.” Melah quickened her pace, suddenly anxious to reach her husband.
“Can I stay with Abi in the fields? He said he would teach me to be a shepherdess.”
Melah looked at her daughter, appalled at the thought. Though she knew many women tended sheep, her girls were not going to be among them. “There are other tasks you should be learning. Let your father worry about the sheep. That’s why we have servants.” She lifted her head, seeing a flock of sheep grazing just beyond them over the rise. “You are the daughter of a great man, Kammani. Daughters of great men do not stoop to such menial tasks meant for men.”
“But I like animals. Sheep are so big and soft.” She half ran to keep up with Melah’s hurried pace.
“Then ask your father to give you one as a pet. But not now. I must speak with him first about more important matters.” Perhaps bringing the girls was not as good an idea as she had first thought. But it was too late to send them back to camp alone.
Kammani opened her mouth as if to protest, but Melah silenced her with a lifted hand. “Don’t cross me, Kammani.” The girl flinched as though Melah had slapped her. Good. She had no intention of hitting the child, but letting her fea
r it brought swifter obedience.
Kammani ran ahead to join her sister picking wildflowers, and they chased each other through the grasses, laughing as they approached the sheep. Kammani spotted her father and reached his side before Melah could.
“Abi!” The girls cried his name in unison, jumping up and down. Lot bent to their level, scooped the youngest into his arms, and took the other by the hand.
“Abi, Mama said I could have a pet lamb. Can I pick her out now, Abi? Please?”
Melah bit back a scowl and an angry retort. The child was incorrigible, always pleading and prodding to get her own way. And her father was so easy to persuade. Not nearly strong enough when it came to his women.
Chagrin accompanied that thought. Would she want him any different? And yet she longed for something more.
She stifled the thought, unwilling to think too deeply about why she could not seem to be happy with her husband, her life. “I see the girls have already found you and taken advantage of your good graces.” She offered him her most pleasant smile, lifting the basket for him to see. “I brought bread and cheese and some of the olives we picked last week.”
Lot set Ku-aya on the ground, patted her on the back, and urged the girls to go and play.
“Can I pick a ewe, Abi? Please?”
He looked at Melah as if for permission. At her nod, he turned to face his daughter. “Pick a young one, but not so young that it still needs its mother.”
The girls squealed and skipped off in the direction of Lot’s flock.
“Let this lamb be a promise that you will not teach Kammani to be a shepherdess. We do not need our girls learning things the servants can do.” She leveled him with a look, waiting.
“Knowing how to shepherd is a skill that would not hurt them to learn.” He turned to watch the girls search the flock for the smallest ewes.
Melah shook her head. “I won’t allow it.”
His gaze swiveled from the girls to her. “You won’t allow it? If I want to teach our daughters a skill, what business is it of yours?”
Melah’s heart skipped a beat. She was not expecting such a tone from him. “That is to say, my lord,” she amended, “I would not prefer it. The hills are dangerous for a young girl alone, and we have plenty of servants who can do the job equally well.”
“I would never leave our child alone with the sheep. Not until she was well trained and fully grown, and even then, only if need afforded it.” His scowl deepened as he turned his gaze fully upon her. “What kind of man do you think me to be?”
She lowered her eyes in a show of respect, surprised that she actually felt a twinge of emotion for him. He rarely crossed her, leaving her momentarily stunned now. This was not going at all how she had planned, and she must rectify the situation quickly before he stalked off and she ruined the reason she had come.
“Forgive me, my lord. I did not mean to imply . . .” She lifted her gaze to his. “I’m afraid I am not quite myself these days.” She touched a hand to her middle. “I fear it is the babe that makes my words confused.”
His brow lifted, and she could see his scrutiny in every line of his face. “The babe?” he said at last, as though the idea were impossible.
She nodded. “It is only a few months along. I feel certain this one is a boy.” They had lost several boys already, so to say it this soon seemed almost rash, but she must turn his attention back to her purposes.
“A boy.” His tone held a hint of hope. Would a son keep his attention on her instead of the slave girls?
“Shall we sit in the shade over there, my lord, and share the food I’ve brought?” She pointed to a copse of trees farther up the hill, one she knew overlooked the well-watered Jordan Valley.
He nodded, taking her arm, and gently guided her to sit among the soft grasses. The view was breathtaking, but it was the cities beyond the plain that shone like gold among the green, its many temples shimmering brighter than the sun.
“Do you ever miss Ur or Harran, my lord?” She lifted the basket’s lid and handed him a thick slice of soft goat cheese and a fat loaf of raised bread.
He took the items from her hand and bit off a hunk of the cheese. “No.” He looked from her to the view spread out before them. “The quiet of the hills is so peaceful.” A wistful tone accompanied his words, and Melah worried that he might be harder to convince than she had first thought. She must tread carefully.
“Sometimes I would like to live close enough to visit the larger cities now and then.” She swept a hand in Gomorrah’s direction. “It sparkles like a jewel, and I can just imagine how exciting the place must be. I want to take our daughters there, to give them a taste for culture and art, to learn the ways of wealthy women, sophistication, and grace—something they will never learn living in tents.” She nearly added “or tending sheep” but thought better of it. She gauged his mood as he bit into the bread and washed it down with the flask of water at his belt. “I am not suggesting we live in Sodom or Gomorrah, only that perhaps we could live closer on this beautiful plain, so that the girls and I could visit now and then.” She smiled and touched his arm. “Perhaps I ask too much?”
He rubbed a hand over his beard. Looked out toward the valley. She hid a smile, knowing by his hesitation that she had triumphed.
“No,” he said, making her heart skip a beat. She hadn’t misread him. Had she? “You do not ask too much.” He turned to her then, his dark eyes assessing, his smile almost unnerving. “You have not voiced anything more than I have already thought. But you forget my uncle’s flocks and herds outnumber my own, and he is the patriarch of this group. Though we live in separate camps now, I must abide by his decisions.” He touched her hands, grasping her fingers. “Be patient, my love. You already have wealth beyond anything we knew in Ur or Harran. What more could you want?”
What more did she want? She did not know, and his question brought back the restlessness she could never quite seem to shake. “I don’t know. I only know I want more.”
He looked at her, clearly puzzled, then released his grip and shrugged. “Be patient, Melah. Adonai has already blessed us with great abundance.” His expression softened as he looked at her, and she hated the hint of pity in his eyes. “Perhaps when the babe comes, you will find peace.”
He stood then, and she knew she had lost what she had hoped to gain. What did he know of peace?
“Thank you for the food,” he said, then turned and headed back toward the sheep where the girls played.
She made no reply, her emotions swirling with a host of confusing thoughts. After tucking the remnants of the cheese and bread into the basket, she rose, dusted off the crumbs, and looked once more toward the cities of the plain. Somehow she must convince Lot to visit. Even once would be enough for her to show him how much better and cultured city life could be. There she could freely worship Ningal and push aside the nagging fear of Abram’s God. Then she would know peace.
Lot savored the fermented juice, then replaced the cap on the flask and let it hang from his belt. His tension eased only slightly as he took in the view of the lush Jordan Valley. Melah’s comments of a few weeks before had taken root, and he could not shake the desire to move away from his uncle completely and live among the plains.
He ran a hand over his face, turning at the crunch of stones. “Thank you for coming, Uncle.” He greeted Abram with a kiss to each cheek. He waved a hand toward the valley below. “Is it not beautiful?”
“Yes, Nephew, it is.” He touched Lot’s shoulder. “But beauty is not always a sign of good. The people of the plains—I have heard rumors.”
Lot turned to face Abram. “Rumors mean nothing unless they are true. I have heard there is much good in the cities—culture, art, music, and much more.” He ran a hand over his beard, choosing his words. “I am thinking of taking Melah for a visit.”
Abram gave him a curious look as he glanced toward the plains once more. “Is Melah asking for such a thing?” He moved to the tree line and settled am
ong the lush grass. The sun hung low in the west, the colors behind them casting an orange glow over the shaded cliff.
“She has mentioned it once or twice.” Though in truth, it was the memory of her words and the silent pleading looks he had endured ever since that made the desire become his own. “But I agree with her.” He settled beside his uncle, fingering the flask but ignoring the desire for more.
“If you have already decided, my son, then why did you call me here? You are not asking my advice, and you do not need my permission.” Abram’s expression held concern, his dark gaze unwavering.
Lot looked away, heat filling his face, whether from shame or anger he could not tell. “I thought . . . that is, you are the head of our households. I thought you should know.” He lifted his chin in a show of confidence he did not feel and met his uncle’s gaze. “You have no objection then?”
Abram stroked his beard, looking toward the darkening valley. “I do not think it wise. I think you will open yourself up to temptation you do not need and danger you need not fear. Has Egypt taught you nothing?”
The reprimand felt like a slap to the face, and Lot squirmed, pressing both hands to his knees. “Egypt made me wealthy. Egypt taught me that Adonai is indeed powerful. But Sodom is not Egypt. They do not steal men’s wives, especially pregnant ones.” He cringed at his petulant tone, hating the shadow he had caused to pass through Abram’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I didn’t mean—”
Abram held up a hand. “Nothing to be sorry for, my son. I only hope you fear the right things.” He stood then, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The years since Egypt had aged him, and Lot wondered at the foolishness of clinging to promises at Abram’s age. Melah was right. Sarai should do more to give Abram a son.
“Perhaps it is time you took a maid as a second wife.”
Sarai Page 14