Between the Wild Branches

by Connilyn Cossette

  “Do you think he will come to love me?” asked Mariada as she gazed into the copper mirror while I untwined the many metal beads from her long black hair. Her guileless question was like a battering ram to my chest, but I refused to let the blow show on my face.

  She was only sixteen, three years older than I had been when Lukio ran away, but in some ways, she was far more childlike than I’d ever been. I’d not only had to step into the void my mother had left upon her death, tending to the house and preparing meals for my father when he was not on duty guarding the Ark of the Covenant, but I’d also had the responsibility of raising my two younger brothers, Levi and Yadon, who were so young they barely even remembered our mother. My stolen moments with Lukio, during rare times when one of the other guards’ wives offered to watch the boys while my father was on duty or on nights when I was able to sneak out of the house to meet him, had been the only ones in which I’d felt the freedom to be a child.

  “I don’t know how anyone could help but love you,” I replied, and meant it. She may be my mistress, but I’d come to care for her in these past months. She had saved me, after all. When I’d been brought to Ashdod nearly a year and half before, with the twelve other survivors of the attack on Beth Shemesh, I’d been beyond terrified when we were herded into the royal courtyard. Mariada must have been watching from a window while the soldiers divided us into two groups, the males to be placed on ships and the females to be delivered to the priests in the temple, because instead of being paraded away with the rest, I was astonished to find myself being led to her room and assigned as her personal maid. I did not know why she’d chosen me that day from among the five other bedraggled and despondent women, but she’d rescued me from a far worse fate than serving one of the pampered daughters of the king of Ashdod.

  She’d never treated me like chattel the way Amunet did her slaves. She did not hit me or scream at me or have me flogged if I did not meet impossible standards. In fact, her compassion in the face of my circumstances had been unbelievably generous. Out of all the women in this awful city to choose as a wife, Lukio had at least chosen one of the kindest.

  “My mother said he is dangerous.” A pinch of concern formed between her black brows. “And that I should take care.”

  I paused, her thick hair held aloft since I’d been weaving it into a sleeping braid. “Did she?”

  She nodded. “She whispered into my ear before she left the terrace and told me that I must be careful to not cross him.” She chewed on her lip as she met my gaze in the mirror. “Do you think he might be violent with me the way he is with his opponents?”

  The question dredged up the memory of the day I’d met him.

  He’d been fighting, of course. Medad and a couple of his friends had followed him through town, taunting and calling him Demon Eyes, and he’d had enough. He’d swung an untrained eleven-year-old fist at the older boy’s face, catching a surprised Medad in the ear before the other boys struck back and wrestled a furious Lukio to the ground while he shouted unintelligible Philistine words at his attackers.

  Two men nearby broke up the scuffle, sending Medad and his friends toward their homes with threats of informing their fathers about the commotion. After ensuring Lukio was unharmed, they sent him away as well, telling him that such behavior did nothing to honor Elazar, the well-respected Levite who’d taken him and his sister in and treated them as his own children.

  I wasn’t certain why I followed Lukio that day. Perhaps it had been mere fascination with the older, handsome Philistine boy I’d seen around the mountain but had never spoken to. Perhaps it was concern that he’d been injured. Or perhaps it was because my father had told me to stay far away from him in the first place. But for some reason, my feet insisted on taking the same steep trail he had into the woods, and my eyes refused to stop searching until I caught a glimpse of him through the underbrush. His body, overly tall for a boy his age, was folded in on itself, tucked in a gap between the enormous twisted roots of an ancient sycamore tree.

  I’d crept closer, uncertain whether to approach a strange boy who’d fought so ferociously against four others. When I’d stepped on a twig and his head had shot up to meet my curious gaze, the tearstains on his dirty cheeks had destroyed me. I’d refused to leave even when he told me to. Pretended that he hadn’t been weeping over the Hebrew boys in town who’d rejected him. And by the time the sun had gone down that day, the two of us had sworn a pact of secret friendship, one born from a shared understanding between motherless children and mutual curiosity. One that had lasted for nearly four years, until I broke both of us.

  I could never explain to Mariada the precious friendship I’d had with Lukio when I was young. Never speak of how gentle he was with animals. Or how whenever I would stumble to the ground during a starlit romp through the woods or catch a splinter while we were climbing trees, he would care for my bumps and scrapes with such tenderness. More than once he had carried me home on his back when I twisted an ankle. Nor could I explain the times he’d held me close in our hideaway under the sycamore when my father, mad with drink, had taken out his grief on me with vicious words and angry hands. How he’d whispered sweet words while I cried and vowed to protect me for all of my life. And truly, I had no way of knowing whether the boy I knew back then was even the same person, or if in returning to Ashdod and becoming a brutal fighter he’d tossed aside all of the traits that had caused me to trust him so completely.

  So I said the only thing I could to put her mind at ease. “Your father cherishes you, mistress. I can only hope that he would not put you in harm’s way.”

  Before she could respond, the door to her chamber burst open and both Tela and Jasara entered without waiting for an invitation, demanding to know what had happened up on the terrace and insisting that Mariada repeat every word that passed between her and Demon Eyes. Not only would I miss the meeting with my friends tonight, and have no way to send them a message, but now I would be forced to endure the agony of this evening all over again while the three of them tittered and gossiped.

  Chest aching, I anticipated the desires of my mistress and her sisters and went to fetch a juglet of wine while the three of them celebrated Mariada’s good fortune. But I had endured far more painful things than this in the last few years, and like I had done time and again, I would push past the hurt and survive.

  Seven

  Lukio

  Nicaro lifted his silver drinking horn in the air. “May the gods bless this union and the Great Mother bestow the fruits of her favor upon my daughter.”

  A multitude of discordant but enthusiastic affirmations echoed around the hall from the guests who’d gathered to celebrate our betrothal. Although the pointed statement about Mariada’s fertility made my skin feel too tight, I lifted my own wine cup in acknowledgment of his declaration, making certain to stretch a wide smile across my face.

  “And may our fair city continue to be blessed by the reign of Nicaro, son of Darume, for many decades to come,” I replied, having practiced the response in my head many times over. “I am certain our children’s children will reap the benefits of his wisdom and strength.”

  Nicaro bowed his head, placing a humble palm to his chest, but his blue eyes sparkled. I’d done well with my public support of his kingship, the first of many times I would be expected to voice my favorable opinion. Although I had little problem fighting in front of crowds, it made me cringe to talk with so many eyes on me, but I must play the role I’d chosen for myself, even if over the past few days, the reasons for my ambition had become a bit hazy.

  The announcement of my upcoming marriage to Mariada had been coupled with an invitation to celebrate his joy with a feast only a few nights after I’d spoken to her for the first time on the terrace. Nights that had seemed to meander into eternity, since instead of devising ways to encounter my soon-to-be bride again, I lay awake plotting ways to get her maid alone. And even as I stood here in the great hall of the king, with at least forty of the cit
y’s most elite who’d assembled to deliver their personal good wishes to myself and my betrothed, the only person I could think about was the slave girl twenty paces away with her back to the wall and head down, awaiting orders from her mistress.

  I’d spent nearly every moment of these past few days wondering how long Shoshana had been here, what had occurred for her to be enslaved, where Medad was, and whether her presence meant Kiryat-Yearim had been attacked after all. Was my sister even alive anymore? Or had she been taken captive as well and was somewhere within the Five Cities, enduring the same humiliation as Shoshana?

  It was all driving me to madness.

  Even more frustrating was the fact that since the moment Shoshana had entered the room this evening, three paces behind Mariada, who beamed at me with the light of a thousand suns, she’d not once met my eyes.

  Therefore, I barely tasted the wine Nicaro had boasted was the finest in the land of Canaan. The richly spiced boar meat that had been roasted to buttery tenderness in a cooking pot on the hearth was like leather in my mouth. And every time one of the beautifully attired people whose adulation I’d coveted for so long approached to congratulate me on both my marriage and my new position, it felt like a pointed stick jammed between my ribs.

  Why had she appeared now? When everything I’d worked for had finally been delivered to me in a golden chalice? I’d been so successful for all these years at burying deep any thoughts of her, of Risi, and of my time at Kiryat-Yearim, and as soon as I’d seen her on that balcony above the fight every one of them had been exhumed at once.

  As I stared at her, willing her to look at me, if only for a moment, I rolled the small shell I’d found on the ground outside the palace back and forth in my hand, somewhat soothed by the repetitive rhythm against my palm.

  Mataro suddenly appeared at my side, his eyes on Mariada across the hall, where she was surrounded by a group of young women her age, all of them talking at once. “The king’s daughter.” He made a noise of lurid appreciation in the back of his throat. “You did well, cousin.”

  My jaw twitched. This was the first I’d seen of Mataro since the public announcement of my betrothal and my new position had been made. I’d expected him to storm into my home days ago, spewing curses on my name for keeping him out of my plans. It was odd that he’d taken until now to appear. And he was far too calm. What was he about?

  “I’m glad you approve,” I replied with a flat tone that conveyed just how disinterested in his validation I was.

  His attention was drawn away for a moment when he lifted his empty cup to Amunet across the room in greeting, as if he were on friendly terms with the queen of Ashdod. She frowned and looked away. He was nothing if not dogged in his pursuit of influence.

  “Of course I approve.” Seemingly unperturbed by the swift dismissal from such a powerful woman, he gave me a yellow-toothed grin, now tipping his cup toward me in salute. “This is what I always thought you were capable of, Lukio. Even when you were a boy, I knew there was something special about you. You’ve only proved my foresight correct.”

  “Your foresight may have been right about my potential to be a champion, cousin,” I said, leaning on the word and more than ready to be done with this conversation. With him. “But perhaps it was lacking in a few areas.”

  His expression went flat, his eyes narrowing.

  I lowered my voice. “Whether or not you guessed that I would be a fighter someday, you had little to do with it, other than to perhaps arrange a few matches in the beginning and boast about how you discovered me as a boy. I did this. I trained my body every day for the past ten years. I faced opponents who outweighed me by many stones when I was barely old enough to grow a beard. I fought with broken bones and deep bruises that lasted for weeks. I endured bites, scratches, lacerations, and all manner of wounds. And I devised a plan that impressed Nicaro so much that he offered me his daughter in return. All you did was reach your hand into my purse and take what wasn’t yours to begin with.”

  He spluttered, his face turning red and splotchy.

  I leaned closer, unintimidated by the evidence of his brewing rage. He’d miscalculated by waiting until now to approach me, because if he exploded in front of everyone gathered here to celebrate my fame, it would only color him a fool. “From now on you’ll have to find a different way to satisfy your debtors.”

  I took perverse pleasure in the way his eyes bulged while his face drained of color, and as I turned away, leaving my cousin speechless in my wake, I felt the weight of his ten-year hold on me slide off my back.

  Nicaro caught my eye as I left Mataro behind and beckoned me to cross the room. The stone throne he was seated on at the end of the grand hall was surrounded by exquisite murals. On one side, a herd of antelope frolicked through a blossoming meadow of poppies, and on the other, a finely detailed depiction of a pack of hounds pursued a wild boar through a forest. Both scenes reminded me of Kiryat-Yearim and the plentiful wildlife that made the fertile area around the mountain their home. I pushed aside the thought immediately.

  “Bring Lukio another cup,” he demanded of a slave nearby. “We are only beginning to celebrate!” The girl scuttled away to fetch more drink that I would not consume. I’d learned years ago that my mind was far clearer when I limited myself to small amounts, and my early morning training sessions not nearly as painful either. The king, however, bound himself to no such restrictions, so even his smile was slightly crooked as he clapped his hands at the bevy of half-dressed women gathered about his throne—none of whom were his wives—and ordered them to give the two of us a moment to speak alone.

  “Tell me,” he demanded, one eye squinting briefly. “What did my daughter say when you told her of the marriage?”

  The moments on the terrace flashed through my mind, making me realize that I barely remembered Mariada’s reaction since Shoshana’s appearance had overshadowed everything that night. But I answered as I was expected to.

  “She seemed pleased, seren.”

  He made a raspy noise with his lips. “There’s no need to call me lord when it is just the two of us, Lukio. I will soon be your father, after all.”

  The word plunged deep, its edges serrated. I’d already had two fathers. One who’d walked away when I was not old enough to remember him, and the other whom I’d steadfastly refused to call abba, even if my sister had been more than happy to be labeled Elazar’s daughter. I was certain that it had not taken long after my disappearance for Elazar to forget me just as thoroughly as my Philistine father had done as he sailed away on his ship for the last time.

  “I have wonderful news!” Nicaro said, then took another long draft from his silver horn. “We are not only celebrating your betrothal and new position tonight! Virka and Grabos have returned victorious!”

  I’d seen the two commanders enter the hall earlier but had been so absorbed in boring a hole in Shoshana’s downturned head with my gaze that I’d barely noted their presence.

  “The raid went well, then?”

  Nicaro’s blue eyes shimmered, both from excitement and the wine, and his smile tilted further as he leaned closer to me. “Better than I’d hoped. Tzorah is ours now.” He swished a hand through the air with a gleeful hiss through his teeth. “Nothing much left but stones and corpses.”

  I swallowed hard. Tzorah was far too close to Kiryat-Yearim, only a few hours’ walk. I’d avoided anything having to do with the Hebrews for so long, purposefully leaving the room whenever scuffles with the tribes of Yaakov were mentioned or changing the subject with an ease I’d practiced many times over the years. But now the desire to push to my feet and barrel across the room to demand answers from Shoshana about what all had happened in my absence reared up with nearly painful urgency.

  Nicaro knew nothing of my past. Mataro and I had purposefully left that part of my life in shadow, letting those missing years become rumors that had spun into legends without any help from us at all. To some, I’d been with my father, sailing to the northe
rn lands of his birth. To some, I’d returned to the island of my mother’s ancestors, learning ancient fighting techniques from one of the tribes that remained in the shadow of the crumbling palaces and temples that our forefathers abandoned so long ago. To some, I’d been living in the wild, a man without a home who’d survived by his wits alone and fought lions and bears with his bare hands.

  No one knew that instead I’d been fed and clothed by our enemies, called a son and brother by people the Philistines considered little more than an uncultured blight of shepherds and Yahweh-worshipers who should be eradicated from the verdant hills and trade routes they so desired.

  I lifted the cup the slave-girl had pressed into my hand and forced a smile across my face. “To the glory of our soldiers, then!”

  The king returned the accolade with a grin and then absently wiped at the trickle of scarlet that dribbled down his oiled beard. “We will find it. We are getting closer.”

  “Find what?”

  “That cursed box,” he spat out.

  I stiffened, my fingers clutching my wine cup tighter. “Box?” I echoed, although I had little doubt of the object he was referring to.

  “That Ark of the Hebrews,” he said, every word coated in gall and his blue eyes darkening considerably. “I should have destroyed the thing when I had it in my grasp, like I wanted to do.”

  The memory of plodding along behind a royal caravan of chariots was still strong after all these years. Nicaro had been young then, but he’d been one of the five kings who followed after the golden vessel as it bumped along on a wagon drawn by two bawling milk cows. To this day I did not understand why they’d hitched untrained beasts to that cart and sent back the Hebrews’ treasured object. But although I’d been furious that my sister had made me leave Ashdod in the first place, I’d been fascinated by the chariot wheels flashing in the sun, the feathered headdresses of the royal entourage, and the gleaming white robes of the priests who accompanied the lords of Philistia on their strange mission. Risi had told me then that the kings agreed to rid themselves of the Ark to stop the plagues that had struck our cities but, as I well remembered, Nicaro had made no secret of his disagreement with the other kings over the plan.