Between the Wild Branches

by Connilyn Cossette

  “My father died when I was sixteen years old, and I was given the chance to step into his role. Over time, I worked my way into a post inside the palace. But then one day, I was on duty during a drunken gathering and overheard a high official bragging about the Hebrew child he’d purchased that morning and what he had planned for the girl. It turned my stomach, especially since my own daughter was of a similar age. The urge to do something was too strong to ignore. I had a friend, a good man whom I trusted, help me steal the child away the next night.”

  “How did you accomplish that?”

  “My friend knew a servant in the official’s house. She tainted his wine with a sleeping draft and helped the child climb out a window where my friend was waiting.”

  “And what did you do with her once she was free?”

  “My friend knew of a group of Hebrew traders who were in the city. He begged them to take the girl back to their territory. I don’t know what happened to her after that, but at least she was not in that house anymore.

  “I thought that was the last time I would do such a dangerous thing, but Nicaro began stepping up attacks on Hebrew villages a few years ago, and although most of the captives the soldiers bring back are men to be used for labor or to be put on ships, women and children are sometimes among the prisoners.” He gestured toward Zevi. “I could not turn a blind eye. Over the years, my friend and I have very carefully recruited others to take part in these rescues. We take great care in keeping all those involved safe by not revealing names or personal details. Until you told me, I did not know Shoshana’s name, nor have I seen her face outside of a dim room. I only know she works in the palace. That way, if one of us is caught, they cannot reveal anything more than their own part in the larger scheme.”

  “How many have you saved?”

  He shrugged. “Dozens, now.”

  “Just Hebrews?”

  He worried at the cord on his wrist. “For the most part, since Nicaro harbors such hatred for them, but there have been a few others who we felt were especially defenseless.”

  “Do you know what that is?” I gestured to the makeshift bracelet.

  “I do. I’ve seen a few of the Hebrews wearing these distinctive fringes on their garments.”

  “So, you knew that your heritage is Hebrew?”

  He released a weighty sigh. “I suspected as much.”

  “Her name was Azuvah,” I said. “She was taken captive as a young girl and brought into my grandfather’s home. A few years later, she gave birth to a son. She had only the time to tie a tzitzit cord around his wrist before he was taken from her.”

  Jaru’s breaths were shallow as he waited for more.

  “When my mother died during my birth, it was Azuvah who cared for me and my sister. She taught us her language and told us her people’s stories in secret. She called us her light. . . .”

  For the first time since I came to Ashdod, I truly allowed myself to remember the woman who’d cared for Risi and me. Who’d been our one constant when our father abandoned us for the sea. Who’d been a mother to us until the day Mataro murdered her.

  “What happened?” Jaru asked, his tone suggesting he’d guessed that her life ended tragically.

  “She was killed while helping my sister and me escape a dangerous situation, the night we ran to Hebrew territory.”

  Jaru went silent, staring at the floor.

  “She would be glad,” I said.

  “About what?”

  “That you are trying to help rescue those who, like her, were brought here by force and mistreated.”

  And she would be ashamed of what I’ve become, I thought. Because for too many years I’d closed my eyes to those who suffered in Ashdod, be they Hebrew or otherwise.

  “How much danger is she in?” I asked.

  “Shoshana? Minimal, for now. Anyone who found us in that shed would make their own assumptions about what was happening, just as you did. They would likely not guess we are rescuing slaves. However, when she meets with—” He stopped abruptly, pressing his lips together with purpose.

  “Please. She was my closest friend when I was young. And even though I’d not seen her for over ten years, I would wrap an anchor around my neck and jump into the sea before putting her in peril.”

  He scrutinized my face with an intensity that once again reminded me of the woman who gave birth to him. Whatever he saw there must have convinced him of my sincerity.

  “A few of the Hebrews in the palace meet together from time to time. To worship their God. Sometimes to pass information.”

  “What if they are caught?” I said, my voice rising. “I thought you said no one knew each other’s names.”

  He raised a calming hand. “My friend in the palace had been leading worship meetings long before he found his way into our confidence. He insists that they need to come together, or they will forget the words of their ancient leader. It is a risk, to be certain, but I have a trusted man who guards the door to their meeting place. He knows nothing more than to allow five people inside and then to lock the door for an allotted time.”

  “How can you trust him?”

  “Silver is a persuasive argument for silence,” he said. “As is the knowledge I hold over him. Knowledge that the king would separate his head from his neck for.”

  I arched my brows at the callous way he outlined the extortion.

  “One must use every weapon one has when innocent lives are at stake.”

  I could not help but agree. I’d felt so helpless this morning, watching those women and children be dragged away to their destruction, and had wished for just such a weapon in that moment. I’d certainly never expected that one would appear in the form of the child Azuvah had been stripped of so long ago.

  “Why are you so suspicious of the festival I’ve planned?” I asked, remembering how Jaru had glared at me when I’d first entered the king’s chamber.

  “I’m not,” he replied with a shrug. “It was a pretense to suss out details.”

  “So you can use them to your advantage.”

  He nodded. “And it would be best if we continue to seem antagonistic toward each other.”

  I looked over at Zevi curled up on the rug beside Igo, his hand on the dog’s shoulder, both of them exhausted from such a traumatic day. It was unlikely I could send him off with one of Jaru’s friends anytime soon, since that would only garner more suspicion from Nicaro, but perhaps, in the future, I could send him home to whatever remained of his family. I wondered if any of the men on my olive farm were related to him. And in the chaos of the festival, if those men went missing . . .

  “I want to help,” I said, ideas beginning to take shape.

  “We can’t take the risk. You are too recognizable.”

  “Of course I am,” I said. “But haven’t you heard? I am also the Master of Games.”

  A slow smile built on Jaru’s face, one that was so similar to his mother’s that my breath hitched in my chest. “That you are, my friend. That you are.”

  Seventeen

  Shoshana

  As I followed along after my mistress and her father, my eyes tracked over the gently rolling hills all around, taking in the green fields to the north, the olive grove to the east, and the long ropes of a prodigious vineyard to the south. When Mariada asked that I accompany her this morning to where the Festival of Games would be held in less than three weeks’ time, I’d been stunned when she told me that the land had been donated to the city of Ashdod by Lukio himself for the events. How could all of this belong to a boy who once told me his greatest dream was to build a house for just us with his own two hands?

  I imagined what the small, oblong basin might look like when all the slopes that encircled it were covered with spectators. It was the perfect natural arena to afford nearly everyone a clear view of the events below. I’d been told that the king had invited not only the rich and powerful of the Five Cities to partake, but the rabble as well, ensuring that this valley would overflow wit
h excitement and commerce. I could almost hear the roar of the crowd and the call of merchants and feel the tension in the air when their champion stepped onto the grounds to face his first opponent. No wonder the king was grinning so widely as he surveyed the verdant hillsides. This festival would be a triumph—something he could boast of for decades. And it was all thanks to Lukio. I was even forced to press down an unexpected swell of pride in him myself and could not help but wonder whether he would ever have been truly happy in that little house in the woods, even if he had built it himself.

  Surrounded by a contingent of well-armed guards, a crew of about eight slaves—the tzitzit on their filthy, tattered garments setting them apart as Hebrews—was clearing rocks from the floor of the basin, using wooden tools to dig into the earth, and then stomping the softened soil flat with their feet. Did it even bother Lukio that the men forced into such heavy labors were sons of Yaakov, just like those who once called him Brother?

  Another group of men was on the opposite hillside, their axes moving in cadence as they chopped down a stand of trees to give the spectators a clear view of the grounds. They left a surprisingly large number of stumps in their wake.

  The flash of an ax-head in the sunlight caught my eye, and I was astonished to see Lukio among the workers, tattooed chest bared as he swung a double-headed ax against the trunk of an olive tree. It was an ax I remembered well from Kiryat-Yearim, one I hadn’t realized he’d taken with him when he fled. However, for all the time I’d spent larking about in the woods with him back then, I’d never seen him cutting down trees with the two Gibeonites he’d once counted as friends—young men he’d told me he cared little for but who’d helped him learn woodcutting as a means to secure our future.

  The immense power in Lukio’s arms as he swung the ax was unmistakable, even from as far away as we were standing, as was the smile he unleashed as the tree toppled to the ground.

  “Magnificent, isn’t he?” Mariada murmured in my ear while her father hailed Lukio with a wave.

  My back stiffened, but I could not refute the statement. His golden-brown hair was loosely braided down his back today, so the sunlight played on the strands as he crossed the basin, every powerful stride he took toward us reminding me that he was no longer a boy. Igo leapt out of the shade of one of the remaining trees to bound along beside him, tongue lolling, delighted to be out in the sun with his adored master. A small dark-haired child followed after the two of them, one whose presence I had no explanation for and who looked very small next to Lukio’s overwhelmingly large build.

  “I cannot believe that I’ll be his wife soon,” my mistress said, pulling my attention away from the boy. “My mother said it will be a wedding feast to remember. Every woman in Ashdod will envy me my handsome husband.”

  I made a noncommittal noise in my throat, hoping she’d take it for something like agreement, while at the same time I squelched the desire to tell her that Lukio was far more than just a handsome man in a well-honed fighter’s body. He was the kind of man who would rescue a frightened dog from a vicious fight; the kind who befriended a lonely girl two years younger than himself and whose laughter and good-natured teasing had never failed to brighten the darkest of her days; and the kind whose brief embrace on the terrace had made me dangerously hungry for more. But yearning after a man I would never have was beyond madness, and I certainly had no right to resent her.

  I was his past. She was his present and his future.

  When Mariada and the king went forward to meet Lukio at the center of the valley, I remained where I was, grateful to be far enough away that I would not be tempted to listen. I refused to so much as lift my eyes to meet his, lest he somehow see my inner turmoil and guess its root was envy. I must push my petty jealousy aside to focus only on my daughter’s rescue and on my work with my Hebrew friends.

  Instead of going to his master’s side, Lukio’s gray dog came toward me instead, as if he’d recognized me from the other day. And behind him, black-haired and wiry, came the boy, approaching me with far more caution than the animal.

  Just before they reached me, the boy reached out to tug at a leather collar around the dog’s neck. “No, Igo,” he said. “Stay back.”

  At the sound of familiar words flowing from his tongue, all my tumultuous thoughts about Lukio and Mariada vanished. The boy was Hebrew.

  Unsuccessful in his attempt to keep the dog away from me, he was dragged along behind Igo, whose shoulder nearly met the boy’s own. He muttered futile chastisements to a beast whose strength would outmatch his twice over.

  By instinct, I reached out to allow Igo to sniff my fingers. He nuzzled them and then slipped his enormous head into my palm in obvious demand for a caress. How could anyone have pitted this sweet animal against another in a fight?

  I kept my voice low as I spoke to the boy. “Of what tribe are you?”

  His chin jerked up, and he met my eyes with his own, their shade a honey-brown that glowed like burnished walnut in the sunlight but was full of an ancient sadness that made me want to enfold the child in my arms. This boy had suffered—greatly—and I could not help but remember another boy whose dual-colored eyes called to me in such a way.

  “You are Hebrew?” His brows drew together.

  I nodded, then took a quick look around to make certain no one was paying attention. Thankfully, Lukio was gesturing toward the vineyard, drawing Mariada’s and the king’s gaze to the south.

  “I am Yehudite,” he said, his shoulders straightening in pride for his tribe.

  “Of which town?”

  “Zanoah,” he replied, then pressed his lips together in a tight line for a moment before continuing in a small voice. “But it’s gone now.”

  My gut twisted. His grief-stricken expression told me he was speaking of more than just the town. I sensed that this child was completely alone in the world. The longing for my sweet Asher suddenly welled up, mixing with the urge to comfort the boy in front of me. Would my son remember how much I loved him? Would Aaliyah? They’d been so small when we’d been ripped apart. . . .

  Swallowing hard, I forced the agonizing thoughts away so I would not weep. “You serve Lu—the champion now?”

  He shrugged. “I am in charge of Igo.”

  What reason would Lukio have for a slave who tended only to his dog?

  “How did that come about?”

  “I tried to attack a soldier and he stopped me. Then he took me to his palace.”

  I had no doubt that Lukio lived in a large home, but I guessed that most of the houses in Ashdod looked like palaces in comparison to the humble dwellings of the Hebrews. Many of our people still lived in tents, following their herds to seasonal pastures, and had done so since Yehoshua led us into the Land of Promise.

  “He treats you well?” I asked.

  His mouth twisted in half-hearted agreement. “He does not hit me.”

  Without meaning to, the child revealed more about himself with those few words than he meant to, revealing the source of some of that grief behind his eyes. Only someone who’d endured the same sort of abuse would hear the relief in such a simple statement.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Zevi.”

  “I’m Shoshana. I am Levite.”

  He nodded, his gaze dropping to Igo, who bumped against Zevi’s leg with an affectionate nudge. The ghost of a smile flitted over the boy’s lips before he squelched the reaction to the dog’s unreserved devotion.

  Before I could ask more about Zevi’s time in Lukio’s house, a man similar in age to Lukio but dressed like a servant approached us.

  He looked to be at least part Egyptian, lanky and handsome, but he possessed only one eye. The other was covered by a strip of linen tied about his head that barely hid the jagged scar from whatever violence had taken it.

  “My apologies if the dog disturbed you,” said the man, his low voice full of gentle apology.

  “Not at all,” I replied. “He simply remembered me from a vi
sit his master made to my mistress the other day.”

  His brows lifted. “You are the maidservant to his betrothed?”

  “I am.”

  “I am Teitu, Master Lukio’s manservant.” His one eye took in my face with a searching sweep that made me shift on my feet. “Go on back to the shade, Zevi.” He gestured across the valley.

  But Zevi did not understand the Philistine words and merely frowned at him.

  “Go on back,” I said to him in our common language. “Wait for your master.”

  The boy looked back and forth between Teitu and me before nodding and turning away, Igo lumbering along after him without hesitation, but my instinct to run after him and wrap my arms around him did not abate.

  “Fear not,” said Teitu. “He is safe.”

  I blinked up at him, realizing that my concern must have been written all over my face.

  “I have been in this city for five years now, and I have never seen a master treat his servants with such respect as does ours. The boy is more of a guest than a slave, I assure you.”

  “Why is that?”

  He sighed, an enigmatic expression on his face. “Master Lukio does not share his thoughts with me, even though he trusts me above all others in his home, so I cannot say for certain. But he saved me from a life of backbreaking labor when no one else considered me fit as a house slave.” He touched the linen covering over his missing eye. “And there are others within his household who have similar stories. From what I’ve heard, Zevi was destined for the temple.”

  Nausea flamed up my throat. Nothing good happened in the temples of Philistia. Lukio had rescued Zevi from unthinkable abuses. A strange thought—that Yahweh had placed him in the exact right place to do so—floated thought my mind. Oshai constantly reminded those of us who met in the wine cellar that although we could not save everyone, every life was precious, formed in the image of Yahweh himself. It seemed Lukio had not forgotten some of the lessons he learned in Kiryat-Yearim after all.