Between the Wild Branches

by Connilyn Cossette

  After weeks of suspicion, little of which was mitigated by my assurances that I would not hurt him, Zevi had finally been allowing me a small measure of trust. Only yesterday he’d told me that he originally came from a tiny village in Yehudite territory but that a sickness had killed nearly everyone there, including his entire family. He’d said that no one left had been able to keep him and he’d been sent down to Zanoah only two months before the attack by the Philistines. He spoke of it all in such detached tones, his small body tense and fidgeting as he did so, but I’d been thrilled that he’d even said that much. It was better than the scowls and sneers he normally gave me. His rare laughs were the property of Igo alone, and I was surprised at how jealous I was by that fact. I suspected that I would now lose any ground I’d gained with Zevi, and that pained me far more than I ever guessed it would.

  “I happened to see the kitchen boy get into an altercation with one of the boys who cleans the stables,” said Nicaro, standing at my side. “He did well, even untrained, so let’s hope your slave is ready to defend himself.”

  The smugness in his voice made it clear that he in no way believed that I’d been training Zevi to fight, so I pulled up a small measure of Demon Eyes’ arrogance and smiled. “That we shall.”

  A flicker of uncertainty flashed in his blue eyes before he narrowed them and then raised a hand in the air. He dropped it, indicating the start of the fight, but as disoriented as Zevi was by the situation and unfamiliar with our fighting traditions, he missed the signal and earned a punch to the gut before he could even react. His opponent took advantage of Zevi’s shock to land another hit to his face, splitting his lip and drawing blood. Around us, Nicaro’s council members cheered for the kitchen boy, thirsty for more.

  At my hip, Igo growled low in his throat, his body tensing as his young friend struggled. I felt strong kinship with the dog as I slid my fingers around the cord at his neck to keep him in place, because it was all I could do to not roar at the injustice of this match, run to the child, and dash away with him in my arms. He was only ten and had suffered so much in his short life. Watching him be pummeled for his own sake, and even for Shoshana and the baby, seemed grotesque, a betrayal of a boy who depended on me.

  How could Mataro have been so gleeful about throwing me into the ring all those years ago? It was true that Philistine boys began fighting around Zevi’s age, but I’d been only seven, my ears itching for praise from someone I’d considered a man to model myself after. I should have been playing with boys my own age, but instead Mataro had convinced me that to be accepted by him and others, I had to be the strongest and make everyone fear me—a lesson I took with me to Kiryat-Yearim, where I employed those same tactics on those who mocked me or made me feel inferior.

  Seeing Zevi out there, unprotected and being inadvertently taught the same lesson, caused my belly to burn with fury. And yet I could do nothing to help guide him in this fight because I could not yell to him in his language. I could only stand there, rooted in place, berating myself for not spending some time over these past weeks teaching him how to defend himself.

  The kitchen boy followed the blow to the face with another jab toward Zevi’s torso, but Zevi jerked sideways and the hit went wide. However, the kitchen boy caught his footing and came at Zevi again, head-on, landing another harsh blow to the side of Zevi’s head. Zevi’s hand came up to cover his ear, which was undoubtedly ringing, his small face crumpled in pain.

  I was practically vibrating, the force of my anger so surprising that I could barely remain in place. How was it that my concern for this Hebrew boy was so overwhelming? I’d known him for only a few weeks, and he’d spent more time with the dog than me, and yet from the first day I’d brought him home, I’d felt an odd sort of connection to him, something undefinable that made me want to shelter him.

  Like I’d told Shoshana, I’d thought many times about being a father, but I’d never suspected that I would feel such a strong paternal instinct toward a child whose blood was not my own. Was this how Elazar had felt toward me?

  A flash of memory took hold as I shook with rage when Zevi took another blow to the stomach.

  After Medad’s father had dragged his sons away from me in the woods when I was nine, the air foul with his insults toward me and my heritage, I’d walked home in a daze, dried tears on my dirty cheeks and his words filling every empty crevice in my wounded heart. Elazar had been the first to spot me when I slunk into the house, desperate to find solace with the donkeys down in the stable, and he’d immediately begun to fret over me, demanding to know whether I was hurt.

  I’d rebuffed him, of course, lashing out with hurt that was actually meant for Medad’s father. But instead of reacting with anger, Elazar had reached out his big palm and placed it on my shoulder.

  “I would worry the same for any of my children who came home in such a state,” he’d said.

  I hadn’t believed him, thinking he was giving me lip service and that, like Medad’s father had said while he was excoriating his sons for playing with me, Elazar would come to regret his foolish decision to let me and my sister remain. But standing here now, my insides roaring with pain over Zevi’s hurt, I finally believed him.

  Regret choked me nearly as much as my fear for Zevi, but just as I was holding to the last shred of restraint, Zevi somehow regained the pluck that had enabled him to attack a fully armed Philistine soldier. His face went hard, his hands curling into fists, and he retaliated with a swift kick to the other boy’s knee. I had to swallow my shout of victory when his opponent staggered sideways and fell to the ground with a yelp. Zevi was on him in an instant, the other boy’s height no longer an issue now that they were on the ground, since Zevi’s natural strength was far superior to the lanky child he’d been facing. Looping his arm around the boy’s neck, just as he’d done to the soldier, Zevi caught his opponent in a chokehold.

  The kitchen boy’s face turned bright red, but Zevi did not release him, only tightened his grip. The boy beneath him scrabbled at the ground, eyes bulging as he rasped a call for mercy that Zevi did not understand.

  “Enough,” I said to Nicaro, then without pausing to wait for the king to halt the match, I released Igo’s collar and strode over to the struggling pair, not caring that the dog trotted along behind me. I’d harmed more than my fair share of opponents, a few who’d been permanently maimed after our bouts and one who’d died a few days later, and I refused to let Zevi have the death of another child on his soul.

  I tugged at Zevi’s shoulder, hoping he would release the kitchen boy, but instead he gripped harder, making the other boy scratch at his arm with another plea in words Zevi could not decipher. Hoping that the kitchen boy was too terrified to care that I spoke in another language, I leaned closer.

  “Let him go, son,” I said. “You are killing him.”

  With a flinch, Zevi’s eyes flared wide and then he glared up at me. “I am not your son,” he said, his words more of a blow than a kick to the center of my chest. But he released the other child, who sobbed in relief.

  Aware that I could in no way leave the courtyard without Nicaro’s dismissal, I pulled Zevi along with me as I approached the king, a gut-wrenching parallel of the first time I’d done so.

  “Well,” said Nicaro, his tone impressed, “it seems as though your slave does have the potential to be a fighter after all. I can only imagine what he will be when you train him in earnest.”

  “As I said, the boy will prove to be a profitable investment.”

  Nicaro’s blue eyes searched my own. “As you have turned out to be as well. I only hope that will continue to be the case.”

  I ground my teeth at the implications, but the truth of it was hard to ignore. I was a slave to the king of Ashdod. Only instead of silver, he’d purchased me with both my position and his daughter. My lust for power and wealth, along with my determination to free myself from Mataro’s clutches, had only ensnared me in servitude to another master.

  “I vow
that I will prove exactly how grateful I am for your generosity, my seren.”

  “Indeed, you will,” he replied, waving a hand to indicate my dismissal, but even as I turned away, eager to take Zevi home and tend to both the wounds he’d earned in the ring and those I’d inflicted by sending him there, the king’s eyes remained pinned to me. There was no more doubt in my mind—Nicaro knew something of my past and he’d used Zevi as a warning. Shoshana’s reminder that the king was merciless and may take my life if something went wrong echoed in the silent courtyard.

  I waited until I was far enough away that no one would hear me speak but did not turn my face to Zevi as I did so. “I know that you hate me right now”—I gently squeezed his arm—“and I deserve your anger for not protecting you better. But I vow that you will never fight anyone again unless it is in defense of someone else.”

  He didn’t respond, but the tension in his body lessened a small measure as we left the royal courtyard behind. If all went to plan, he’d never step foot in this place again.

  “And you may not be my son, but I am very proud of you.”

  Twenty-Six

  Shoshana

  Since our return from Lukio’s home yesterday, Mariada had been uncharacteristically quiet, electing to shun the gathering of the ladies up on the terrace for last night’s meal and stay in her room—something I was all too grateful for, since I had no desire to be reminded of Lukio and the brief moments we’d had together there under the stars. My chest had not stopped aching since I’d left his garden, and neither had I ceased wondering whether I should have worked harder to convince him to come with us. But there was no use wishing for things that were not meant to be. My focus must be on the plans he’d outlined in detail, and getting my daughter out of this palace would be the trickiest part. I needed to talk to Galit as soon as possible.

  While collecting the dishes of Mariada’s half-eaten meal from the previous night, I set my first step into motion. “Are you hungry, my lady?” I asked. “I’d be happy to fetch you something from the kitchens.”

  Lounging on a pillowed couch and gazing out the window at an empty blue sky, she shook her head and did not even bother to correct me for addressing her formally. Even though I was desperate to talk to Galit, Mariada’s apathetic demeanor concerned me.

  “Are you ill? Shall I call for a healer?”

  She sighed. “No. I am fine. Just tired. I did not sleep well last night.”

  Hearing a silent plea for a listening ear from a girl who’d been so kind to me, I set the basket of dishes aside and crouched beside her. “Is there something weighing on your mind?”

  She looked over at me, sadness in her big blue eyes. “What if . . . ?” she began, and then paused to chew on her lip for a moment. “What if I don’t want to marry Lukio?”

  Seized with a spasm of surprise, and not a small amount of guilty pleasure at her question, I took a moment to collect myself before I replied, “What makes you feel that way?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know, really. Everyone is thrilled about this match—if they are not jealous, that is. But after going to his house yesterday, it all became very real. He has been nothing but cordial since the first night he announced our betrothal and even showed himself to be kind and amusing when he showed us his dice games, but other than what I’ve been told about his fighting and the glimpses I saw of who he might be by the way his home is appointed, I don’t know anything about him. And I certainly don’t love him.”

  As much as it coated my tongue with bile to assuage her fears of marriage to the man I loved, I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’ll come to know him. You have an entire lifetime to spend learning about each other. And I have no doubt you’ll eventually care for each other.” My heart squeezed tight at my tongue’s betrayal of its deepest desires.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. The entire time we were there he would barely look at me and said no more than a few words to me during the meal he’d invited us to. How could he ever love me after we are married if he doesn’t even bother to speak to me now?”

  I’d noticed the same thing, even though I’d tried my best to avoid staring at him after our parting on the roof. Lukio had been pleasant and accommodating, giving a long narrative about the nonexistent female slave who’d been assaulted by a cook and how he’d dealt swiftly with the imaginary man, but he was plainly distracted and unsettled by our conversation. Yet, without divulging the truth, I was at a loss for how to comfort Mariada.

  “Perhaps he is simply overwhelmed with planning the festival. Once it is finished, you’ll have more time to talk with him. As I’ve said before, I don’t know how anyone couldn’t love you. The champion of Ashdod included.”

  The ghost of a smile came to her lips before she peered at me curiously. “You were married before you came here, weren’t you?”

  “I was.” I’d told her that long ago, but she’d never before pressed me for details.

  “And was the marriage arranged by your father?”

  My throat tightened, but I managed to press out a response. “Yes.”

  “And did love bloom after you were wed?” Her tone was hopeful.

  I swallowed down an inappropriate bark of laughter. “No. He was not a kind man.” Never had a statement been more true.

  Her face fell. “So, you’ve never experienced the kind of love that some of the Egyptian poets speak of? When a man and woman are so enamored of each other that they see no one else? Or when he calls her his morning star and she says she is the fairest in the land because he said it was so?”

  I’d heard these poems from a group of traveling musicians invited to the palace to entertain during a feast—some that were so intimate and descriptive my face flushed with heat as I listened from my place against the edge of the main hall. I’d noticed then that Mariada had been captivated by the recitations, her wide eyes pinned to the flamboyant costumed singers, but it seemed they’d made a deeper impression than I’d realized. Still, how could I answer such a question without revealing too much? I could deny to have known such affection, but my tender heart, still throbbing from yesterday, would not allow the lie.

  “I have,” I said, before I could think better of it.

  Her eyes grew impossibly larger. “Who?”

  I took a deep inhale to steady my voice. “I met a boy in the woods when I was nine. He and I formed a secret friendship that lasted nearly four years before he . . . moved away from our town. But even as young as we were, we loved each other very much. He was indeed my morning star, and he certainly made me feel like I was the fairest in the land.” I smiled ruefully. “He was everything to me, and the loss of him has never gone away.”

  And it never would.

  “Oh, Shoshana.” Tears glittered on her lashes as she pressed a palm to her chest.

  “I do not know what the future holds for you, Mariada. But I do know this: the man you are pledged to marry employs servants who no one else in this city would even tolerate in their homes. A man with that sort of compassion, even if it is hidden from the world, is a man who can love deeply and love well. And I wish you nothing other than to be cherished the way you deserve, for a lifetime.”

  Feeling a surge of maternal affection, I gave in to my instincts and leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead. “Now, I’ll go down to the kitchen and bring you back some warmed milk with honey and spices the way you like. Perhaps it will help you to rest. All right?”

  She sniffled, her cheeks wet as she nodded.

  For as much as I could not wait to leave this place and return home with my daughter, I would miss Mariada very much.

  After a brief detour to the gardens, where I explained Lukio’s plan to Avel in hushed tones and plucked a few pink and white blooms to brighten Mariada’s chambers, and hopefully her mood, I took my basket full of dirtied cups and bowls and headed for the kitchen courtyard with a tiny packet of herbs tucked into my belt.

  The courtyard where most of t
he meals consumed in the palace were prepared smelled of smoke and roasted meat, making my own empty stomach snarl with an anticipation that would remain unrequited. There were a number of fires burning on small hearths that lined one side of the open area, a few with spits above them being slowly turned by blank-eyed slaves, and most with large lidded cooking pots steaming among the low flames.

  Somehow, the aroma took me back to my mother’s little corner oven, where she’d taught me to make bread and we sang as we patted the sticky rounds with floured hands. I blinked away the unbidden tears that arose. I’d avoided thoughts of my ima for a long time, not because I did not miss her, but because they usually provoked a cascade of memories: her slow death, how my little brothers had cried for her afterward, and the way my father changed from my abba who called me his butterfly to a man who lifted his hands against me in anger and eventually sold me to pay his debts.

  Just as I spied Galit across the courtyard, a young boy passed by with an armful of wood—one of the children who tended the ever-burning hearth fires here and hauled water daily from the well outside the city. I was momentarily distracted by the dark bruise on his cheek and the scrapes on his arms and legs. It looked as though he had been involved in some sort of scuffle, reminding me of a number of times I’d seen Lukio battered from run-ins with Medad and his brothers.

  Galit approached, drawing my attention away from the boy by reaching for the basket of soiled dishes. “What are you doing here?”

  “I must speak with you. Now. Can you make some excuse to come with me so we can talk privately?”

  Galit’s dark brows furrowed.

  Unless I could speak to her now, this entire plan might never come together. “Please. It’s urgent.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” she replied, needing no more explanation before she spun away.

  While I waited for Galit, I begged a cup of spiced honey-milk from one of the cooks for Mariada. The woman graciously ladled out a generous portion from a lidded pot of milk among the coals on a nearby hearth and added the perfect amount of spice and sweetness. Then I stood by the doorway with the warm jug and the flowers I’d gathered for my mistress in my hands.