Providence (6 page)

“But Lord—”

Naabak bolted forward in his chair.

She huddled next to his feet.

“Am I not in command?” he shouted.

Konath did not reply.

“Post a guard if you like.” Anger deflated from Naabak's voice.

The shuffle of footsteps and hushed murmurs waned.

“You.” Naabak turned to address her. “How are you named?”

“I was given the name Hannah by my father, a Levite priest.”

Naabak chuckled.

She did not look away, but beheld his deformity, picturing his face whole. He did not seem to be an unattractive man, but it was difficult to tell with blood and pus holding her focus.

“And my rot is acceptable to you?”

She hesitated. The years of keeping her secrets weighed on her conscience. Gil did not forsake her. Would this foreigner even care if she was stained by sin? Would he treat her differently if he knew she was cursed? She remembered the law: Thou shall not lie.

“My nose and mouth are—” She struggled to find an acceptable word. “Um…dead. They have been since birth. You are no different than any other to me.”

“A benefit for you now, or you would not have ventured into my dwelling. Only the flies clamor to get in.”

“And my ears.” She brushed back her hair. “Are like yours, I think. I can hear your words even though they are deformed. Sometimes I think God is laughing at me. My nose and mouth look fine, but do not work, and my ears work, but are maimed.”

Naabak stared at the tent flap. His body went still as sculpted stone.

She rose and knelt on one knee. “I am indebted to you. You spared my life.”

His expression hardened. “You may not survive a visit to this tent. It is afflicted with disease.”

“What is one more curse compared to the rape of your men?”

“It is a slow death.” Naabak warned of the suffering with his eyes.

She held his gaze. “Both would be a slow death for me.”

Naabak grinned. “Ah, Israel you are bold. You approach me and speak as if we are known to each other. My household could use a slave who is not fearful of my decay.”

Her lungs emptied of air. He had called her a slave. “But my home is in Jerusalem.”

“Not anymore. I cannot deny my men and then give you freedom. You will be a gift to my wife. She is in need of a servant.” He settled back against his upright bed. “There is a mat in the corner on which you can sleep tonight.”

This could not be. Gil was taken from her and now her family?
She collapsed as a wheat kernel smashed by a runner stone. She glanced toward the tent flap. An escape? She sighed. That would send her into the arms of Konath.

“But now I need to eat. Do you cook?”

She beheld Naabak's eyes. “Not well.”

A deep, hearty laugh filled the warm air. “You and my wife.” Liquid seeped from the open sore which was his nose. He hardly seemed to care.

He urged her forward and sliced the rope from her wrists with a silver-handled dagger. The tremor in his better hand caused her to utter another prayer.

“Cut a plum.” He indicated a paring knife lying on a plank of wood.

“You trust me?”
With a weapon?

“Do not worry. I am still strong enough to overcome you. If we wrestle, I do not need to kill you. The touch of my skin will.”

She poured Naabak a cup of water and impaled pieces of fruit on a pronged stick. While she was already unclean from touching Naabak's leg, she would not tempt the infection by lingering at his mouth. She offered him food. “Are there other prisoners? Hebrew men?”

He chewed his plum. Her question seemed to mean nothing to him. To her it meant everything.

“Rarely. We have little need of farmers.”

She stilled as her heart stuttered. Heat flushed her face. She did not mean for Gil to sacrifice his life. He was an escort to their prophet. She and Gil had walked on soil tread by Abraham and Moses. He was the first man who had accepted her. All of her. His touch sent her soaring to the heavens. She closed her eyes to calm the grief welling in her soul. Somehow she would see the prophet, even if it took years. Gil's death would not be in vain. She would not let him down.

“Israel.”

Her eyes flew open. “Yes—” She swallowed hard. “Master.”

“Do not bother to pack for me. When we leave for Damascus in the morning, it will all burn.”

She nodded.

I already have left everything.

7

Twirling black billows of smoke rose into the early dawn sky, eager to overtake the hesitant sunrise. Hannah's eyes and nostrils burned as she watched the flames consume Naabak's dwelling.

A soldier shoved clothes in her direction. “Put these on. Throw your infected rags in the fire.”

She took the tunic and tried not to think of how Konath and his men had come by it. At least there were no blood stains to remind her of its former owner.

The soldier did not move away. His gaze sat heavy on her breasts.

“Am I not afforded privacy? Hebrew women are taught to be modest.”

“Mount up,” Naabak shouted. He sat astride a horse with more armor than was owned by her whole clan of priests.

The soldier raced to obey Naabak's order, but she had traded an unknown set of eyes for Naabak's.

“Will you turn away, Master?” Respect filled her voice.

He hesitated.

“For your wife?” She appealed to his honor.

Turning his horse, he faced his men, keeping an acceptable distance for a leper.

She hid behind a donkey that was to be her mount and whipped off her clothes, covering her body before another Aramean could indulge his lust. The nightmare remembrance of Konath's hands on her thigh sent a shiver through her bones.

Sitting atop her donkey, traveling in the dust of her new master, she looked for Gil. But all she saw was his ghost. How could she, a cursed sinner, have lived and Gil have perished?

A full day of travel brought the caravan of soldiers and bleating livestock to a walled fortress set high on a stair-stepped cliff. The black-colored muzzles of sheep were now grayed with dust. Sweat dampened any cloth visible from under the soldier's chest plates. In the distance was the city of Damascus. She guessed the prominent gold-crested dome was where the king resided.

Naabak's armor bearer grabbed the mane of her donkey. “This way.”

He led her across a field and down a stone street. All the while, she etched the landscape into her brain. She would venture this direction again. Alone. To freedom.

They stopped at a chiseled archway. The armor bearer shouted for her to dismount.

Hannah's thighs stiffened as her feet hit the ground. She hobbled up the steps into an entryway where a giant mosaic of a grand peacock greeted her. She traced the square-cut tiles of baked clay feeling as broken as the pottery. Was this the home of Naabak's wife?

Her guide left her to admire the art.

Run, she thought. But where?

Footsteps echoed on the clean-swept floor.

“A breathing, living gift.”

The Aramaic greeting startled her. She whipped around. A young woman draped from shoulder to ankle in indigo scarves stood before her. With gold filigree dangling from her ears and bathing her neck, this woman had to be Naabak's wife. A wife whose age matched Hannah's.

She dropped to her knees, straightening the borrowed tunic and adjusting her head covering.

“If I did not know of my husband's state, I would be jealous of how you spent last night.”

“Of me?” How could this woman whose beauty shone like polished bronze be envious of a slave? A masterpiece of braided hair crowned the woman's head. Cascading ringlets, the color of onyx, complemented her dark skin. “I am least of all a temptress,” Hannah offered.

“Hah. You could be. There is something hidden in your eyes that tantalizes even me, let alone a man. My husband must have seen something to offer you his protection.” She grasped Hannah's arm and lifted her to her feet.

“I am to serve you, but I do not know what to do.” Her gaze fell to the lady's polished toenails.

“Nothing. Until I give you a task. Now, tell me of my husband. Everything you observed. His face…”

Hannah looked into the tearful, curious eyes of her mistress. How did one describe a decaying husband to his wife?

“Your husband's face is…” She tried to find a word that would not get her beaten. “Worn.” Unease tingled in her gut as she envisioned Naabak's deformities. “His nose is no more, but his hair is long and full.”

“And his hands? Are they mostly whole?”

Hannah hesitated. Her mistress seemed eager for a good report. She licked her cracked lips. Dry ridges of skin threatened to cut her tongue. How much should she share? The truth. She needed to gain this woman's trust. “I am afraid he has only a few fingers.”

Naabak's wife stiffened as one told of death.

Will she punish me for my honesty?

“He keeps a distance from me. From everyone.” The voice of her mistress was small and strained. “We had only shared the marriage bed for three weeks and then he fell ill. When you cannot touch one that is yours, it is easier to go off and fight. And fight well he does.”

Hannah's heart hollowed. Naabak's prowess had claimed Gil's life.

“It is getting late. Follow me to my chamber.” Naabak's wife indicated a staircase on the far side of the room, the opposite direction from which Hannah had come.

“Yes, Mistress.” The title nagged at her conscience. She could hear her father's disdain. A Levite did not serve a pagan.

“In my home you will call me by my given name, Reumah.”

“Is your family located here for me to serve?” Hannah tried to sound humble as she observed how many people she would have to slip past when she escaped.

Reumah gave a detached chuckle. “And chance the plague or a disgruntled spirit? My father received coin aplenty when I married, but all I received was isolation. What I wouldn't pledge for one more night of ecstasy to be filled with Naabak's heir. At least, then, my future would be certain.”

And what of my future? I cannot stay in a foreign land and worship foreign gods.
“I was to attend a newborn in Jerusalem. Now I will serve you.”

She followed Reumah up each stair. The lady lingered in her ascent as if each step moved her closer to the gallows. What rush was there for her mistress, she thought? She had no brother or child to attend. Near the top of the staircase, Hannah glanced out a window at the bustling of soldiers below. A town of canvas tents and mason-laid barracks dotted the plain, holding her interest.

A touch came upon her arm. In her exhaustion, she didn't remember how long she had been staring at the men scurrying outside.

“Only a fool would leave this house without an escort. The men respect my position and follow my letters. If you leave without protection, you would be theirs for the taking.”

Hannah turned toward Reumah. “My life and my virginity are all that I have left, and that is due to your husband's mercy. He took pity on a poor prisoner.”

“And he is not here.” Reumah's brown-eyed gaze bore in on Hannah. “The ring where his men train is more suitable for him. If you see death every day, your own mortality becomes easier to bear.”

“I don't believe death will ever be commonplace for me. When I saw death, I hid
.
”

“You are Hebrew? Are you not? Do you not slaughter?”

A river of sparks sizzled to her fingertips. She breathed deeply and forced an ignorant smile. “I have seen the sacrifice of animals for cleansing, but not of people.”

“Yes.” Reumah's face lit with remembrance. “I have heard of that.”

She followed Reumah down a hall until she stood before two mahogany doors carved in floor-to-ceiling vines. Hannah expected to see grape clusters hanging from the doorframe. When Reumah displayed the room, Hannah chuckled to herself to see cushions the color of celebratory wine.

The bed in the corner of the room beckoned to be noticed. A tapestry of scarlet, mustard, and green thread hung above a courtyard of pillows. Images of Gil flashed in her mind. She envisioned him coming through the door, grinning, ready to finish their journey. She missed his tender touches. His teasing. Her chest ached like someone squeezed her heart. Bending, she clutched a fist to her breast. .

“Are you ill?” Concern filled Reumah's voice.

Did the woman think she was succumbing to Naabak's leprosy? She would not be cast from this position as lowly as it was. “I was remembering someone I loved.”

Reumah seemed relieved. She ushered Hannah over to a cedar table and acted as if they were relatives sitting down to discuss the day's news at the city gate.

“I have never known a man.” Her cheeks warmed with her confession.

“But the man?” Reumah's eyes sparkled with interest.

“Is dead.” She stroked the knot on her rationed belt. The garment's owner fared no better than Gil. Both had been slain in the promised land of God, but she was dragged to sinful soil. Would her curses never end?

“It's unfortunate good men die in battle.” Reumah offered her a spoonful of honey from an alabaster jar. “Eat. It will brighten your eyes. I had some earlier today. It is the sweetest I have tasted in a long while.”

“You are too kind to a foreigner.” Hannah let the flattery slip from her tongue. Her gut tensed.
Gil did not die in a just war. He was trapped and murdered.

She accepted the spoon and smacked her lips, swirling her tongue around her mouth like she could taste the thick liquid. She knew nothing of sweet or delectable. “I should be serving you.”

“Oh, you will.” Reumah placed the spoon back into the jar. “But you have seen my husband and Mereb has not.”

“Mereb?” Hannah wondered who else was in the house.

“Another slave.” Reumah glanced toward the door and then laughed. “He is an old Moabite. Time spent with him does not go swift.”