The Crimson Cord: Rahab's Story (39 page)

“Are you talking to the donkey?” Othniel chuckled at the scene they must have made as he tied his own sack to the donkey’s other side.

“Better than talking to myself.” Salmon had seen Rahab talk to that silly cat of all things. “Don’t most men speak to their beasts?”

Othniel pointed at himself, then waved a hand toward the Damascus gates. “Not this man. But I can barely talk to the woman I love, so you might as well count me hopeless.”

They doused the fire that still lingered from the night before, and Salmon took hold of the animal’s reins. They walked to Damascus’s gates with Othniel humming a familiar tune, actually managing to put Salmon at ease. They stopped at the guard post to state their business.

“We are in search of a slave,” Salmon said, tapping the head of his staff as he spoke. “He was purchased about a year ago in Jericho by a merchant named Qasim, son of Ratib. We have need to see him.”

The young guard looked them both up and down, his spear held in front of him like a shield, easily able to block their path. “Jericho? I thought no one came out of there alive after the Israelites attacked them. Where did you say you’re from?”

I didn’t.
“We come from outside of Jericho. We heard what happened to the city. Terrible loss.”

The guard’s gaze grew skeptical. “We have all kinds of slaves in Damascus,” he said at last. “Doubt you’ll find one from Jericho, though.”

“His name is Gamal,” Othniel put in, offering the guard a friendly smile. “I believe his gambling debts got him sold into slavery. Good-looking man, so I’m told.”

The guard raised a brow. “Gamal is a common name, even here.” He studied them a moment longer, then stepped back. “Enter and search all you like. You can check at the Hall of Records, but I doubt you’ll find him.”

Salmon nodded at the man as they passed under the wide arches of the stone gate. The streets teemed with turban-clad men and women covered with colorful scarves and flowing robes. Donkeys and camels piled high with goods were unloaded by merchants, while men and women haggled over prices. Salmon glanced at Othniel, then heavenward, his prayers for wisdom silent, urgent.

What other nation is so great as to
have their gods near them the way the Lord our
God is near us whenever we pray to Him?
The memory of Moses’ words came to him as though the prophet still spoke.

“Does our God seem near to you when you pray?” Mishael had whispered in his ear that day.

Salmon had not known how to respond. “Sometimes,” he’d said. “I guess so.”

But he had doubted his own answer. Was God near to those who prayed? He had pondered that question long into that night and beyond. Truth be told, despite all he had witnessed, sometimes he doubted it still.

They moved through the crowd, making inquiries of every male merchant in the area, to no avail. The sun had risen
halfway to the sky by the time they finally stopped near a fountain in the center of the city and watched as a crew of workmen raised a mud and brick building across the wide street.

“I wonder how many of those men are slaves?” Othniel pulled a handful of dates from his pack and bit into one.

Salmon focused his attention on the men, whose tanned backs glistened with sweat. Only slaves would work in the heat of the day when others took time for a rest and repast.

“Probably all of them.” He studied the group, searching for one who might be in charge. Spotting a man sitting in the shade, fully clothed, he left Othniel with the donkey and walked close to the man. “My lord, may I speak a word with you?”

The man glanced up, startled. He eyed Salmon through a narrowed gaze, his right hand loosely gripping a wooden stick. Probably the supervisor of these men.

“What can I do for you, stranger?” His smile showed uneven gray teeth.

Salmon straightened, feeling the slightest twinge of fear that they had entered a town with little to defend themselves. What if the town leaders decided to hold them against their will, to make them slaves as these men?

“We are looking for a slave from Jericho, a man named Gamal. He was sold to Syrian traders over a year ago.” He straightened and lifted his chin, hoping his confidence would keep the man from thinking he could be easily cowed.

“So you say? And what would you want with such a one?” The man ran his tongue over puffy lips, then paused to take a swig from a wineskin. Was the man besotted?

Salmon looked him up and down, then noticed the ring
in his ear. This supervisor was as much a slave as the rest of them. One glance at his feet showed a blackened toe and streaks of purple crawling up his leg. Salmon took a silent step back.

“Do you know this Gamal from Jericho?”

“I might.” He took another swig. “What do you want from him?”

Insight dawned on Salmon as he continued to take in the man’s appearance. “Are you yourself this Gamal of Jericho, my lord?” A little respect couldn’t hurt his chances of finding the truth. And the man seemed about the right age. At one time he was likely a man of handsome looks. But he appeared to suffer some type of sickness, and Salmon had a sense that he was more ill than he had first seemed.

“I asked what you want with him. Any information I give will cost you.”

Salmon reached into a pouch in his belt and pulled out a small silver nugget he had recovered from Ai. “If your information proves worthy, there is another like it waiting for you.”

The man eyed the nugget, snatched it from Salmon’s outstretched hand, and bit down on it with broken gray teeth. Could a man change so much in only a year?

“I know this Gamal from Jericho,” the man said.

“Are you him?”

The man shook his head. “No, but I shared a cell with him when they first brought us here.” The man’s hollow eyes darted to the crew still building the wall. Seemingly satisfied that all continued as it had, he glanced again at Salmon. “He was a good looker, that man. Quick with his tongue too. Tried to talk his way out of slavery, then tried to gamble his way to freedom. He thought the world owed him something,
that one did. Turned out to be a good-for-nothing.” He spat onto the stones near his feet.

Salmon took another step back and crossed his arms. “What happened to him? Where can I find him?”

“You can find him in one of the pits outside the city, buried with the rest of the scum.” He blinked hard, then shrugged one shoulder. “S’pose I’ll end up in that pile one of these days. Got the wasting sickness, I do.” He pointed to his feet. “Not that I’ll miss this life much. But it is a little worrisome not knowing what lies beyond the grave.”

“You are telling me that Gamal of Jericho is dead?” Salmon dared not believe the man, though every part of him wanted to do so. “How do I know you tell me the truth? Who can confirm your words?”

The man turned and pointed to a building at the end of the block. “That’s the magistrate’s office, the Hall of Records. They’ve got the list of all those sent to debtors’ prison or purchased with the king’s money. Gamal bragged from the moment he arrived that he would soon be free or at the very least would personally serve the king, but like I said, he talked too much, and his tongue got him in trouble. They cut it out before they killed him.”

Salmon’s stomach recoiled at the image. “About how long ago did he die?” If it matched Rahab’s story of the rumors she had heard, it would be enough.

The man looked thoughtful, as though it took time to pull the memory from his mind. “It was cool in the prison then, so it must have been winter. The walls nearly bake us alive in the heat of summer.”

“And you are sure of this?” Surely God did not answer a man’s prayers so quickly.

“Said so, didn’t I? Check it over there if you don’t believe me.” He pointed a crooked finger behind him.

Salmon glanced toward the official-looking building. “And they will give this information to anyone who asks?”

The man looked at Salmon as if he had grown feathers. “It’s a public building for the people of the city. Are you from Damascus?”

Salmon shook his head. “No. We are travelers passing through. Gamal was related to someone close to us, and we were hoping to locate him. That is all.”

“It would be just like Gamal’s luck to miss you then. Are you going to give me the rest of that silver now or not?” The man sipped again from his wineskin, and Salmon debated whether to pursue this thing further. Rahab had told him that Gamal had a scar just below his hairline from the battle where he saved the prince’s life. But this man wore a turban that covered his forehead.

“I’ll give you the silver if you let me buy your turban.” He couldn’t very well just ask him to remove it.

“Well, that will cost you more than one measly lump.”

The turban was filthy, and Salmon didn’t even want to go near the man to touch it, but he nodded agreement. He reached in his pouch for three small nuggets. If he was wrong in his guess that the man was lying and that this in fact was Gamal, he would be poorer, though probably no wiser. He drew in a breath and handed the silver to the man.

“The turban, please.”

The man tucked the silver into his shirt, his eyes gleaming. He pulled the dirty piece of cloth from his head and tossed it to Salmon. The thing was probably crawling with vermin, and Salmon could not wait to throw it in the gutter. But his
quick examination of the man’s forehead revealed no scar, only a balding head covered in red splotches.

Salmon looked at the pathetic man and tossed the turban back to him. “Keep the silver, my friend. I believe you.”

“Wouldn’t lie to a stranger,” he said, taking the cloth and wrapping it once more around his head. “Never know when you might be talkin’ to an angel.”

Salmon startled at the comment but said nothing and slowly backed away.

33

S
almon returned to Othniel’s side, gripped the donkey’s reins, and turned them toward the city gates without a backward glance. Neither man spoke as they wove their way around the crowds lining the Way of the Merchants, and they simply nodded to the guards as they passed once more beneath the Damascus gates. When they had covered some distance from the towers beside the gate, Salmon at last released a breath he’d held too long.

“I’m going to assume by that sigh you are satisfied with our mission?” Othniel took a turn holding the donkey’s reins as Salmon lifted a skin of water to his lips to soothe his parched throat.

Salmon capped the skin and wiped the droplets from his beard. “Not entirely satisfied, no. Let’s just say the place put me on edge.” He looked at Othniel and took the staff he had draped from the donkey’s side to use as he walked. “In Jericho, we were almost caught, if not for Rahab. Though we were not sent to spy out Damascus, I sensed they are not a city that would take kindly to us if they discovered we are
Hebrews. Did you not notice how many slaves worked on those buildings?”

“Hundreds, by the way they swarmed over the place.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t want us to end up among them.” Salmon’s heart still beat too fast, and he drew in another breath and slowly released it. “The man I spoke to claims Gamal is dead.”

Othniel whistled a victorious tune. “Well then, you have your answer.”

“Yes, it would appear so.”

Othniel met his gaze. “I say it’s the best answer you will get. You could walk from door to door throughout Damascus to see if you could find him or the merchant who purchased him and not do better than what that slave already told you.” He batted the thought away as though swatting a pest.

Salmon dug his staff harder into the earth, leaning into its strength as they approached a hill. “For a moment, I wondered if the man was himself Gamal, the way he seemed so eager to take my silver. But he didn’t have the scar on his face that Rahab had described to me.”

“From where I stood, he looked like he had numerous scars.”

“They were blotches.” The sound of a river they’d crossed drew close, and Salmon picked up his pace to reach it. “I don’t know what disease he had, but I’m going to dunk in the river and hope it carries all contact with the man away from me.”

Othniel pulled the donkey to the side of the bank and allowed the animal to drink, but Salmon stepped into the rushing water, sandals and all, and dipped his head under water. He scrubbed his hair and beard with his hands, using the silt from the river’s floor to cleanse himself. It wasn’t the
best way to wash, but he did not want to take the time to do more.

He glanced up at the sound of splashing to see Othniel walk the donkey through the shallow place where the rocks were few and pass over to the other side. Salmon dunked one more time, rinsing the last of the silt from his hair, and picked his way to the opposite bank.

“I have no blanket to give you to dry yourself, unless you wish to sleep without one tonight.” Othniel looked at him as though he had lost some of his senses.

Salmon shrugged one shoulder. “It matters little. The sun is warm. I will dry as we walk.” He wrung the water from his robe, tunic, and turban as best he could. They walked in silence for a time, but Salmon’s thoughts brought him little peace. Should he believe the man, that Gamal was truly dead? What else was he to do?