The Crimson Cord: Rahab's Story (5 page)

3

R
ahab stood at the bronze kettle set over the fire, dipping her spun thread into the red dye. She had spent yesterday with her sister, gathering poppies for the scarlet color, as she could not find enough crimson worms to produce the color in large amounts. Poppies weren’t nearly as rich a shade, but the yellow anemones for the golden threads winding through the garments should add to the color’s lack.

A sigh lifted her chest, and she tightened the scarf over her nose to mask the smell of the dye combined with the leftover scent of the retted, drying flax coming from the roof. Weaving had its happier moments, but these were not her favorites. Her only consolation came in knowing she could provide food for their table, to feed Gamal’s belly, even if she could not console his moods. She watched him from the corner of her eye, a caged mountain goat, always butting his head where it didn’t belong.

“I’m going out,” he said after his third look into the pot that held the dye. He scrunched his face and whirled about,
no sign of his limp, and stomped toward the gate. “I’ll be back in time to break bread.”

He slammed the gate and turned toward the center of town. Toward the gaming houses. Did this city never sleep? The seedier businesses stayed open long past the sun’s setting and opened shortly after dawn. If a man wanted to drown his worries in barley beer or strong drink, they were more than happy to comply.

She turned from stirring the dye once more to step into the house, away from the sun’s glaring heat. Gamal had known not a moment’s peace in the week since the prince’s pardon.

If he was not careful, he would ruin everything.

“Rahab?” She startled at the sound of Gamal’s voice. Back so soon?

She hurried from the house to the courtyard and met him near the gate.

“Is something wrong, my lord?” She glanced at the bubbling dye and grabbed the stick to stir it once more.

He snatched his staff from where he had left it leaning against the wall. He couldn’t very well pretend to limp without it.

“I need silver. Where did you put the coins you earned from your last sale of these things?” He pointed to the loom in the opposite corner, where a wide swath of cloth stood partially finished.

“I spent it on food and on flax to make more linen and baskets. I gave you the rest last month.” As much as she would tell him of it.

His nostrils flared with thinly veiled anger. He walked into the house, stomping about, moving furniture, rummaging through their things. There was nothing left worth selling.
He had already bartered away their wedding gifts, and though he won a few gambling matches now and then, he would lose even more the next night, always digging his hole and theirs a little deeper.

Please, don’t let him look under the mat.
She had taken to offering silent prayers to the air around her. For though the moon god had apparently freed Gamal from the prince’s anger, he had not changed Gamal. Her husband was as difficult as he’d ever been, all gratitude lost within the first day of his reprieve.

Gamal’s curses reached her ears. She poked the wooden prong into the bubbling dye again and lifted the threads. Satisfied with the shade of crimson, she carefully pulled the dyed flaxen threads out of the simmering pot and placed them in a similar pot of tepid water to cool. The tapping of Gamal’s staff stopped behind her.

“When will you be done with that? How soon until you can sell more of it?” His desperate tone revived the worry she had unsuccessfully laid aside. She lifted the last of the fiber into the cooling pot.

“Why do you need silver so badly, Gamal? Our debt is canceled and we have food to eat and a house to live in.” She straightened, facing him. “We have each other. What more do we need?” She gentled her tone, but a chill worked through her at his suddenly charming smile.

He took a step closer and reached for her hand. “A man wants to provide well for his family.” His gaze swept over her, and the flicker of sudden longing filled his gaze. He hadn’t forgotten a man’s need for sons, but the reminder only added to her ever-increasing guilt. “And this house is too small.”

She stared at him, but words failed her.
She
had failed him.
To remind him that they did not need a bigger house for two people would be to remind him of her worthlessness.

He leaned close to her ear. “Did you not see the grand columns of the king’s halls? Why can’t a man like me, a man who saved the prince’s life, be afforded similar pleasures? We deserve more, Rahab, and after I convinced Nahid to cancel the debt, I knew the gods were smiling on us again.”

Cold fear shook Rahab, though the heat of the fire and warmth of the midday sun made beads of sweat break out on her forehead. She met Gamal’s gaze, pulled her hand from his grasp, and wrapped her arms about her. “No . . . it isn’t right.” Her words, a mere whisper, were not lost on Gamal.

“Of course it’s right.” He took a step away from her, his glare piercing. “Why don’t you ever believe in me, Rahab? No man always wins at the tables, but some have made enough to buy their wives jewels and build bigger houses on King’s Row. I can finally do the same for you, and you throw it back in my face?” The pitch of his voice rose with his ire, every word punctuated.

She stole a look at him again, holding herself slightly away, afraid he would slap her. But he whirled about, slamming his staff against the stones as he walked toward the gate instead. “I will get the silver, Rahab, and make my fortune.” He threw a look over his shoulder. “You’ll see.”

Rahab stumbled over to a nearby bench and sank down, huddling beneath the shelter of her own crossed arms and hooded veil. How could Gamal not see the dangerous end to his plans? Had Prince Nahid’s mercy meant nothing at all to him?

She watched him pass through the gate, his curses lingering in his wake.

Tendaji hefted a sack of newly threshed wheat over his shoulder, forcing himself to be grateful for such an abundant harvest. Sweat from the afternoon’s heat still glistened on his skin, and the weight of the sickle hung from his belt. But his mother would eat and that was good.
Please, let
her eat.

When she was gone, he would stop caring.

If only Kahiru had lived.

He fought the urge to shake his fist at the sky. The moon god did not care about a Nubian’s grief. Most of the people of Jericho had little use for him or his family, especially since Kahiru had been lost in childbirth, taking their son with her. Kahiru, a Jericho-born Canaanite, had not cared about the color of Tendaji’s dark skin. She had cared about him, had loved his family, especially his mother.

He swallowed the grief, hefting the sack to his other shoulder. She’d been so small, so beautiful. What had she ever seen in him, big brute that he was? He sighed at the memories, the harsh, blaming looks that followed her death. As if he had somehow caused it.

And now his mother had succumbed, had let the grief of too much loss fill her belly in place of food. Perhaps there was only so much pain a body could hold and still breathe.

He had seen too much pain.

Kahiru’s face filled his mind’s eye, though it did not linger. The memories were fading with each passing year . . . Their son would have been walking by now. And had he lived, Tendaji would have taken him often to the fields to learn to handle the bow and arrows. As all Nubian boys learned long before they truly became men.

He glanced at the half moon not yet fully visible in the fading sunlight and nearly spat in the moon’s face. What good were prayers unanswered? What use a god who did not hear?

He rounded a bend leading to a small house on the farthest edge of town, struck by its crumbling mud-brick walls. Weariness made every muscle weak as he dumped the sack onto the cracked courtyard stones and sank onto the bench, wondering if it too would betray him and give way under his weight. A clay basin leaned against the wall, and tepid, brackish water sat in a cistern for him to wash his feet. He closed his eyes, imagining for the briefest moment what it would be like to have someone else care for his needs.

To have Kahiru back again.

A
hobble-clop
coming from the street drew him up short. He straightened and stood, turning away from the sound. No one would intentionally visit him here.

But the thumping clop of a limping man made him turn again toward the courtyard. “Gamal?” He blinked, certain he was mistaken.

“It is I, as you can see.” He came closer and stopped.

“What brings you to my humble home, Gamal?” Wariness filled him. He had not seen Gamal since the war. Only his wife had come to pay her respects when Kahiru abandoned him to Sheol. “Won’t you sit and take your rest?” His courtesy won over caution as he motioned to one of two benches that circled a cold hearth at the edge of the small court.

“I have not come to visit.” Gamal’s tone was hard, and the light from the setting sun bathed his face in shadow. Tendaji felt the skin on his neck prickle. Gamal was a friend. He relaxed his stance.

“Well then, how can I help you?” Had something happened
to Gamal’s wife or another family member? Sudden empathy filled him. How well he could relate.

“I came to collect the silver you owe me. I need it now.” Gamal’s hand fisted around the staff he leaned against.

Tendaji heard movement inside the house and prayed his mother’s caregiver would not take that moment to come outside to greet him. If his mother heard this commotion, she would worry, and she was already too frail.

“My earnings are few, Gamal, and I owe a debt to Mama’s physicians and caregivers.”

Gamal looked at Tendaji, his expression and the disdain it carried all too clear. “You owe a debt to me as well. A debt far older than the one you have now.”

Tendaji took a step backward. “I don’t have it. I’m sorry.” He glanced at the sack of grain. “Do you need food? Is someone ill? If I can help you, I will.”

Gamal seemed unfazed by Tendaji’s offer. “I don’t want your apologies. I want your silver.” His deep voice dropped in pitch. Suddenly he lifted the staff and shoved it against Tendaji’s chest, pushing him against the wall of the house. “You will give it to me now, or I’ll take you to debtors’ prison.”

Tendaji grabbed the staff, trying to free it from jabbing his ribs, but Gamal had the leverage of surprise and only pushed the end of the staff harder. Tendaji had underestimated Gamal’s strength.

“Please!” Pain shot through him, and he felt a rib crack. Anger, swift and fierce, choked him. What was wrong with the man? Tendaji tried again, this time forcing the staff from Gamal’s grip.

But Gamal closed the distance, both hands coming around
Tendaji’s throat. “Pay me what you owe!” His words were barely audible through gritted teeth.

Tendaji struggled to breathe, fighting to break Gamal’s hold, but Gamal’s whole body now fell against Tendaji, holding him against the wall. He fought for air, trying desperately to shift his weight to lift a knee and shove Gamal from him, when suddenly Gamal let go. Tendaji dragged in a breath, then another. Gamal stepped back a pace, and Tendaji bent forward, hands on his knees, straining for a breath deep enough to replace the air he’d lost.

But before he could get his bearings, Gamal’s thick arm came around him, his hands tightening on both shoulders. He tried to drag Tendaji forward. Tendaji connected a fist to his jaw. Gamal reeled back, lost his balance. Tendaji scrambled free.

Gamal shot forward. Grabbed Tendaji’s arm, wrenching him closer. “You are coming with me to the judges. If you will not pay me now, I
will
collect every coin from the overseers.” The words hit Tendaji with the force of a punch. He did owe Gamal the money. He was in his rights to demand payment.

Tendaji stilled, ceasing his struggle. “Please, Gamal, if you send me to debtors’ prison, there will be no one to care for my mother. Give me time.”

“You have had three years. Your time is up.” His big hand clamped down on Tendaji’s arm, and in that moment Tendaji knew it would do him no good to fight. Mama would suffer if he killed the man, and where else could a fight lead?

“Can I say goodbye to my mother? Please?” He could almost hear her desperate weeping when he did not return.

“She’ll hear about your whereabouts soon enough.” Gamal
dragged him toward the gate, and this time Tendaji did not argue.