The Crimson Cord: Rahab's Story (6 page)

They neared the Hall of Justice, but the hour was already past for an audience with the financier. Gamal’s pace grew quicker, and Tendaji’s already exhausted legs could barely keep up. When they reached the guards at the prison, Gamal shoved Tendaji forward. He stumbled, and Gamal gave him another shove, pushing him to his knees.

“This man owes me a month’s worth of silver and cannot pay it. I’m handing him over to you until he pays me in full.”

Tendaji’s stomach churned as fear sliced through him. He had not eaten in hours and would not likely see a meal in this dark place. And yet, suddenly he did not care. Except for his mother, it mattered little what happened to him. He could die in this place. Would that reunite him with Kahiru?

Rough arms grabbed Tendaji as the scribe at the guard’s gate handed Gamal a clay tablet. “Come back tomorrow, and the magistrate will work out the terms of the man’s sentence. You will be paid when he earns his keep.”

“I’ll be here.”

Tendaji heard Gamal’s heavy, limping footfalls recede behind him as the guards escorted him through the prison gates. When the guard shoved him into a windowless room and shut the door, his depression deepened. He felt his way along the dark walls. Finding no place to sit or sleep, he carefully sank to the dirt floor and buried his head in his hands. Perhaps he deserved this somehow.

He silently let out a string of curses on the moon, his father, Gamal, himself. And death for taking all he held dear.

4

R
ahab ladled stew into a second clay bowl as she heard Gamal slam the door and whistle a welcoming tune. She had not heard the sound of his music in . . . she could not remember how long. A sense of relief filled her. He must have simply gone out to clear his mind, to realize what good fortune they had already received. She poked her head from the cooking room to the entryway.

“I held supper for you.” She set the bowl on a low table and moved to retrieve a fresh loaf of flatbread.

Gamal sank down onto the wooden bench, one of the few pieces of furniture he had not sold, and took the bread from Rahab’s hands. He ate in silence, and she waited, knowing him well enough to keep her questions to herself.

“Sit with me and eat,” he commanded after requesting a second bowl.

She handed it to him, set her own bowl on the table, and took the bench opposite him. She dipped her bread into the stew and chewed slowly. The silence grew.

“Tomorrow I will have the silver I need,” he said at last. He lifted a brow, his look holding challenge.

The relief she’d felt quickly vanished. She lowered her gaze in respect. “How is that, my lord?” She had not seen him take anything with him to sell. Perhaps he had found work, though at this hour she could not imagine who would hire him.

He reached across the table and lifted her chin to force her to look up, his smile unnerving. “I went to collect an old debt. The man couldn’t pay, so I took him to debtors’ prison.” He leaned back and put his hands behind his head, obviously pleased with himself.

Rahab searched her mind for who could possibly owe Gamal money that he had not already claimed to feed his gambling habit. “Who?” she finally asked, setting the piece of flatbread she was about to eat onto the table, no longer hungry.

“Someone from my war days. It’s been three years. If I counted interest, which I intend to do, he owes me a great deal more than he borrowed.” Gamal took up the bread and dipped it once more into his stew, as if the conversation were a normal day’s discussion. “So what did you do all day?”

Rahab stared at him. He did not intend to tell her? “I worked on dyeing linen, weeded the garden, and ground the grain for the bread.” Her voice sounded as deflated as her hopes.

Gamal nodded, seeming not to notice. “Good. That’s good.” He chewed in continued silence.

Rahab worried her lower lip, drawing on courage she did not feel. “Are you speaking of Tendaji the Nubian, my lord?”

Gamal tensed, slowly lifting his head. “What if I am? It doesn’t matter who, dear wife. Getting my hands on the silver
is what matters. The magistrate will give me a down payment on the man’s work, and I will continue to collect for at least a year. Maybe more.”

Rahab’s stomach grew queasy. She pressed a hand to her middle to still the feeling. By his lack of admission, she sensed Gamal’s guilt, however insincere. He knew Tendaji still grieved the loss of his wife and son, if the rumors were true—and Cala was seldom wrong on town gossip. And now his mother was gravely ill. Surely Gamal knew.

“I told you, Rahab, our fortunes are changing. Things are going to be looking up from now on.” He picked at a tooth with a fingernail, removing a piece of parsley that had lodged between two slightly crooked teeth.

“I hope so, my lord.” She looked at him, but he did not meet her gaze, and she suddenly realized by his rigid posture that the subject was closed. Gamal did not care about the Nubian’s grief. Gamal thought as little of the darker-skinned peoples as Prince Nahid did, whose disdain was well known. Rahab had never understood their prejudice but knew better, after years of Gamal’s moods, than to say so.

But the thought of what her husband had done to the poor man sickened her already upset stomach. Was Gamal’s memory so short that he could forget the prince’s mercy toward him? How could he go and be so cruel to someone else in return?

Gamal wiped his mouth on a linen cloth and pushed the bench back. She rose with him and cleared his dish the moment he left the room. He avoided her gaze as he walked toward the bedchamber, his limp barely evident. He would not expect her to follow so soon and would probably be snoring by the time she put the food away. Though it was barely
night, he would sleep, then rise and leave her for the gaming house, even without the silver he so craved.

The best thing she could do was to stay out of his way. But she also knew as she watched his retreating back that she could not let him do this to an innocent, grieving man, despite the color of his skin. She must find a way to help free Tendaji, whatever it cost her.

After a restless night, Rahab slipped out of bed before dawn. She retrieved all of the silver and bronze she could spare from the jar beneath the mat and tucked them into a hidden pouch in her tunic, then set about mixing the wheat flour with oil and starter, setting it to rise. Her sister Cala should be awake soon, and Gamal would not miss her. He would sleep half the morning after the amount of beer he drank last night, and she had wondered when she awoke in the dark of night if a woman’s perfume was not also among the many scents her husband carried. Had he been with another woman? A common harlot? Or someone he loved?

An involuntary shiver shook her as she pulled the iron kettle from the fire and set herbs in a clay cup to brew into a strong, dark tea. She had no room to condemn Gamal when the fingers pointing back at her carried the memory of Dabir. They were a sad pair, she and Gamal, each pretending to care for the other.

When had her love for Gamal waned?

She stilled at the sound of palm fronds blowing in the early morning breeze outside their window. Tendaji’s cell likely had no window, and her husband slept in the next room, not caring for the condition of the man. How could Gamal do
such a thing to a friend? And what would happen if Dabir heard of Gamal’s actions?

Guilt filled her as she glanced at the sky. To even think of Dabir felt like betrayal. A loyal wife would not have slept with another man. Though why she thought so, she did not know. Everyone in Jericho could tell tales of unfaithfulness, and they were told with pride, not shame. Why then did she feel such guilt?

Dabir could help Tendaji. The thought tickled the edges of her mind, and for a fleeting moment, she toyed with the idea of going to see Dabir rather than Cala. But Dabir might not appreciate the assumption that she expected favors from him now. He despised Gamal. And she was not so hateful as to see her husband sold into slavery as a result of her loose tongue.

The brewed tea tasted bitter, but she let it rest on her tongue before swallowing, then set the cup on the wooden shelf near the clay oven, grabbed her cloak, and left the house.

The early light of dawn cast pink shadows over Cala’s home, and birds chirped their greeting at Rahab’s approach. A low fire glowed in the main courtyard where Cala already had a kettle of water set to boil, though there was no sign of Cala herself. Rahab opened the gate, cringing at the squeak, hoping the noise would not wake Tzadok. She stepped through and held the gate, moved it slowly back into place, then took a seat on one of the stone benches and waited. Cala came from the cooking room, carrying two jars.

Rahab stood. “I need to talk to you.” She took one of the jars from Cala and carried it to the bench.

“You’re up early.” Cala settled her pregnant body onto the opposite bench. An iron griddle sat on its prongs near the
fire, and she pulled it to her to set about grilling flatbread. “Pour some of that here.”

Rahab obeyed, half grateful for someone to tell her what to do, then set the jar in its niche in the stones. “Gamal has done something . . .” She stopped. Dare she tell even Cala?

“Has he hurt you again?” Cala’s round brown eyes filled with concern.

Rahab looked away, touched a hand to the cheek that still held tinges of purple. “No. He didn’t hurt me.” She swallowed, then glanced around, assuring herself they were alone. “Gamal took Tendaji to debtors’ prison last night.”

Cala’s eyes grew wide. “The Nubian?”

Rahab nodded. “The one who befriended Gamal after he was first injured during the war. But then Tendaji’s father died, and he was the one who needed help. So Gamal loaned him some silver. He wasn’t gambling as heavily in those days.” She glanced beyond Cala toward the house and sighed with relief when she saw no sign of Cala’s husband.

“Tendaji lost more than his father, if the gossips are right,” Cala said. They shared a knowing look. “So what happened? Gamal threw Tendaji into prison . . .” Cala’s hands had stilled from mixing the wheat and oil.

“Let me do that.” Rahab’s own hands suddenly needed a task, and Cala readily handed her the bowl.

“Did Gamal ask him to repay the debt?”

Rahab squeezed the dough between both hands. “Yes. Gamal has it in his head that his luck has turned and all he needs is some silver to make our fortune. How can he not see that the cancellation of our debt was an amazing mercy on the part of the prince? Why does he seek to put us right back where we were?” She blinked at the sudden moisture in
her eyes and looked at her sister. “Is there something wrong with me that he is not content to live as normal men? Why must he always risk all we have? And now this!”

Cala rubbed a hand over the place where the babe grew within her, her look thoughtful. “It’s not your fault, Rahab. You did not choose Gamal, and you could not know how such recognition after the war would change him. But you are not the reason Gamal gambles or takes such risks. And nothing you can do will change him.”

“If I had borne him a son, he would not take such risks.” She ripped a piece of the dough from the mass and stretched it flat. When it baked, it would puff into soft bread, the kind Gamal preferred.

“Even a son would not make Gamal into a caring husband and father. A good man is good without a reason.” Cala touched her arm, her gaze emphatic and kind. “You know this, Rahab. Do not let him make you feel worth nothing.”

Rahab nodded, pushing her guilt aside. “You are right. If Gamal was a good man, Tendaji would be in the fields this morning and caring for his mother this night.”

Cala drew in a breath. “What can we do? How will he care for her from prison?”

Rahab shook her head. “I do not know. But someone needs to go to the magistrate and seek Tendaji’s release.” She touched the place at her side where the precious metals lay hidden in the pocket of her tunic. “I’ve brought some silver and bronze . . . Perhaps I can pay for Tendaji’s release.”

Cala frowned, stretching her dough into a flat circle. “You cannot do such a thing. Why not just give Gamal the silver yourself then?”

“Gamal would still demand what is owed from Tendaji.
He would not need to know where this came from. But if I go . . . I don’t know if they will do as I ask.”