Angels at the Gate (23 page)

At the street's edge, I stop at a display of clothing. With an alertness for movement that rivals the falcon's eye, the merchant catches my gaze and moves in. “This is an exceptional shawl. See the fineness of the pattern and the tight braid of the fringes?” she says. “A lovely gift for your mother or sister!”

I stare at her for a long moment. Finally, scarcely aware of my thoughts, I say, “I will buy it and that one too.” I point to a plain wrap that will not draw attention to me. “Do you have a woman's sheath dress to go with it?”

She is taken aback that I do not even ask the price. I note the space behind her goods where she stores other material and slip inside, stripping off my woolen robe and breast bindings. I roll the finer scarf and stuff it into my leather satchel, donning the plainer wrap. When I step out, aside from my short-cropped hair, I am a woman.

Among a thousand women dressed as I am, I still feel I am walking naked through the streets and all eyes are on me. After wearing woolen robes all of my life, the linen brushes my skin like a cloud. However, as
much as I hated the bindings on my breasts, I am not sure how I feel about the little jounces caused by my steps. A glint from a display catches my eye, and I stop to purchase a pair of silver loop earrings and endure the piercing. Then I reward myself for the pain by buying a pretty multi-strand necklace of blue glass.

And thus, I present myself at the palace.

“What is your business?” An officious man stops my progress through the chambers.

I repeat what I have told the guards. “Tabni sent for me.”

He eyes me with a narrow gaze. “Whom should I announce to the Priestess Tabni?” His emphasis on the word “Priestess” is meant to be a curt reminder of manners, but it is the first actual knowledge I have of her position.

“Please tell Priestess Tabni—” I hesitate, as I had named myself Adir, the cousin of Abram, to her. “Tell her Adira, cousin of Abram, has responded to her summons.”

With a curt nod and wave at a series of wooden benches, he leaves.

I settle myself on an empty seat and am at once the object of a searing scowl. The disagreeable expression belongs to a woman who sits across from me. At first, I cannot imagine how I so quickly earned her disapproval, and then I realize I have sat in my customary manner, my legs spread in a position no respectable woman would assume. Hastily, I send my knees together. It will not be easy to change the mannerisms I have spent my entire life cultivating.

The woman sniffs and plucks a cup from a serving tray presented by a slave. I do the same. And then we wait.

I do not wait well. After a long enough time for the sun to shift its position, I ask the man beside me how long he has been waiting.

“Only three days,” he says and goes back to the clay tablets he has been studying.

Only three days
.

It occurs to me I have an opportunity I may not regain. Besides, it is uncomfortable to have to hold one's knees together for long periods of time.

I rise, paying attention to the way I hold myself, and walk down the long line of people waiting to see the court. In the graceful, unobtrusive manner I have observed in the slaves, I pick up a small tray with a half-f
copper cup that has been left on a low table and continue with it down the aisle.

“Slave,” a man gestures, “bring us something to eat; it is nearly noon.”

I nod, pleased I have succeeded in establishing my new position as household slave merely by changing my demeanor. At the first doorway, I turn and walk through it without hesitation, as if the guard knows me on sight.

He does not, of course, and gives my shorn hair a hard glance. I feel my cheeks burn and lower my gaze even more. His spear blocks my way. “What happened to your hair, girl? Did you displease your mistress?”

At once I understand his discernment that I have displeased a mistress and not a master. Only a woman would punish by cutting off another woman's hair. “You are very astute, sir,” I say in a humble, sincere voice, staring at his sandals and hairy toes.

With a derisive snort, he lets me by.

Elated, I absorb the persona of a slave girl who has displeased her mistress and must look and act as if her shorn hair does not bother her. This, I decide, requires an extra boldness to compensate. The next guard who stops me gets a fleeting glare before I lower my gaze. To my surprise, he laughs and reaches for me, pulling me hard against him. He smells worse than Chiram, something I thought impossible. His beard scratches my cheek. “I like women with some salt to them,” he says, his hot tongue probing my ear.

My gasp is not an act, and I wrench away from him, very conscious of the fact that had we not been in the king's apartments he could have forced his way on me. I have never felt this vulnerability before. Suddenly, I wish for the rough woolen robe and the bindings I discarded so casually behind the merchant's stall along with the security of being a boy. No wonder my father had supported and encouraged this deception. Women are not safe alone in the world.

It is a realization I always knew, but had never
felt
.

I do not like it.

Love work; and hate lordship; and make not thyself known to the government.

—Shema'iah,
Sayings of the Fathers

I
CONTINUE THROUGH THE EMPTY ROOM
in the king's palace, stealing glances at the fine furniture, rugs, and pottery I know must come from distant lands. The urge to examine the weavings is strong. My time with the desert women only deepened my interest. From travels with my father, I could discern differences in patterns and the single knot of the south versus the northern double knot, but I am certain there are many variances throughout the world. I want to know how people make their clothing, the foods they eat, the animals they raise, and the gods they worship. For a moment, I forget my oath to my father and dream of traveling to distant lands and learning these things.

Then I remember the strength of the guard's hand and his invading tongue and my father's plea for me to go to Sarai. She would find me a husband if one would take me. If I were not carrying a tray, my hand would have found the bridge of my nose. My hair will grow out, and perhaps she will find a young man who will have me, and I will bear him children, and we will grow to care for each other. Or perhaps we will find Raph, and when he sees I have crossed the desert for him, he will realize his love for me and take me in his arms. Of course, we must go to Sarai
and be married in order to fulfill my vow to my father, but that should not be too much to ask, after all I have done.

I move to another room where several finely dressed people are deep in conversation. There is talk of war and conjecture as to which land poses the greatest threat. I keep my eyes downcast, listening to the conversation for some clue or reference to Raph. The hand that reached the great distance from Babylon to snatch him held a large amount of silver. Could it have been the king himself? And if so, why?

Someone reaches for the cup on my tray and then, realizing it is not full, sighs and turns back to his conversation with another, ignoring me. “The south is a brew of trouble. If Rim-Sin II makes an alliance there and threatens a trade embargo—”

How astonishing. I have never realized the power of a slave to slip through the world practically unnoticed.

But this cannot go on indefinitely. Someone who knows the slaves and what their duties are is sure to expose me. So … what am I doing? Can I return to the waiting room without attracting notice?

At that moment, I stop, unable to believe what I am seeing and forgetting I am supposed to look submissively at the floor.

I have slipped into a room where the floor is patterned with small stones and an elegantly clothed man sits in a high-backed chair of carved wood. No one needs to tell me this is the king of Babylon, Samsu-iluna, the son of Hammurabi. Dark, oiled curls of his beard churn down his chest, and a tight cap worked in gold threads sits atop his head. His feet rest on a small cedar chest carved with a crescent and five-pointed star—a chest I recognize!

To one side stands the woman I met in the market, the Priestess Tabni, her position now clearly marked by a gold circlet. Before her and the king, a man kneels. He is dressed only in the simple skirt of the field slave. His broad back faces me, but I would know it anywhere because it belongs to the man I love—Raph!

Unlike Mika, whose height is mostly in his long legs, Raph is imposing even on his knees. His back is straight, though he fights weariness in his shoulders. He keeps them pulled tightly, but I can see the tiny tremble of taut muscles.

Samsu-iluna leans forward, addressing Raph. Everyone's attention is on the scene at the king's feet, and no one pays attention to a slave girl with her tray, even the soldiers at honorary attention on either side of the king's chair.

“You are a stubborn man,” Samsu-iluna tells him.

“I have told you all I know,” Raph says. “It is my brother who can ascend, not I, and my brother is now somewhere in the far east. I do not know where.”

His Akkadian is much better than when he was stolen from me, as good as Mika's.

Samsu-iluna leans back. “Then you will die digging irrigation canals.”

Raph says nothing.

“Are you certain you do not know where this ‘brother' is?” Tabni asks.

A chill snakes its way into my belly. What would the King of Babylon say if he knew Raph's brother was within his gates? I do not know what Raph meant by “ascending.” Is it dangerous? Raph has not been killed, at least not yet. But despite my feelings for him, I would not give Mika into this king's hands, even for Raph's sake. There must be another way to save both.

With a wave of disgust, Samsu-iluna says. “Take him away.”

That is when the tray falls with a clatter from my hands.

For a moment, every eye is upon me, and my heart jumps, lodging in my throat. I am not clumsy by nature, but the shock of seeing Raph numbed my fingers. To my surprise, his gaze slides across my face without recognition. His beautiful eyes are weary.

I say nothing to him. My silence shields the fact that Mika is here. I step aside, and the guards escort Raph from the room at spear point. My gaze follows him. I hold myself rooted to my position to keep from running after him. Too much is at stake.

When I turn back, I find Tabni's gaze fixed on me. “Adir?” she says finally.

I straighten, trying to draw my thoughts together. My mouth is dry, and I am unable to speak. Then, amazingly, I feel a firm pressure on my left shoulder, though no one is there. A wave of calmness sweeps through me. When my father would have me translate as a child, he would grasp my shoulder just so to encourage me. Our tribe does not worship the ancestors, but I must blink back sudden tears at the comfort of my father's presence.

I meet the priestess's sharp gaze for a moment and then bow my head in respect. “Adira, actually, Lady. I traveled as a boy for safety's sake.”

“I see.” She looks over my shoulder. “And who escorted you into the king's chambers?”

“I—” I half turn, as though someone was just with me. “I do not remember his name.”

Samsu-iluna shifts on his seat. “So who is this you speak with, Priestess?” He flips his hand at me, his voice tired and bored, dark eyes barely registering my existence.

Tabni turns to him. “A young … woman I met by chance yesterday. She says she speaks the Egyptian tongue, and since the envoy's translator died in the crossing, and we currently have no one fluent at court—”

“Excellent!” Samsu-iluna cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “I will not have to try and figure out Bashaa's ramblings, and perhaps we can avoid antagonizing the Egyptians and gaining yet another enemy hovering over us. Find her some decent clothing. What happened to her hair?”

Tabni signals a woman who sweeps me out of the room before I have a chance to answer. Indeed, I do not think the question lingers on the king's mind, for he has already turned to another and is deep in conversation.

W
HEN
T
ABNI, FOLLOWED
by a young man, appears in the room, I have been dressed in a similar style to the clothing I purchased, but of a much finer quality. She frowns at me. “I had meant to interview you and test your knowledge, not have you to burst in upon the royal court.”

I lower my head, my hand to my chest. For a moment, I am distracted by the soft fall of the headdress around my face, a clever addition to my garments, meant no doubt to hide my shorn tresses. “Priestess, please forgive me.”

There is no forgiveness in the stern lines of her face. She is obviously not accustomed to young boys becoming girls and appearing unannounced in the king's receiving room. I think she is about to tell me these things, but instead, she waves the young man forward. “This is Bashaa. He speaks the Egyptian tongue.”

“Only a little,” Bashaa says in Egyptian. “And my accent is rough.”

He is a handsome man and looks at me in an odd way that causes my cheeks to flame. I shift my weight, uncertain where to put my hands. His gaze flickers down and then back to my face where it remains, and suddenly I realize he is attracted to me! An act of will keeps my hand from my nose.

“Well,” Tabni says, her tongue a sharp blade. “Do you understand him or not?”

My blush deepens. Where is my father's hand now? I can imagine it would be knotted in the back of my clothing, pulling me back into the tent. With that vision, my throat unlocks, but I know better than to smile.

“My apologies,” I say to Bashaa in Egyptian. “Please continue speaking.”

“Where did you learn the language?” he asks.

“My father is … was a merchant. We have traveled to Egypt many times, and I learned the high tongue from Sarai, the wife of Abram, who is the patriarch of my tribe.”