Between the Wild Branches Page 4

  The only thing that stopped me from asking about the mountainside town I’d known so well was the sacred box hidden on that summit, tended by Elazar himself. Nicaro would not dare approach the artifact after what had happened the first time the Philistines had stolen it from a battlefield. Although Ashdod had long since healed of the plagues that had killed my aunt and uncle—Mataro’s parents—along with the rest of his siblings and hundreds of other people in the city, the memory of it was deeply ingrained. The golden vessel was rarely spoken of, and when it was, it was accompanied by some of the foulest curses I’d ever heard.

  But what did any of this have to do with my appointment as the Master of Games? Nicaro must have seen the confusion play out across my face.

  “There are rumors,” he said. “Ones that, shall we say . . . undermine my reputation and have made some of the most influential people in this city nervous.”

  “What sort of rumors?” I dared to ask.

  “They say there is a new leader among the Hebrews. One whose influence has grown steadily in the past ten years or so. From what we hear, he has been traveling throughout the Hebrew territories, destroying the ancient Canaanite high places and dishonoring the gods. And even more disturbing, he’s somehow accomplished what no other Hebrew leader has done in hundreds of years—persuading some of the tribes of Israel to set aside their long-held squabbles and join forces against us. From what my commanders tell me, it was not only Danites at Tzorah, but Yehudites, Benjamites, and Efraimites who came together to protect the city. They know that I mean to take Ayalon next, and with it the road to Beit Horon.”

  From what I knew, that trade road cut straight through the foothills all the way to Jericho, which was a crossroads that led not only north to Damascus but to the territories of Moab and Ammon. Taking it would open up lucrative trade between Philistia and many nations to the east. No wonder Nicaro wanted to dominate that route. Ashdod had the sea and its ports, yes, but between her and an abundance of wealth lay the Hebrews. The fact that they dared remain as an obstacle was obviously a point of great frustration to our ambitious king.

  “Between these setbacks, the drought that has plagued us for the past two years, and the lightning storms that set fire to the olive orchards to the south of the city a few months ago, there is concern that the gods have withdrawn their favor from my house. I cannot afford for anyone to question my right to this throne, Lukio. I will not tolerate any chatter among the people that has the potential to grow into a swell of support for my enemies.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he speared me with a look of determination. “But you, Lukio. Champion of Ashdod. You are loved by all. They scream your name. They beg for you to touch them as you pass through the crowd. They paint their eyelids brown and green in honor of Demon Eyes.”

  Such an odd way to honor my eye color. I’d thought at first that I’d been disoriented after a fight when I saw a group of young women with different colors of kohl on their lids, but apparently it had become quite the fashion over the past couple of years. I’d even seen a few men wearing such markings.

  “With you as the Master of Games, the whispers against me will fade. Your popularity with the people, in conjunction with your public support for my kingship, will outweigh these temporary setbacks and none will dare question the power and prosperity of this city.” His eyes seemed to spark blue fire as his voice rose, and I found my breaths quickening, affected by his fervor. “Together, we can lift high the name of Ashdod above all the other Five Cities and make her famous among the nations.”

  “You truly think that I can have that sort of influence?”

  “I do,” he said, his tone smooth but as impenetrable as the wrought iron our people were known for forging. “And to prove the solid bond between us and erase any doubt of where your loyalty lies, you will marry my daughter.”

  It was all I could do to keep my jaw from dropping into my lap. “You offer me one of your daughters?”

  “Yes. The youngest, Mariada. She will make a good wife to you. She is quite young, of course, and certainly not the boldest of my daughters. But she is surpassingly beautiful and obedient. Her mother is my third wife, who has given me four sons and two daughters, so without doubt Mari will give you plenty of your own children.”

  “You honor me, my seren, especially when I am not of royal blood,” I responded, awed that a king would offer me a marriage contract when such a thing could be used to make connections with other royal families, Philistine or otherwise.

  He waved away the unspoken question. “I have five other daughters, Lukio, all who’ve made profitable matches. And I have full confidence that an alliance between you and I will reap unparalleled rewards in other ways. I well remember our conversation during that harvest feast, my friend. Even if both of us were four or five cups into the celebration, I heard your ideas about arranging one large festival devoted solely to games. One that would not only display the strength and prowess of our people to all the neighboring cities, but that would also draw competitors from other nations, anxious to prove their own skills, and draw even more spectators with silver and goods that they’ll be eager to wager and to barter with in the marketplace.”

  My eyes flared wide at the revelation that he’d actually listened to my half-drunk ramblings and found my ideas worthy of consideration. So worthy, indeed, that he would offer me Mariada—a young woman I’d seen only once at that same harvest festival, who’d been so astoundingly beautiful that I’d barely been able to peel my eyes off of her. With thick, abundant black curls that flowed past her waist, smooth alabaster skin, a tantalizingly curvaceous form, and eyes that somehow were even bluer than her father’s, she would be the prize of any powerful man. And Nicaro would offer her to a brute whose only value was built from pummeling other brutes with his fists? A man whose own father thought so little of him that he’d disappeared the moment he’d been born?

  There was little for me to consider. Nicaro was not only offering me a bride to fill my empty home with offspring, but a place within his family, and a position of power in this city that I could never have imagined as a dirty-faced boy scuttling about in its gutters, rolling dice with other street urchins.

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my seren. I am at your service in all things and vow to bring honor and renown to our city and to your throne, both as Master of the Games and as your son-in-law.”

  His smile was nearly as brilliant as the flaring sunset over the sea just outside the window. He clapped his palms together. “I will call my scribe now to prepare the betrothal contract and the announcement about both your appointment as the Master of Games and your upcoming union with Mariada. By morning, the entire city will be abuzz with the good news.”

  Therefore, before Mataro laid his balding pate on his pillow tomorrow night, he would know that he no longer controlled me. I could practically hear his shrieks in my head and hoped that Nicaro would attribute the victorious grin on my face as mere delight with our agreement.

  As the royal scribe prepared the document that would set both contracts in stone, that sweetly freckled face and hazel eyes I’d imagined in the crowd yesterday floated through my mind. However, with fierce determination, I forced it away for the last time. She had made her choice long ago, and now I had the chance to annihilate any leftover childhood longings by marrying one of the most desirable women in Ashdod. My old enemy Medad may have stolen Shoshana from me, but now I would marry the daughter of a king.

  Five

  Once the agreements had been created, with both our signet rings marking the clay of each contract as complete and irrevocable, Nicaro himself led the way toward the rooftop terrace, where some of the women of the household were partaking of a meal.

  As foolish as it was for a man who spent many of his days pummeling others into submission, the closer we got to the terrace and the moment I would meet the woman who would soon be my wife, the more my limbs jittered with nervous anticipation. I toyed with the ivory plug in
my earlobe, needing something to take my mind off what was to come.

  “Fear not, Lukio,” he said as we began to ascend the stone stairs side by side. “You look as though I am sending you into a den of lionesses.” He patted my shoulder, his laughter echoing off the bright depictions of seabirds on the walls around us.

  “I am merely looking forward to meeting your daughter.” For the first time I wondered exactly what her reaction to all of this might be. Shock? Anger? Dismay?

  “She will be pleased,” he said, answering my unspoken concerns. “I have no doubt. As I said before, you are a favorite of many women in this city, my own household included.”

  Of course, whether or not Mariada was impressed by my skill or appearance was irrelevant. She had no choice in the matter; the deed was done. Her desires meant nothing to Nicaro, only that the alliance between us was a successful one.

  “The women love to eat up here on this hidden terrace,” said Nicaro, “especially when the weather is hot and the breeze sweeps off the sea. I designed it especially for Amunet, my first wife, who has a particular fondness for the water after growing up in a palace overlooking the Nile.”

  Nicaro had been married to Amunet when he was only fourteen. The daughter of an emissary to Pharaoh, Amunet had been offered as a means to strengthen ties between Egypt and Ashdod. The mother to five of his sons, among them his heir, she was a powerful woman in her own right and known to eviscerate incompetent slaves without remorse.

  As we climbed the last few stairs, I took a deep breath to steady myself, then exhaled in slow measure in time with each step, a practice I had learned to calm my pounding heart before a match. It would certainly not do to let these women know how truly nervous I was, so I pretended that I was merely stepping forward to meet my next opponent.

  Five women sat around a table at the far end of the terrace—two of Nicaro’s wives and three of his daughters—with an array of delicacies spread out before them. Unaware of the arrival of myself and the king, the woman who would someday bear my children was talking animatedly with one of her sisters before she took an enormous bite of a sweet roll. Mouth full, she swiped at the honey that dripped down her chin and giggled. The sound was unexpectedly endearing and took away a small measure of my anxiety.

  An infant let out a sudden and piercing squall, halting all conversation and drawing the eyes of everyone to the babe in the arms of Tela, one of the king’s eldest daughters.

  “Why did you bring that child up here?” said Amunet with a distinct edge of disdain. “It’s obviously in need of the wet nurse.”

  The sharp rebuke made Tela’s face go pale. “You are right, my lady. She’s been in a foul mood since her teeth began coming in.” She turned to one of the slaves who was standing nearby and held out the child, her own voice a near-echo of Amunet’s imperious tone. “Take her down to my room and have her fed.”

  Although Tela was married to Virka, one of the two commanders whose conversation with Nicaro I’d just overheard, they occupied chambers within the palace itself; an offer that was made to me during marital negotiations, but which I’d respectfully refused. I’d not spent the last five years building a well-appointed household of my own to set it aside and live in the palace, no matter how lavish the accommodations. I wondered why Virka had chosen to do so and whether he regretted being under Nicaro’s watchful eye.

  Catching sight of the king and me as the young slave scuttled past us with the fussy little one tucked into her shoulder, Amunet startled, her kohl-lined eyes going wide. The beautiful Egyptian woman was a few years older than her husband but was adept at hiding it, wearing black braided wigs and heavy cosmetics to hide any hints of aging. She was a daughter of the Nile to be certain and clung to the trappings that identified her as such, even though she’d now lived the majority of her life in Ashdod.

  “Husband?” she said, her tone distinctly less haughty than before as her curious gaze cut to me and then back again to him. “What brings you to our table?”

  At her words, the rest of the women on the terrace turned their attention to us, and one by one their mouths dropped open, the last of them Mariada herself, whose bright blue eyes were the largest of the lot. With a wine cup halfway to her lips she stared at me in blatant shock.

  “I have wonderful news to share with you, my queen,” said Nicaro. He placed his palm on my shoulder in a fatherly gesture that caused a surprising tightening of my throat. “You all know Lukio, the champion of Ashdod.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Amunet, her gaze taking me in head to toe before a carefully gracious smile curved her hennaed lips. “One would have to have one’s head in a posthole for the last few years to not know of the famous Demon Eyes.”

  “Exactly,” said Nicaro, “and we are fortunate that he has just accepted an appointment as the Master of Games.”

  Although a flicker of surprise crossed Amunet’s face, it was quickly replaced by regal composure. “Indeed? A bold choice, husband. Oleku has held that position for many years.”

  “That it is,” he said, with the slightest edge to his tone, “and one that was not taken lightly by any means. Oleku has been well-compensated for his excellent service to the throne.”

  “You are most generous,” she replied, with a deferential tip of her chin. “I am certain Oleku is thoroughly satisfied with your decision and that our champion will prove to be equal to the task.”

  Although every word between them was achingly polite, I had the distinct impression that there was an entire conversation going on beneath the surface that the rest of us were not privy to.

  “Of that I have no doubt,” said Nicaro. “This young man has plans that will bring glory to our city like never before.”

  Amunet’s kohl-drawn brows lifted high as she once again swept an assessing gaze over me. “Does he?”

  He ignored her question and urged me forward. “Lukio, I believe you met my wives at the harvest festival,” he said, gesturing to Amunet and Savina. Orada, his second wife was rumored to be quite ill, so I was unsurprised she was not here with the others.

  Murmuring a greeting, I bowed my head, first to Amunet and then to Savina, knowing full well that deference was to be given to the queen above all others.

  “And these are some of my beautiful daughters. This is Tela”—he placed a palm on her shoulder—“daughter of Orada, my second wife.”

  Tela bowed her head slightly, keeping me in her sights as she did so. With her mother hailing from Sidon far to the north, Tela had inherited hair the color of rich red earth and deep brown eyes but bore a regal expression on her narrow face that made clear her parentage.

  “And that”—he pointed across the table to the other young woman—“is Jasara, eldest daughter of Savina.” Jasara, like her younger sister, had thick black curls, but she’d not inherited Nicaro’s blue eyes. Instead, she fixed me with a brazen, brown-eyed stare full of meaning, but I ignored it as Nicaro tugged me by the arm to the end of the table, where Mariada sat blinking up at her father in bewilderment.

  “And this . . .” He held out a palm to her, and she accepted his hand with a hundred questions playing out across her lovely face. “This beauty is my youngest daughter, Mariada.”

  The young woman gave me a shy but confused smile. “It is my pleasure to meet you.”

  She truly was one of the most exquisite women I’d ever laid my eyes on, and a surge of pride that she would soon be mine welled up in my chest. Not only would I be the most famous fighter in Ashdod and the Master of Games, but every man would envy me my wife as well. Mataro would probably swallow his tongue at the news, since there was nothing he loved more than drink except beautiful women.

  “I am glad you’ve all finished your meal,” said the king, the comment a clear command as he glanced around the table. “I need to continue my conversation with Virka and Grabos about the raid, but I do believe Lukio and Mariada have a few things to discuss. In private.”

  On a little gasp, Savina’s hand flew to
her mouth. Obviously, Nicaro had not informed his third wife of his intention to make her daughter my bride. He also seemed not to care that Mariada had gone crimson with embarrassment, nor that he was leaving me to give her the news of our marriage, alone.

  As the others began to rise from their seats at the table and servants swiftly cleared the table, the king turned back to me. “We will speak again soon. I’d like to hear your plans for the boat races within the week.”

  “It will be my honor, my lord,” I said with a bow of my head.

  With no further comment, Nicaro strode away, in a rush to meet with his commanders before they returned north with renewed forces and supplies. With a pursed-mouth scowl, Amunet followed closely on his heels, and I wondered if she meant to intercept him. Something told me Nicaro’s first wife was none too pleased with any of the unexpected news today but was too well trained to question him in front of others. Tela and Jasara followed soon after, but not before flashing matching frowns at Mariada as they took their leave.

  Savina leaned to press a kiss to her daughter’s cheek before whispering something in her ear that caused a tight and seemingly contrived smile to come over Mariada’s lips.

  “The breeze is cooling now that the sun is going down.” She brushed a hand up and down Mariada’s bare arm. “I’ll send your maid up with a wrap.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” she replied in a tone so soft it was barely audible.

  With one more nervous glance toward me and a tight nod my way, Savina left the two of us with only the distant shush of waves against the rocky shoreline and the shriek of a few seabirds wheeling overhead to mitigate the silence.