Angels at the Gate (33 page)

“That is outrageous!”

“Yes, but the judge found in favor of the local man.”

I eye Eliezer's straight, unyielding back. “I would wager that did not lie well with him.”

“No.”

“What did he do?”

Ishmael grins. “He struck the judge in the forehead with his walking stick and demanded to be paid for a bloodletting.”

I laugh in delight. Nami looks up at my outburst, checking to make certain all is well.

“It took intervention from Abram to save him,” Ishmael continues, when I am again paying attention. “So you can see why Eliezer cannot set foot inside Sodom.”

“At least not until that judge dies.”

“At least until then,” Ishmael agrees with a smile.

We walk in companionable silence as the sun rises and drinks the morning moisture.

“What are you thinking?” Ishmael asks.

“Only about the sun.”

He shades his eyes. “It will be hot today.”

Again, I laugh. “A fine prediction, worthy of a shaman. Ishmael, only you would say such a thing.”

Ishmael looks smug. He does have a sharp-witted tongue, and I hope Sarai and Hagar find him a wife who will appreciate him.

We do not talk of my marriage but, at length, I say, “Ishmael, there is a thing I wish to know.”

“What?”

“How did Lot's first wife die?”

“She fell from a cliff.”

“Sarai told me that. What else do you know?”

He shrugs. “What else is there to know?”

“Why did she climb a cliff?”

“Maybe searching for a lamb?”

I sigh. Ishmael translates everything into the world he knows.

“Ishmael, she did not watch a flock. She lived inside the city and oversaw the house and took care of her daughters. The river runs near their house. There was no need to climb anywhere.”

“Perhaps she just wanted to see what was up there?”

Although this would have been perfectly true of me—at least before the Babylonian guards robbed me of my agility—the thought of Hurriya doing so seems as unlikely as Lot taking me as wife. I frown. “Perhaps.”

So the Lord told Abraham, “I have heard a great outcry from Sodom and Gomorrah, because their sin is so flagrant.”

—Genesis 18:20

A
S SOON AS ELIEZER AND
Ishmael turn back, I miss their company, even the stoic Eliezer. Lot pays me less attention than he did when he thought I was Zakiti's son. I find a bit of comfort in the beautiful staff Ishmael gifted me, made from a branch of one of the sacred oak trees of Mamre. It helps with my injured leg, especially negotiating rugged terrain. And, of course, I have Nami. She runs off periodically, but always returns and presses against my leg to let me know she loves me and has only gone to investigate the terrain. She did not do this before my injuries.

We descend the steep hillside, an agony for me, and a feat I could not have managed without Lot's decision to allow me to ride the donkey, more out of frustration at my pace than consideration for me. We cross the plains south of the Dead Sea into the Vale. I try to keep my mind from dwelling on the previous trip when each stolen glimpse of Raph made my heart gallop. So much has happened since that time! How can I be the same person? I know I am not. I am a stranger to myself.

All but two of the donkeys are to be left at Lot's tents. When we arrive, I look out on the rich grasslands and breathe deeply. On the journey here,
I have remembered the stench of Sodom. How did I think I would be happy inside a city? But what choice did I have? Sarai made it clear I could not stay with them, fearing Ishmael would insist on marrying me. And I swore to my father I would follow her wishes for me. Lot is a wealthy man, Abram's favored nephew. No one can say she has not done wisely and generously for me. Yet, I grasp at the chance to live where I can breathe freely. The winds here do not carry the taint of the city or the belching pitch pits. These are Lot's lands. I could be useful here as his wife.

I approach Lot. “Husband,” I say, trying out the word for the first time.

He jerks, as if the word is a slap. “What is it? Do you want for something?”

“No.” This is a lie. I want for many things—my father, Mika, my life with the caravan, my leg and face whole, but it is foolish to want these things that can never be. “I am well,” I say instead. “But I do have a request.”

He narrows his eyes.

I angle my face as if I am staring off into the hills, so he sees only the damaged side to remind him of what he will have to gaze upon every day if I stay with him in the city. “I ask to stay here and watch over your … our flocks. That is my greatest skill. I fear I am not skilled in keeping a household.”

Lot reaches down and plucks a blade of grass, chewing on it. Then he folds his hands across his belly and taps his thumbs together while he considers my request.

“It would make me happy to be here,” I add, hoping he has some interest in that, as he apparently has no interest in taking me to bed. This would be a great offense if I were able to bear a child, but I am not, so what does it matter? I do not care to lie with him either.

After a moment, Lot unlaces his fingers and takes the grass blade from his mouth. “No,” he says. “You must come with me to the city.”

“Why?”

“I need to have a wife present in my house.”

That is all he will say. I bite my tongue to restrain my anger. I can see from the veil that falls over his eyes he has some reason he will not share with me for his pronouncement, and no arguing or tears on my part will change his decision.

T
AKING CARE TO
skirt the oily pits of pitch, we approach the gates of Sodom. As we pass one black pool, a large bubble catches my attention. Fascinated, I watch it swell, the surface thinning into an oval egg glistening with rainbow colors until finally it bursts. I cough at the noxious smells released.

Lot laughs. “You will become accustomed to it.”

I cannot imagine. When I was here before, I endured it, knowing it was only for a short visit, but now I enter the gates of my future home.

Just beyond them is the wide plaza, called simply, I recall, “the Gate,” as the foyer in a home is known as the “little gate.” The Gate is where much of the city meets to do business or to converse with neighbors. Beyond that sits the temple of Asherah and her Baal, not nearly so imposing as Ishtar's temple. Beside the temple is the king's palace, again a pale reflection of Babylon's. The bricks here are plain, simply covered in a limestone wash. No dyes or beautiful colored tiles adorn the walls; no canals pierce the city's center. The people wear drab clothing, as if unwilling to draw attention. I remember what Ishmael said, and I see Sodom with new eyes. It is a city scarred by famine and fear before my birth; abandoned by the gods when the rivers dried up; and razed by enemies who descended upon it like locusts.

I expect some greeting from the people of Sodom. Lot is a wealthy man, and surely, being the nephew of Abram, one of influence here, but people turn from him or stare with cold gazes.

“Why are they not welcoming you?” I ask.

“They tire of my preaching.”

“Preaching?”

“Since the angels of El came, I tell them of El's way, and they despise me for it.”

I look up at the goddess's temple as we pass by. Here, at least, an attempt at beauty has been made. There is greenery around the courtyard, and the gates are open. Any man can come here and lie with a holy woman. It is a sacred act that reinforces the fertility of the fields. During the culminating day of the Spring Rite, the chief priestess lies with the king to ensure winter's hold on the land is not eternal, that new life will press up through the darkness of the soil. This has been the way for so long, no one can remember a time before.

I am trying to unearth what Lot means by “El's way.” And what does it
have to do with the god and goddess of Sodom? I do not understand Lot's meaning. “What,” I finally ask, “is ‘El's way?' ”

He glowers at me, and I see a fire in his eyes more frightening than anger. It is cousin to the way Abram looks when he has spoken to El, but Lot's glare contains ferocity, an assurance that allows no questions, no deviation. “El demands we worship no other god, no goddess!” He has raised his voice so those near us hear him clearly.

He receives angry looks, and a deep foreboding lodges in my chest. I have never heard this from Abram's mouth or my father's. We are to put El above all other gods, but everyone welcomes the presence of the goddess in their house, and most also worship their family's gods. I do not know what would happen should Abram announce that El demands they stop. I wonder if Abram and Sarai know about Lot's pronouncements.

We arrive at last at Lot's house. It is too strange to call it “my” house, even in my mind, though I suppose it is. When I was last here, Lot's wife, Hurriya, laid out a bowl for me to wash my feet and looked at me with suspicion. She was a woman who observed closely, as I did, and something about me made her question my gender. I am almost certain of it, but I will never have an answer to that, unless she sends back a message from the land of the dead, Mot's domain.

We bring the pack donkeys inside to the reed-strewn courtyard, where we are greeted by Lot's household and daughters. Pheiné, the elder, gives me an openly disdainful look. Her sister, Thamma, stares with wide eyes, as one would stare at a man with no arm or a missing ear.

“Why did you bring such a woman home?” Pheiné demands before I can even open my mouth to speak.

“She is younger than we are.” Thamma protests. “Are we to call her ‘Mother?' ”

“Show respect,” Lot thunders.

Thamma's foot stamps. “I will not call her ‘Mother.' ”

“There is no need,” I say, realizing I must say something, as Lot's bellowing seems to have had little effect on them. My heart is sinking. I do not think these women will call me “sister” either.

At that moment, a small woman with slender hands enters from the back rooms with an armful of fresh reeds. She is not much older than I. When she sees me, she stops. Her eyes rest only briefly on my face and then drop down to Nami, and a smile flits across her mouth as quickly
as a sparrow's flutter. I like her at once. She was here before, but I hardly paid her attention. “Pardon my forgetfulness,” I say to her. “What is your name?”

“Lila, Lady.”

I nod and open my hand toward Nami. “This is Nami.”

“The dog can stay outside,” Lot says, beginning to unpack one of the donkeys, who nuzzles the ground looking for dropped bits of grain. The house chickens squawk and scatter.

I stiffen. “Husband, may we speak?”

“What is it?”

My gaze sweeps the area of the little gate. “With privacy, please.”

He sighs deeply. “Very well.”

I follow him to the room I assume is where he and Hurriya slept. There are beautiful wall hangings and cedar furniture holding alabaster pottery. On one stand is a box inlaid with ivory. I open it to reveal necklaces of cowrie shells and lapis lazuli. They are mine now. The thought brings no joy. No jewels or fine clothing can transform me into a woman of beauty. Men's heads turn to me for a different reason.
Stop this
, I demand of myself. I lift my head and take a deep breath. In the corners, scented oil burns. It is a lovely room, and someone has made certain it was clean and welcoming. I suspect Lila.

“Husband,” I say, my tongue still thick around the word. “Nami is not like the city dogs. She never fouls inside a dwelling or tent. She is clean and well mannered.”

“A dog is a dog; they are all garbage eaters.”

“No, that is not so; she is desert bred as a hunter. She is very valuable.”

At this, his expression changes, and I take advantage of what I learn from this. “Someone would recognize her value and steal her, should she be left outside.”

“Well,” he wavers. “It is your household.”

“And I want my donkey to stay also.”

“A donkey is no problem, but the dog—”

I lift my chin, ready to fight for my rights.

“Very well, it can remain inside then, but I do not want it near my food.”

Relief floods me. If he had banned Nami, I would have sat outside the door with her until embarrassment forced him to allow her in. But I am glad to have crossed that pit without such measures. I take another
breath. In the past few moments, he and I have exchanged more words than in all the days since we wed. While I have him in a mood, I ask, “Why do girls of your daughters' age not have their own families?”

He shrugs and turns his back to me, tossing a dusty pack onto the bed. “I will not marry them until they are willing. Hurriya found suitors, but neither girl was satisfied. I cannot blame them.”

“The evening meal is ready!” I recognize the voice as Lila's, and before I can ask another question, Lot is through the curtained hanging that separates our sleeping room from the inner courtyard. “Good!” he bellows. “I am as empty as a well in the wasteland. Bring me an ox, and I will eat it whole!”