Love Amid the Ashes (15 page)

“Ahh!” A frustrated Sitis slammed the table with her fist, sending barley—ground and unground—into the air.

Dinah cast a cautionary glance at Nogahla and stepped farther into the kitchen. “May we be of help?” Dinah offered, bowing slightly.

“I was just grinding a little grain before making dough to bake in the public ovens.” Sitis smoothed her robe and calmly gathered the scattered kernels into the grinding trough. It was a poor attempt at appearing casual. “Job’s cousin Zophar has ovens in his own kitchen, but I’m afraid the merchants in Uz have not progressed to such conveniences.” Dinah noticed a slight quiver in the woman’s voice. “Does your maid know how to cook and run a household?”

Dinah placed her arm around Nogahla’s shoulder to bolster her confidence.

“I know some about cooking,” the Cushite said quietly, “but I cannot manage a household.”

“We’re here to help, mistress.” Dinah winked at her maid, offering her approval. “I’m sure you and Nada can give us direction.”

Nogahla turned and mumbled, “I’m sure bossy Nada will tell everyone what to do.”

Dinah’s breath caught. Feeling the blood rush from her face, she measured Sitis’s response. The woman glanced between her two guests and then released a good-natured chuckle, snapping the thread of tension. “Yes, Nada will no doubt give us all her opinion, little Cushite, but I fear she knows little more about this kitchen than I do.” Wiping a bead of sweat and a tear with the back of her hand, she exhaled and let her shoulders sag. “Do either of you know how to work this awful mill?”

Nogahla’s big, questioning eyes sought Dinah’s permission, and a quick nod sent the girl to retrieve a basket of grain from the corner. Relief washed over Sitis’s features, and all three women pulled stools near the central basket. Nogahla and Dinah each lifted a hand mill from the shelf, and Sitis carried hers from the table. Nogahla adeptly leveled her mill on the stool and knelt beside it, while Dinah and Sitis sat on the stool balancing the mills in their laps, gawking as if the contraptions were two-headed camels.

Nogahla stifled a giggle and shoveled a small cupful of grain into the trough. As she pushed the heavy wheel steadily around the groove, the tender kernels slowly and evenly yielded to the crushing.

Dinah smiled and silently followed Nogahla’s example, kneeling and leveling the mill on her stool. She caught Sitis’s eye, and the mistress seemed equally moved by the Cushite’s gentle instruction. Soon all three women worked together, lulled by the sounds of grinding wheels and the swoosh of finely ground flour emptied into the jug. The peaceful rhythm surrounded them, lifted them, soothed them.

“Sitis, I spoke with—” Nada burst through the tapestry, her face turning gray when she spotted Dinah.

“Nada!” Sitis leapt from her knees, spilling half the barley from her mill. “I’m so glad you’re back from the market!” Her voice was shrill and unnatural.

Dinah had no idea what errands had occupied Nada’s morning, but these women were poor liars. Dinah had grown up in a camp of four imas—a blood mother, her ima’s sister, and two jealous handmaids—where a complex web of deceit was daily bread. She had no intention of becoming ensnared by treachery in Job’s house and therefore had no desire to know where the nursemaid had been.

Nada grasped Sitis’s hands and inspected her palms. “Mistress! You have blisters! What are you doing?” Her eyes narrowed accusingly at Dinah. “How dare you ask the lady of this house to help you grind grain!”

Dinah opened her mouth to explain, but Sitis intervened. “Nada, we must all work since our servants are gone.”

Nada set balled fists on her hips. “But mistress, you shouldn’t—” Her protest was once again cut short, this time by Dinah.

“Mistress Sitis, I have gum-yamin in my midwife supplies to soothe your blisters.” She glanced from Nada to Sitis and hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. “I haven’t had a chance to unload my things from the Hebron caravan in the stable. Would you like me to get them now?”

The kitchen fell awkwardly silent. Sitis tilted her head, assessing Dinah as if deciding whether to keep or discard an old blanket. “Yes, Dinah,” she finally said, her voice controlled and calculating. “Now would be the perfect time for you to unpack your things from the caravan. I’ll send Nada to your chamber when we need further help in the kitchen.” She smiled, and gooseflesh rose on Dinah’s arms. In the few moments since Nada’s arrival, Sitis had changed into something sinister, like a snake emerging from its skin.

Grasping Nogahla’s arm, Dinah nearly dragged the girl from the kitchen.

The Cushite’s eyes reflected the dread Dinah had felt in the pit of her stomach. “The mistress looked like she would eat you with the midday meal.”

Dinah motioned Nogahla to be quiet, and they proceeded through a grand banquet hall filled with intricately carved wooden tables and benches. Dried flowers decorated each table, and the pungent aroma of frankincense filled the air.

“I don’t know why Mistress Sitis wanted us out of that kitchen, Nogahla,” Dinah said, hurrying toward the stables, “but I’ve never been so happy to unpack a camel.”

“Come in, Sayyid. My mistress is waiting for you.” Nada met him at the canopied courtyard gate. Sayyid inspected the workmanship of the Hittite iron bars, a gift from Job’s merchant cousin, Zophar. Eyeing Job’s trinkets and calculating their value, he thought,
I must tell the bandits to enter through this gate. The bars are iron but have no locks.

“Nada,” he began casually, “how can you feel safe when one of the gates remains unlocked?”

The old woman waved away the question as they passed through the beggars’ dining room and then into the grand banquet hall. “Master Job never locks any of the gates, so the servants—” She stopped as if suddenly reminded of the awful truth. “Our servants used to remain alert through the night to offer bread to beggars in need. All Master Job’s doors remained open.” Her sadness slowly turned to resolve. “Master Job is a good man, Sayyid, but you would be better for our Sitis.” A curt nod, and she continued guiding Sayyid through Job’s palace while he pondered the revelation of his new ally. The old woman could be of great help in his quest for Sitis’s affection.

Nada led him into a private courtyard teeming with life. A small fountain bubbled merrily and a vegetable garden boasted ripe melons and lentils. Surrounded by a high sandstone wall with olive trees and flowering shrubs lining the perimeter, a lone figure reclined in the center of the lush garden on a red-cushioned stone bench. Sayyid could see only the shapely silhouette of a woman’s left side—her shoulder, waist, and hip, shaking as she wept. Nada cleared her throat loudly to unsettle the resting form.

Sayyid quietly approached the stone lounge. “Good afternoon, my Sitis-girl.”

Hearing his voice, she sat up immediately but kept her back to him. “Sayyid, you shouldn’t call me that. Someone might hear you.” She wiped her face, and he watched the contours of her shoulder blades through her gray linen robe.

Closing the distance between them, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “There’s no one here except Nada, and she knows that I love you—that I’ve always loved you.”

Sitis leapt from the bench and away from his touch, staring toward a climbing vine on the wall. “Others are here who might tell Job. Please, Sayyid, you must be careful.”

Who could be here?
He’d seen Job and his men leave this morning. They’d trotted off on camels and donkeys toward Job’s death fields. Then he remembered.
Ah, the tall beauty and the Cushite I saw in the dining room last night.

“All right, Sitis. I’m sorry.” He moved around the bench and sat down. “Come. Sit. Tell me why you’ve summoned me.”

She turned, and his heart shattered. Her eyes, ringed by dark shadows, were nearly swollen shut from weeping.

“Oh, Sitis.” His shock came out in a whisper. She raised her hands to calm him, and the bleeding blisters on her palms sent him into a rage. “By the gods, I’ll kill Job!”

“They’re only blisters, Sayyid.” Sitis pressed her hands against his chest but winced and drew back. “I’ve been grinding grain. Please, just listen to me.” She sat timidly beside him.

He cradled her hands gently, turning them, examining them, caressing them. He could think only of destroying Job. He would protect Sitis, provide for her, give her the life she deserved.

“Tell me everything.” He paused and kissed her palm. She drew back and glanced nervously at the doorway. Sayyid blew gently on her neck, and she gaped at him, startled. Smiling at her renewed attention, he said, “I will do anything you ask of me, my Sitis, but you must listen carefully to what I have to say.” He saw his reflection in her ebony eyes and wondered if she truly saw him. Would she see the wealthy, respected grain merchant of Uz, or would she still see the poor farmer’s son from their childhood village?

“Would you finally take a wife if I asked it of you?” She whispered the question.

Sayyid chuckled, thinking at first she was teasing, but her expression remained an enigma, her emotions undecipherable. Was it regret? Was it hope? What could cause the determined set of her jaw but the hesitant furrow of her brow?

“I suppose it depends if that wife is you,” he said finally. “I vowed never to marry any other woman, my Sitis-girl.”

“I told you not to call me that!” she shouted. “Why do you torture me with our past, Sayyid? I have been Job’s wife for forty years. That will never change.”

Now Sayyid’s anger flared. “Did I mention that Bela has convinced the city elders that Job is cursed by the gods?” He paused, letting his words hit their mark. “And were you aware that this morning, at Bela’s suggestion, the elders rescinded Job’s position as chief judge?”

All Sitis’s bluster faded, and Sayyid easily read the new emotion on her features. Etched into the fine lines around her eyes, fear transformed her into workable clay.

A smile played at the corners of his lips. “I have been named Uz’s newest city elder, filling Job’s open position.”

“They gave you Job’s seat?” Sitis’s voice held the slightest glimmer of hope. “Could you not refuse it if I asked you?”

Sayyid rested his elbow on the back of the bench and brushed her cheek with his hand.

“Please, Sayyid,” she said, moving closer. “You said you would do anything for me.”

Sayyid studied the woman he’d loved most of his life. He was forging new territory in their relationship, and a strange satisfaction settled in. Sitis had always been the one in control. She was the prince’s daughter and he the lowly farmer’s son. She had condescended to love him when they were children, deigned to befriend him when he arrived in Uz as a young grain trader.

He moved closer and placed his arm around her shoulders, whispering in her ear, “I said I would do anything for you, and I will, my Sitis-girl.” Sayyid waited for a protest to his nearness. None came. “But what are you willing to do for me in return?”

She leaned into his nearness and gently cupped his cheek with her hand. “I am willing to be your loving friend and offer you a beautiful wife named Dinah.”

Her intoxicating touch softened the sting of her denial. But why did she deny him, and who was this Dinah? With every fiber of restraint, he quelled his anger. Reaching up to cover her delicate hand, he locked it in place. “What if your husband never regains his wealth and power, Sitis-girl? Will you be satisfied to live as a beggar or become my
second
wife?”

Sitis jerked her hand away and glared daggers at him. She drew a breath to speak but hesitated, quaking as an evident inner storm gathered strength. When words finally came, she spoke eloquently, as expected from a prince’s daughter, her back as straight as the measuring rod Sayyid used for his grain.

“My husband
will
regain his wealth and power, and it is to your benefit to curry his favor now, Sayyid. Heal old wounds, and show him kindness during our time of need.” She leaned close, her sweet breath warm on his neck. “Someday men will bow to Job again as they would a king, and when that day comes, he can crush you or bless you.” With a wicked grin, she kissed Sayyid’s cheek. “Offering a dowry for Dinah will bring you into Job’s good graces.” Drawing a finger seductively from his cheek to his shoulder and down his left arm, she added, “And I assure you, my friend, I will never be anyone’s second wife.”

“Ahh!” The fire of her touch drove him mad. Sayyid grabbed her and kissed her firmly.

She struggled out of his embrace, slapping him. “Stop it!” She looked breathless, shaken.

He smiled and waited for more words. She was silent, breathing heavily now. Did he see pleasure on her face? “I will wait a little longer for you, my Sitis-girl, but I will not wait forever.”

“Excuse me, Mistress Sitis and Master Sayyid.” Nada appeared at the doorway with a beautiful blonde woman. “We didn’t realize we were interrupting.”

Sayyid saw the maid’s disapproving glare the moment she glimpsed their kiss. Nada’s squinty eyes and puckered frown still made him feel like a naughty child. But why should he wait for divorce to reap the harvest of Sitis’s sweet lips?