Sarai (Jill Eileen Smith) (22 page)

At the sound of footsteps crunching the sandy gravel, she turned to see Melah trudging toward her. She stopped at Sarai’s side.

“I’ve never understood the purpose of animal sacrifices.” Melah flicked dust from her sleeve and lifted her chin, assessing Sarai with a glance. “I miss the formality, rhythm, and grace of temple worship. Tell me truly, can you possibly enjoy this crude altar over the beauty of the ziggurats?”

Sarai turned her gaze from Melah to Abram’s altar. The stones were not cut or hewn from a quarry but picked from the earth, their sizes and shapes varied, not symmetrical or carved to fit perfectly on top of one another. The wood—sticks of many lengths, some thin, some thick—lay in a heap atop the stones, awaiting the sacrifice. Definitely not like the impressive ziggurats of Ur.

She glanced back at Melah. “There is beauty in both, only different.” She would never admit it to her niece, but Abram’s altars were crude and rough in comparison to the temples of their people.

“Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if we’d stayed in Egypt? I would have liked to have seen inside their temples. The images of their gods were everywhere, the artistry most impressive.” Melah stepped closer until Sarai could feel her breath.

Sarai backed up a pace. “I do not care to revisit that place, even in my thoughts. Especially in my thoughts.” She faced the altar again and closed her eyes. The memories had faded in the eight years since their ill-advised trip into Egypt, but the Egyptian servants they had acquired were a constant reminder.

“I was thinking . . . if you ever want to sell some of the Egyptians . . . I think they could bring a handsome price. And Hagar is one I would keep for myself.” She shrugged one shoulder, her look telling Sarai she would be doing her a favor.

Sarai startled at that and lifted a brow, curious. “Why should Hagar be any different from the other maids?” If Melah wanted her, there was no way she would part with her.

Melah waved a hand as though brushing the thought away. “No reason.”

“Then why did you bring it up?”

Melah gave a dramatic sigh. “All right, but if I tell you, you will just want to keep her.”

Sarai stifled a groan. “Just tell me.” The scent of burning flesh from the altar drew her gaze. Such a frivolous discussion at such a solemn occasion. Stepping back from the altar, she moved from the trees and walked down the hill.

Melah quickly followed. “She makes the most delicate pastries, and when she washes your feet, she works her hands over the skin so well that it makes your whole body want to melt.”

Sarai came to an abrupt stop and faced her niece. “Lot bought you your own Egyptian slaves. You had no business engaging my maid to do the work of your servants.” Anger flared at the thought that Hagar had not bothered to ask Sarai’s permission for such a thing, and that neither Melah nor Hagar seemed to respect their place.

“My servants were busy. Hagar seemed willing enough. Besides, they’re Egyptians. What does it matter whose needs they attend?”

“I should not have to remind you that it was I who endured the pharaoh’s harem. I was the one torn from my husband, from all I love. The Egyptians came as my bride-price. Mine. They are not yours to command. Don’t forget it.” Sarai clenched her fists, trembling with each word.

“You didn’t end up as the pharaoh’s bride, though, did you? Seems like you came away the richer for your trouble. Perhaps you even enjoyed the luxury.” She smirked at Sarai, then turned and hurried down the hill.

Sarai stood stunned, watching her go. Emotion rose within her at the unexpected barbs. How dare she! Melah had never spoken so rashly or so accusingly. She had no idea how awful that week apart from Abram had been, how abandoned and betrayed she had felt. How dare she!

A tremor shook her from head to toe, anger and hurt rushing through her. Such unkind words over a slave girl?

The scent of the sacrifice wafted to her as she looked down over the camp bustling with life. The Egyptian tents stood out, colorful among a sea of black goat’s hair. She spotted Hagar emerging from one of them, a clay jug on her shoulder, a striped robe on her back.

Melah could admire her slaves all she wanted. But Sarai had earned the right to keep them, and as childish and petulant as it might seem, she did not intend on sharing.

Lot sat with his feet propped on a small rock, watching the Egyptian slaves he’d recently purchased from passing Hittite merchants pound the last of the tent pegs into the ground. A female Egyptian slave came toward him carrying a skin of wine and a tray of sweetmeats. He paused, admiring her lack of dress, his heart beating faster. Melah would give him a dour tongue-lashing if she could read his thoughts. But he let his eyes feast on the girl just the same.

“Taking your ease already, Nephew?”

Lot started at Abram’s tone. “I didn’t see you there, Uncle.” He quickly stood, offering Abram his seat. “Would you care to join me? The girl brought plenty for two.”

Abram ran a hand over his beard, his gaze taking in the slave girl. “Go to Mistress Sarai and tell her I sent you for some proper attire.”

The girl’s eyes widened, looking from Abram to Lot.

“Go now!” Abram faced Lot as the girl hurried away. “I thought I made it clear from the start that the Egyptians are to dress as everyone else. There will be no distinction between them and us.”

Lot crossed his arms over a slightly protruding middle, but he could not meet his uncle’s gaze. “They have proper robes. Sometimes I ask them to wear the costumes of their homeland. You have to admit, the Egyptians’ dress does hold a certain appeal.” He grinned, glancing at Abram, but quickly sobered at his uncle’s glower.

“Is this how you want to raise your daughters—to think such dress is appropriate?”

Lot felt heat rush to his face, suddenly ashamed. “I appreciated the view. Is that so wrong?” He drew in a breath, irritated with this intrusion into his personal affairs. “Besides, she is my slave. If I want my Egyptians to dress like Egyptians, what is that to you?”

Abram’s brow lifted, his gaze never wavering. “This is my home. We share the same campsite, the same meals. I will not have men and women exposing themselves for all to see, no matter what their culture dictates.”

Lot shifted from foot to foot. His jaw clenched. “So as long as I live under your protection, we do things your way, no discussion?”

“Not when it concerns more than just you.”

The slave girl returned, fully clothed in a striped robe like every other woman in the camp, her beauty no longer enticing. “Here is the wine and sweetmeats you requested, my lord.”

Lot looked from the girl to Abram, anger settling where his appetite had been. “I’m not hungry.” He dismissed her with a wave, then looked at his uncle once more. “I will accept what you say.” He whirled about and stormed toward his tent, muttering, “This time.”

18

Melah wrapped a thin scarf over her head, grabbed a basket from the floor, and stepped out of her tent. She glanced around at their servants, irritation rising at the sight of an Egyptian slave girl among the women grinding grain, while another shooed small children from the fire.

Since her confrontation with Sarai, which she admitted had not gone as she’d intended, her life had been in upheaval. She should have known better than to ask Sarai to give Hagar to her, especially not that way. But when she’d complained to Lot about it all, he’d seemed almost too eager to leave Abram’s campsite.

Were these Egyptians why he was so happy to heed her suggestion? She had barely hinted, had not even worked herself into a whining pout yet at moving away from Sarai, when he jumped at the chance. Normally he never gave in without at least a small argument.

Heat burned her cheeks. Lot’s gaze had lingered overlong on these women since leaving Abram’s camp, especially when they wore their native clothing for him and he didn’t know she was watching.

The thought made her blood pump fast. While she wanted to live as mistress of her own estate, that did not mean she wanted to sacrifice her husband’s affection. But did she even have his affection? He had vowed to never take another wife, and he could never legally divorce her, but what would stop him from having an illicit relationship with a slave?

“Where are you going, Mama?” Her oldest daughter, Kammani, hurried to her side, out of breath. Her younger sister trailed behind. “Can we come with you?”

Melah brushed a strand of hair from the girl’s face and straightened her head scarf, which always seemed askew from the moment she left the tent each morning. She looked into the eager dark eyes so like her father’s. “Of course. Only do not wander. We are going to the fields to see your father, and I do not want you waylaid by some fool rogue.” Though the girl was only eleven, she was already showing signs of maturity. Soon enough—too soon—men would come seeking her hand. But not here. Not yet. Surely there were better men in the nearby towns than the ones in her husband’s company.

“We won’t wander, Mama.”

Melah nodded once and set out walking again. Ku-aya, her younger daughter, skipped ahead while Kammani stayed at Melah’s side.

“Are we taking food to Abi?”

“Yes.” Melah quickened her pace, suddenly anxious to reach her husband.

“Can I stay with Abi in the fields? He said he would teach me to be a shepherdess.”

Melah looked at her daughter, appalled at the thought. Though she knew many women tended sheep, her girls were not going to be among them. “There are other tasks you should be learning. Let your father worry about the sheep. That’s why we have servants.” She lifted her head, seeing a flock of sheep grazing just beyond them over the rise. “You are the daughter of a great man, Kammani. Daughters of great men do not stoop to such menial tasks meant for men.”

“But I like animals. Sheep are so big and soft.” She half ran to keep up with Melah’s hurried pace.

“Then ask your father to give you one as a pet. But not now. I must speak with him first about more important matters.” Perhaps bringing the girls was not as good an idea as she had first thought. But it was too late to send them back to camp alone.

Kammani opened her mouth as if to protest, but Melah silenced her with a lifted hand. “Don’t cross me, Kammani.” The girl flinched as though Melah had slapped her. Good. She had no intention of hitting the child, but letting her fear it brought swifter obedience.

Kammani ran ahead to join her sister picking wildflowers, and they chased each other through the grasses, laughing as they approached the sheep. Kammani spotted her father and reached his side before Melah could.

“Abi!” The girls cried his name in unison, jumping up and down. Lot bent to their level, scooped the youngest into his arms, and took the other by the hand.

“Abi, Mama said I could have a pet lamb. Can I pick her out now, Abi? Please?”

Melah bit back a scowl and an angry retort. The child was incorrigible, always pleading and prodding to get her own way. And her father was so easy to persuade. Not nearly strong enough when it came to his women.

Chagrin accompanied that thought. Would she want him any different? And yet she longed for something more.

She stifled the thought, unwilling to think too deeply about why she could not seem to be happy with her husband, her life. “I see the girls have already found you and taken advantage of your good graces.” She offered him her most pleasant smile, lifting the basket for him to see. “I brought bread and cheese and some of the olives we picked last week.”