The Crimson Cord: Rahab's Story (18 page)

“God will be with you. Be strong and courageous.” The elder, their leader Joshua, stood behind them, one hand on each of their shoulders. “Once you have crossed, wait to join a caravan of merchants to enter the city. They should not be able to tell you apart from any other travelers. At least we can hope for that much.” He paused and they turned to face him. “Once you are in the city, do not draw attention to yourselves. Just act like travelers and listen to what the people are saying. Lodge there if you can.” He handed them a bag of silver.

Salmon took the bag and nodded, his faith rising with
Joshua’s confident tone. “We will do as you have asked. And make no mistake, we will not fail.” Not like the spies Moses had sent to see this land. He would not live with their regrets or their consequences.

He glanced at Mishael. “Let’s cross this river and get to Jericho.”

On the other side of the river, Salmon ungirded his robe and retied his sandals, which had been dangling about his neck. He pulled the turban from his pocket and tied it with a leather strap, while Mishael did the same.

“That was easier than I expected,” Mishael said, brushing the last of the dirt from his feet. “Let’s hope getting the information we need is as simple.”

Salmon looked toward the formidable walls of Jericho, still half a day’s walk from where they stood. “How hard can it be?” Though his thoughts carried the same concerns.

Salmon and Mishael searched the bank for branches large enough to use as walking sticks, hacked some of the dangling stems from their edges, and started walking.

“I hope we don’t have to use these or the daggers in our belts.” Mishael thumped the ground with his new staff and gave Salmon a mischievous smile. “I could whack a few heads with this, though—don’t think I couldn’t.”

Salmon laughed. “I have no doubt about your ability to whack heads, my friend.” The thought brought to mind the times when they would wrestle as young boys.

“Zimri always beat you.” Mishael spoke as though he had read his thoughts.

“I let him win a few times.” His smile quickly faded as he
remembered Zimri’s end. How could the man have allowed a Midianite woman to seduce him? He shook his head, the very idea one he simply could not grasp.

“You should have put him in his place. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have been so arrogant.” A quick glance at Mishael told him they shared the same memory. And loss.

“Our God is an exacting God,” Salmon whispered, praying he had not offended the Almighty. “That is, it is a fearful thing to purposely disobey Him.”

Mishael picked up a stone and cast it a great distance. “We should have invaded Midian and pulled Zimri out before he could act so foolishly.”

“Or stood guard at his tent and threatened him even if he just needed to relieve himself outside the camp?” Salmon scowled and shook his head. “No one can control another man forever, my friend. Not even you.” He smiled, then slapped Mishael lightly on the back. “Let us do our best to be more faithful.” He glanced toward Jericho’s forbidding walls. “And not let a woman seduce us into such false worship to cause the whole camp to suffer.” Twenty-four thousand people had died in a plague because of Zimri’s sin with Kozbi, daughter of a Midianite leader.

The reminder sobered him, and apparently the normally talkative Mishael too, for they walked along in silence until they came to a place to camp near Jericho’s thick gates. Hidden among a copse of trees, they waited for an approaching caravan.

At dawn the next morning, several caravans approached. Salmon and Mishael slipped in among them, immediately picking up a conversation with the servants among the crowd.

“What wares have you brought with you today?” Mishael
asked one of the Midianite traders, whose dark turban and standard etched on the sides of the donkey’s carts told both men his heritage.

The man gave Mishael and Salmon a hard glance, as if trying to place them. “I have seen you before. Are we neighbors?” The man scratched a dark, short-cropped beard.

Salmon ran a hand over his own beard, silently praying that the length of the edges would not give them away. For though they had discussed shaving their beards to fit in with the rest of the Canaanite men, Salmon could not bring himself to do so. To break even one of the laws of Moses would prove him unrighteous, unfaithful. Like his father before him, who once stood as a prince in Judah. He could not follow that path.

“We are travelers from Shittim,” Mishael said. “We are on our way toward Babylon by way of the King’s Highway.”

“Stopping for supplies at Jericho?” the man asked, his brow lifted, too curious.

Salmon nodded, holding up a limp goatskin at his side. “I’m afraid we have more coins than food. It is hard to eat silver.” He laughed, glancing at Mishael, who joined him.

“And look, here we are at the gates already,” Mishael said, pulling away.

Salmon followed his friend, then glanced back at the Midianite. God had now declared these people enemies of Israel, despite their link to Abraham through his concubine Keturah. Midian had even given Moses shelter and a wife, but the incident with Zimri and Kozbi had changed all of that previous goodwill.

“You don’t happen to have any fresh bread among those wares, do you, my friend?” Salmon asked in parting, knowing from a quick view of his goods that he carried tools, not food.

The man shook his head. “No, not to sell. My loss,” he said, smiling. “God go with you, my friend.” He tipped his fingers to his head, a parting gesture.

Salmon looked at Mishael, wondering if he had anything to say about the man’s use of God’s blessing, but his friend’s gaze had settled on the gates looming before them. Midianites would invoke the Baals, but some might still believe in Abraham’s God, as Moses’ father-in-law had.

“Do you have a plan?” Mishael asked, drawing Salmon’s thoughts to their task at hand. “What reason do we give for entering their fair city?” He bent near Salmon’s ear, though the crowd had grown so noisy, he need not have bothered to whisper.

“We tell them the truth. We are here to collect supplies for our journey to Babylon.”

“And we may need to know a good place to lodge for the night,” Mishael added, a smirk covering his normally handsome face.

“I am not even going to ask you what that smirk intends, my friend.” Most lodging houses belonged to prostitutes in cities such as Jericho. A place where Zimri had been snared by Kozbi, though she had not been a prostitute but a Midianite leader’s daughter.

“Don’t worry.” Mishael rested a hand on Salmon’s shoulder. “Women are the last thing on my mind.”

The Midianite caravan moved through the gates, and Salmon and Mishael slipped in among them as though they were part of it. The guards glanced at them. Salmon nodded a greeting but kept walking. Mishael followed.

A second group of guards stood at the inner gate. This time they were stopped.

“State your business.” The guard seemed young and wary.

Salmon met his gaze and smiled. “We are but travelers, my lord.” He lifted his empty sack. “Our supplies have run low, and we are trying to catch up with our brothers, who set out a day ahead of us on our way home to Babylon.” He let the sack fall to his side. “We simply wish to buy supplies from your merchants.”

The guard nodded and waved them through.

Salmon walked into a shop where a man stood at a table of freshly baked flatbreads seasoned with various spices. “How much?” he asked, pointing to one with rosemary leaves sprinkled over it.

The man looked him over as if sizing him up. “You are not from around here.”

Salmon shook his head. “No, we are just passing through. We were separated from our countrymen, and it has taken longer to return than we expected.” He pointed again to the bread and held out a small piece of silver. “Will this cover it?”

The man’s eyes widened, but he also seemed pleased. “It will suffice.” He picked up the loaf, glanced at Mishael, then added a second. “For your friend.”

Salmon bowed. “Thank you.” He took the loaves and handed one to Mishael. “Can you tell me where we can find lodging for the night? We will leave in the morning but thought we might enjoy the pleasures of Jericho for a day.” He smiled, sniffed the loaf, and released a deep sigh. “I haven’t tasted my wife’s bread in months.” He glanced at the man, trying to determine his reaction.

“Out on a raiding party, were you?” The man’s eyes held the slightest hint of calculation. “We’ve heard rumors of those Israelites.” He leaned closer and glanced around as though
his words were the choicest of secrets. “People are afraid of them. Have you run into them in your travels?”

“Why would they be afraid of them? They are on the other side of the Jordan and its banks are near to flooding. Besides, they are wanderers.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “What possible harm can they do?”

The man looked at Salmon as though he had lost all sensibility. “Have you not heard of their God? There are rumors . . . stories of how He delivered them from the Egyptian Pharaoh, how He parted the sea, how they killed those two kings of the Amorites, Sihon and Og?”

Salmon nodded. “I’ve heard such tales. But that was years ago. They’ve been wandering in the wilderness for forty years. I don’t think you have anything to fear.”

The man looked like he wanted to believe them, but Salmon still saw the skepticism in his eyes. He touched the man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my friend.” At the man’s nod, he added, “Now about that lodging?”

The man’s smile held the hint of a smirk. “How much are you willing to pay, and what kind of lodging?”

“Just something—”

“Something that will give us a fair taste of Jericho’s better life,” Mishael interrupted.

The man laughed. “Then I would recommend you try to get an appointment with our town’s finest woman of the night. Only the richest men can afford her, and she is the consort of the prince himself.”

Salmon’s middle tightened. A prostitute, as he expected.

“Where is this residence, my friend?” Mishael asked when Salmon said nothing.

“The house of Rahab. It is built into the wall in the wealthier
section of town, not far from the palace itself. She has a big Nubian guard who stands watch at her gate. If you take the road along the wall, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, my friend.” Mishael elbowed Salmon.

“Yes, thank you.” He bowed once more and backed away, his bread still untouched, but Mishael’s was half gone.

Salmon gripped his staff in one hand and tore off a hunk of bread with his teeth. “So, now we shall see just how much a prostitute is willing to tell us without seducing us.” They would not be like Zimri.

He stalked off, leaving Mishael to catch up with him.

16

T
he walk through the city of palms took time, and more than once they found themselves taking a wrong turn down a street with little light. The sun had already passed the midway point in the sky, and still they had not found the prostitute’s house.

“Are we lost?” Mishael pulled a handful of almonds from his pocket and handed a few to Salmon.

Salmon glanced at the sky and toward the city walls. “Not exactly lost. Not yet.” He hated to admit such a thing, but as the sun continued toward the west, his stomach rumbled and worry settled in his middle. “Let’s check this street. The man said we couldn’t miss the place.”

“At least we’ve gotten a good idea of what the city looks like. Perhaps those wrong turns were providential.” Mishael reached for another handful of almonds.

“You might want to ration those.” Salmon glanced at the sack of dates he carried. “We might need these for many days to come.”

“Can’t you hear my stomach roaring? It’s like thunder inside of me!”

Salmon laughed. “You complain too much.” He spotted the prostitute’s house a few moments later, but held Mishael back when he continued as if he would simply approach without forethought. “What are we supposed to say to her?” The very thought of speaking to a prostitute turned his stomach.

“If she is as popular as the merchant said she is, let’s at least see if we can secure an appointment with her first. Then we will worry about what to say.” Mishael lifted a brow. “Unless you would rather spend the night in the streets. How much sleep do you think you’ll get in the open in a wicked city?”