After Abel and Other Stories (4 page)

But Lot had gotten through these arguments before. This time it was Pildash, who already had a bigger flock and more pasture than anyone else in Sodom, Lot included. He claimed Lot had cheated him, taken the best pastureland for himself. It was all nonsense. This was the downside of settled life. The nomads of her past never argued like this. They just picked up and moved on when the grass grew thin. Of course, she
remembered hearing stories of massacres along the way. There were a few times her father had packed up camp in the middle of the night, the smell of blood still on him.

They all had to live here together, though, so no one would be killing anyone over the pastureland. They'd argue, and someone would slip some coins to the other, and that would be that. And if they couldn't settle it, they'd wait for the judge to make it back to Sodom as he traveled the cities of the plain to decide for them. It would all be taken care of. More civilized, she supposed, but what did she know of that, daughter of a nomad that she still was.

The men had just settled down to eat. Her daughters were still in the courtyard, turning the goat meat one last time before she would bring it inside. In the meantime, her husband and their guests had wine, bread, cheese, and newly picked grapes. She could be proud of her table, and her husband could be counted a generous host. It was then, while the three men were enjoying the bounty of her hands, that the shouting started. At first, it sounded muffled, as if coming from far off, but soon it got louder, and then someone banged on the door.

“Bring them out here. Let us see these strangers you
have taken into your home,” one cried out. Then another jeered, “Bring them out so we can get to know them.”

A howl of laughter went up from the crowd. It was hard to tell from inside, but she estimated that there were fifteen to twenty men out there. She recognized some of the voices. Men with grudges against Lot, or else the poor of the town who resented his wealth. But why were they getting so riled up? It couldn't really be over a couple of strangers passing through town, she thought. Strangers came through Sodom all the time on the road between market towns. There had to be more to this.

She hurried up to the roof and peeked over the edge. The men below were drunk. Very drunk. That much was clear, and one man was egging the others on. Usually, the other wealthy men in the town could be counted as Lot's closest friends and his only peers. But here was Pildash shouting encouragement to the rest of the crowd. So this is how he'll get what he wants, she thought. He'll embarrass my husband in front of the entire city and these strangers to whom he's offered his hospitality. It was vile behavior, but he knew Lot well. Make him look bad enough and he just might give up that pastureland without too much of a fight. Rich men and their pride, she thought.

No one noticed her up there. They wouldn't see her even if they had looked up, which they wouldn't, because
life happened horizontally in Sodom—everyone on the ground, paying attention to the business at hand, except on nights like tonight, when they'd all sleep on the roofs above. All on an even plane. That's the way they liked it here, everyone visible to everyone else. It meant nothing, of course. Four men still paid everyone else's wages. But if you can see them sleep and wake it's easy to overlook how much more they have than you ever will. It had always been this way, the landowners and the shovelers of shit all living side by side, managing to get along.

No one would pay attention to a woman on a roof anyway. She became invisible when men got together in groups larger than three or four. Which was fine with her. So no one saw her as she watched Lot open their door and step out into the hostility and the evening.

“Friends, what can I do for you tonight?” he asked, as if he hadn't heard their demands or their anger.

“Give us the strangers! We haven't met them yet.” The men called out of the crowd, one's words overlapping another's. “Who are they? What do they want? Where are their donkeys or camels? What are they trading?”

Everyone was shouting at once and shoving closer and closer to the wall of the house. Lot tried to speak, but they cut him off. Soon, the men were poking him in the chest. Some looked feral, about to attack. All this over some pastureland, she thought, and felt a small
twinge of worry. She'd never seen an argument come to this before. She pushed the thought out of her mind. Her husband would work it out, and they'd all go back to their dinners.

But she watched as Lot grew more scared. He pushed back at the men and raised his voice to be heard.

“Friends. You have known me for many years. You know that I deal honestly.”

A derisive laugh went up from one or two of the men, but Lot ignored them. “These men are on the road to Ur,” he added.

“What are they paying you?” one voice called out of the crowd.

“Yeah! How much are you getting to host these men?”

“We are all citizens here,” another called out. “We should all get a share of their bounty.”

Finally, Pildash spoke. Unlike the others, he didn't raise his voice. And he wasn't drunk. “Why should you be the only one to get the honor of hosting them? Bring them out here to us. Let's see how tights their assholes are.”

Another ugly howl rose from the mass of men. She could smell the stink of them from up here. Lot continued as if no one had spoken, but he raised his voice a little higher, his fear audible at its edges. “They had heard of me from my associates in the west and so
sought me out. I have offered them a meal and a bed for the night. That is all. They will be on their way in the morning.”

It wasn't working. She could see that. The men were just getting more and more worked up. From above, she heard the door slam as Lot rushed back in. She ran back down and into the house to find him flustered, his cloak ripped at the neck where someone had grabbed him.

“I have to do something,” he said to her. “They'll break into our house and drag these poor men into the street.”

“They're a drunk mob, she replied. “Throw them some coins and they'll be happy.”

“You heard them. They want the men.”

“They want money.”

“They'll do unnatural things to those men. I cannot let my guests be raped by a bunch of drunken farmhands.”

“Don't be ridiculous. They don't want to do them any harm,” she said, with as much vehemence as she dared. Her husband could be irritatingly literal sometimes, but woe to her if she pointed that out. She had long ago learned to soothe his pride if she wanted to get anywhere. “They want to shake them down. Someone saw the men's bulging saddlebags. Now they think they're rich, that they should pay some sort of tax to be allowed to stay here for the night.”

“They're my guests! I must protect them,” he insisted. “The men outside are out of control.”

“Then go out with a few skins of wine as a peace offering, compliments of the visitors.”

“You're not listening to me, woman! Didn't you hear them? What do you think ‘let us see how tight their assholes are' means?”

“It means they want to see if they have any gold hidden under their clothes! Come on,” she added, forcing her voice to be as soothing as possible. “These are our neighbors. You know them. They're as corrupt as the next person, but what you're suggesting is truly unthinkable.”

But Lot wasn't listening to her. He was pacing, his head bent in concentration.

Finally he lifted his head. “Go get the girls,” he said.

“The girls?”

“My daughters. Go get them.”

“Why?” she said, no longer trying to hide her alarm. “What are you going to do with them? What do they have to do with this?”

“They'll take the girls instead.”

“You're going to throw our children to that mob? Are you crazy?”

Finally, he looked at her, but it was as if they'd never met before, much less buried four children together. “I have no choice. Our family's honor is on the line.”

Fully hysterical now, she cried out, “Honor! Those men will kill our girls. They will rip them apart from the inside and leave them for dead. How much honor can you have if you are willing to let that happen to your own children?”

“You heard those men! They will do that to my guests! Besides, you're the one who said they wouldn't rape anyone.”

“I said they wouldn't rape the travelers. But they have money. They can pay off those drunks and everything will die down. You'll go back to your dinner and this will all be forgotten by morning. But our girls have nothing but their bodies. They have nothing else to offer. If, by some miracle, they manage to survive what twenty grown men can do to them, we'll never be able to marry them to anyone. You'll ruin them forever. Or kill them first.”

She was still coherent, but in tears and clawing at her husband's clothing. But Lot had heard enough.

“Get them! Now!” He turned back and opened the door again to face the crowd. She could only hear the first few words out of his mouth—“Friends! I've come make you an offer”—before the door closed behind him.

Before she could move, before a thought could form in her mind, a well of anger rose from her stomach into her throat. In an instant, he went from her husband, the man who had brought her into his home and bed so many years before, to a viperous stranger. She would fight him, to the moment of her own death, if she had to. He won't take them, she thought. That monster won't take them from me.

She only had a few minutes. She ran back to the courtyard, grabbed whatever she could—tufts of goat skin, batches of raw wool left over from the recent shearing, and a pot of oil still cooling next to the fire. All the while, she shouted to the girls, “Run up to the roof. Now. As fast as you can. Grab whatever valuables you see on your way. Silver plates, gold coins, jewelry. Anything.”

They were slow to move, began asking questions, “Why, Mama?”

“Not now!” she screamed. “Just run.”

She stuffed the wool into a piece of still-bloody goatskin, grabbed an unlit torch from the ground and thrust it into the oven, waited for the loud whoosh as its end caught. Then she hurried up to the roof. Her daughters soon followed, each carrying a saddlebag bulging with small objects. She had no time to inspect what they'd taken. She was already putting the torch to the pile of hay in the corner.

“Mama!” they cried. “What are you doing? We'll burn up!”

“No, we won't, we'll be long gone by the time this is big enough to harm us.”

From below, she could hear her husband trying to speak over the noise of the angry crowd. Slowly, slower than she could stand, a wisp of smoke rose from the hay pile. Once it did, she started grabbing tufts of wool out of the skin she had brought up and shoved them at her children. “Start lighting them,” she directed.

Confused and scared, the girls did as they were told and dipped each piece into the pot of oil. Their mother hopped from their roof to the neighbor's, grabbing a flaming ball of wool as she did, hurling it down into the narrow street in front of her house. The girls followed her, handing her their fiery missiles as they moved. They went from rooftop to rooftop, setting each hay pile on fire and throwing more projectiles down to the city below.

“Mama,” panted the younger girl, “what are we doing? They'll kill us when they realize what we've done.”