Word Fulfilled, The (8 page)

Ten

Nineveh, the Artisan’s Quarter

Twenty-fourth Day of Ajaru

amin jerked his head up. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

His uncle chuckled at him from his work mat. “Daydreaming, eh?”

The young man reddened. “Yes, I guess so.”

He couldn’t tell his uncle what he dreamt about—the young girl who languished in Ishtar’s temple. The girl who, despite her verbal and physical assault that evening in her bedchamber, had captivated his heart beyond rescue. What was it about her? She was beautiful, of course, but he’d known other beauties. Why was this one different?

It was forbidden to marry outside
Adonai’s
chosen ones, he reminded himself. Didn’t Mosheh write that a man was to marry within the tribe of his own father? But this was Assyria. His father’s family was brought to a land of exile, separated from the tribe of his fathers. Did all of the Law still apply?

His uncle’s voice penetrated his musings. “I said we will miss you when you return to Aššûr. You have been much help to your Aunt Rizpah and me. This has been a good season at market, and it is yet early. We have you and your father’s graciousness to thank for that.”

“It’s been an honor to be here. You are dear to my father, and you’ve become dear to me, too. We all wish you and Aunt Rizpah would move to Aššûr to be closer to family.”

Hiram sighed. “Yes, that would be good. But there are others here who depend upon us. Our earnings help support those less fortunate than ourselves.”

Jamin glanced around the hovel.
Less fortunate? How could that be?
“Their fortune is increased by your faithfulness.” He smiled at his uncle.

Hiram chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know about that. We keep each other afloat, praise
Adonai
, but not by much.”

“I’ll miss you and Aunt Rizpah, too.” He meant it.

“Perhaps a reunion next year. Who knows?” Hiram shrugged and tied off the reed mat on his lap.

Jamin lapsed back into his thoughts about the young girl. She filled his world to the point he thought it would burst. Her almond eyes, her perfect lips, and her graceful figure all crowded his dreams at night and his thoughts during the day. The rock-hard lump in his stomach had not softened since he’d touched her shoulder before they parted that night. Although she had recoiled from his touch, he cherished the memory of his fingers across her silky skin, how the caress flamed the desire to spirit her away from the suffocating confines of the heathen temple. He needed to see her again, perhaps try to speak with her one more time. He couldn’t leave the city with such a sour taste from their last encounter. But there was another possibility.

“Uncle, would you have any need of me during the rainy season?” Jamin tried to sound nonchalant.

Hiram raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Perhaps. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered. There seems to be so much for you and Aunt Rizpah to do. I just wondered . . .”

“We harvest the reeds for our mats during the rainy season, when the plants are moist and supple. Then we cure the stalks and cut them to length. After that, we weave for the next season.” His uncle paused. “So, yes, there is always work to be done.”

“Perhaps upon my return to Aššûr, I can ask Father to spare me a little longer. I could come back after the heat?” Jamin kept his eyes on his work, lest he betray too much enthusiasm for the thought of returning to Nineveh. To the girl.

Hiram set aside his blade. “Something has changed in you.”

A nerve twitched in Jamin’s cheek. “Changed?”

“It was apparent to us shortly after you first arrived that you were not pleased to be here. We cannot offer the amenities of your father’s house in Aššûr. We perceived you were anxious to return home.”

Jamin could feel his cheeks flush. “I’m sorry if I came across as—”

“There’s no need to apologize.” Hiram’s eyes creased behind the kindly smile Jamin had come to love. “No offense was taken. Your aunt and I knew before you arrived that a young man accustomed to the comforts of a city such as Aššûr would likely become restless in the poor quarter of a lesser city. Nineveh was great once, and she is on the rise again, but she cannot compete with Aššûr for comfort . . . or opportunity.”

Hiram’s emphasis on the last word did not escape Jamin’s notice. A seed of alarm took root in the back of his head. He waged a hurried debate with himself whether to pursue his uncle’s thought, or let it lie. The argument to pursue won.

“Opportunity?” He fought to keep his voice even.

Hiram chuckled. “Come now. You’re a healthy young man. In the last message from your father, he voiced some concern over your resistance to marriage, despite arrangements they attempted. I told him your time would come.” The elder man cocked his head. “Has it?”

The question brought a wave of heat to Jamin’s forehead. “What do you mean?”

His uncle’s smile softened the condescension in his sigh. “I mean that your impatience to return has not only waned but has been replaced by a notion to remain—and now return within the year. Our fortunes have not changed; neither have yours. There must be something that interests you—someone who interests you?—in Nineveh to cause such a change of heart. Am I far wrong?”

Jamin searched for the right words. “Uncle, it is true I come from a more . . . an easier life in my father’s house. But here in Nineveh there is something I see that I don’t see at home.”

Hiram rested his arms on the finished mat. Jamin laid aside his trimming blade.

“There is a sense of community, of family, here that is lacking in the Jewish life of Aššûr. You have so little—” Jamin tripped over his words.

A gentle laugh from his uncle dissipated his embarrassment. “I understand what you’re saying, Jamin. It’s all right.”

Jamin stumbled back into his explanation. “I mean, to the world it would seem that you have so little. Your home, while comfortable, is not one an ambitious man would aspire to have. Tomorrow’s dinner is assured only by today’s sale of a mat or a basket in a fickle marketplace. A season of poor weather, an illness, the Idiqlat overflowing its banks, a blight—any of these things could wipe out your means of earning a living with little warning.”

Hiram nodded. “This is all true. We entrust our survival to
Adonai
.”

“You live on the edge of starvation, yet you freely give of what you do have to those who—how did you put it?—are ‘less fortunate’ than yourself.” Jamin shook his head. “I see nothing of this in the Jewish community in Aššûr. Of course, everyone tithes to the fund for the Temple in Jerusalem. All give alms to the poor, but only from their excess. The first priority is for one to provide for his present comfort, then to bolster his savings to ensure continued comfort. Only then do they look beyond their own households. I wonder what would happen if hard times fell upon Aššûr. Would the Jewish community pull together, or would it fragment, while each sought relief for himself before he considered his brother?”

“And this is what draws you to Nineveh?” Hiram set his mat aside.

“I do like this, what I see. It is very . . . attractive.” Jamin fell silent.

His uncle’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m glad you are pleased.”

Jamin returned to his work. Guilt over his evasion was eased by the fact that he had told his uncle the truth. The common bond within the Jewish community in Nineveh warmed Jamin’s heart. The consideration families displayed toward each other had caught his attention, so what he told his uncle was true. It was attractive. Of course, he didn’t reveal the whole truth behind why he wanted to stay, but Jamin could rationalize his decision to withhold information about the girl due to the hurt and confusion it would cause his beloved aunt and uncle. It wasn’t deceit; it was protection.

That’s what it was. Protection.

Lll

Jamin trudged to market, the reed basket slung over his shoulder. The sun, although past its zenith, hung high overhead, as if to delay its glide to the western horizon. He wiped his brow as he passed the Mishkal Gate, then glanced toward the Temple of Ishtar. He veered by habit toward the path behind Nabu’s temple, but then he paused. There was little point in sneaking. The
ishtaritu
initiates would not be out, and, even if they were, it was clear from the girl’s words and the
naditu’s
ugly look that his hiding place had been compromised.

His mind flashed back to the night he had raced down this same road in his haste to find the caravan. He perked at the unexpected thrill of the escapade—and the fear that being discovered had brought into his otherwise mundane life. Then he grimaced at the memory of his disastrous encounter with the young girl. He remembered little of the trudge home, other than the misery that shrouded his mind as darkly as the night enveloped his body. What would happen the next time he saw her, when she saw him? An ache filled his heart—a strange blend of warring emotions that would only be eased at the next encounter, however it might turn out.

There would be no chance of spotting the girl along the road behind Nabu’s temple, though, even if she were out. The other alternative was bold. He could pass in front of Isthar’s temple, like he did the first time he saw her. It was a way to reassert his right to be there, not having to skulk behind pagan statues. This was a public byway, after all. He could use it anytime he wanted.

So he would.

Jamin turned onto the main route through the temple square. He kept his head bowed to the road, but his gaze flicked to the edifice of Ishtar’s temple as he passed. He noted movement between the columns. Several figures loitered in the shade of the portico. Two of them leaned out from the porch and peered down the road in the direction he traveled. One wore the blue tunic of the
naditu
and the other a pastel of a
qadishtu
. He surreptitiously scanned the groups of women, but none of them wore the pure white tunics of the
ishtaritu
. Jamin returned his gaze to the road ahead and wondered why he had bothered to divert through the square. What was he trying to prove? And to whom was he trying to prove it?

As he reached the end of the steps, a movement by the last column caught his eye and he glanced up. She was leaning against the smooth white column, her ebony hair flowing over the back of—her light blue tunic! A
naditu?
She was no longer a lay maiden who awaited her ceremonial consummation, but a permanent priestess in the Temple of Ishtar.

How could this be?

Jamin stopped midstride. He dropped the basket from his shoulder and stared up at her, oblivious to the attention it drew from the other priestesses and passersby. The girl took no notice. She kept her gaze at her feet. For the longest time, Jamin stood immobilized by the horror of the pagan blue defiling the object of his desire. The next moment—he was not sure exactly when—her eyes were on him. Her face betrayed no expression, much like the first time she caught him staring at her. This time Jamin did not redden with embarrassment and drop his head. He reddened with despair. And anger.

The two locked eyes, and everything else in Jamin’s world halted. He felt betrayed, although he knew he had no right to. She had made no promises. Quite the opposite—she had told him to leave, to get out of her life. But the short time Jamin had spent in her chamber gave him a skewed sense of ownership over her fate, or at least a vested interest in her life. He felt the urge to march up the steps, grab her by the arm, and drag her away. But he couldn’t move. He could only stare.

The cough of a man passing by broke his stupor. The girl remained still, her expression unchanged. He searched her eyes, but there was nothing there. Slowly, Jamin cocked his head, the question unvoiced but obvious. She drew her head back, and he saw the trace of a single tear glistening on her cheek in the bright afternoon sun. He began to mouth the word
why
, but she pushed away from the column and stepped into the portico’s shadows.