Chapter Five

Kissa

I wasn’t sure what to make of the girl who grabbed my hand and took me up those stairs, but I knew one thing: she was glad to have someone with her. Though I did not know what sort of child she was—she could have been glad to have someone to tie to a post and torture with biting ants—her smile was wide and friendly and her nature seemed pleasant.

On the other hand, I had met people who seemed harmless at first, but then time and circumstance revealed darkness in them, a love of distress and pain . . . so long as this was experienced by others.

After we raced up the stairs, the girl peeked through the balcony posts and watched her mother wander aimlessly around the lower floor. Then the woman left the house, probably hoping to find someone who could explain how things worked in the high priest’s palace. I thought it odd that the woman did not say anything to her daughter before leaving, yet the girl did not seem to notice the oversight.

When the mother had gone, the girl dropped to the floor, crossed her legs, and looked up at me. “Aren’t you going to sit?”

I dropped faster than a dead donkey. If I obeyed this girl, if I did what I was supposed to do, maybe the gods would smile on me and send me home.

“You are Kissa,” she said, studying me.

I nodded. “And who are you?”

“Shelamzion. That’s what Father called me, and he loved me best.”

I took pains to maintain a blank expression, reminding myself to remember those words. “Does your mother have a name?”

“Ima.” The Hebrew word for mother.

“What do other people call her?”

The light of understanding filled the girl’s eyes. “Sipporah.”

I nodded again, then tilted my head. “May I ask you something else?”

She nodded.

“You promise you will not become angry?”

She laughed. “I promise.”

I decided to trust the child. Since becoming a slave, I had learned not to speak unless spoken to, and then not to say anything about myself. But from household rumors I had heard that my new mistress was a village child, so she might not know about proper behavior for slaves.

“I was wondering,” I dared to ask, “how old are you?”

Shelamzion held up her right hand and touched each of her fingers, then added her left thumb. “Six years. My sister was nine, then she died.”

Bound by my habit of silence, I did not reply at first. But if I were going to be on good terms with this girl, common sense told me to befriend her. Children could be cruel and petulant, especially spoiled children. Though this one did not seem spoiled, she was young, and might come to despise me . . .

Unless I taught her to trust me. And to do that, I would have to talk to her. As one girl talked to another.

I forced a smile. “I did not know you had a sister.”

“I don’t, not anymore. She died with Father.”

“That is sad. What happened?”

As the girl lifted her wide gaze to the ceiling, I saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “They went riding. People say the horse saw something like a snake, and Father and Ketura fell off the horse and died. They were brought home, the women washed them, and we put them in the cave. We gave away most of our things, and now we are here.”

I pressed my lips together and sighed. “I am sorry about your father and sister.”

“So is Mother. She loved Ketura more than anything. She said my sister would marry a powerful man and make us great. But now Ketura is with Father, and we are with John Hyrcanus.” The girl’s lower lip quivered. “I miss Father. I miss studying with him.”

I smiled, grateful for the insight into my young mistress. “I will study with you,” I told her. “Every night, if you like. But you will have to teach me, because I know very little.”

My new mistress leaned toward me. “How old are you?”

“I have lived eleven years,” I said. “I think.”

She smiled. “I hope we will be friends.”

Despite the warning voice in my head, my heart warmed at her expression. While I could use a friend in this place, I could not forget the great gulf that existed between slaves and masters. The sort of friendship she had in mind would be impossible, but perhaps we could define our relationship ourselves . . . for as long as we were paired with each other.

Shelamzion rose to her knees and caught my hand. “Can you help me learn my way around? I know this is supposed to be our house, but it is so big! What if we get lost?”

“In truth, I have never been inside this house. I have been helping in the kitchens.”

Shelamzion giggled. “Then we will get lost together. Can we go outside?”

“If you wish.” I stood and lifted a warning finger. “We must not get in the way. The master does not like slaves who make things difficult for other slaves to do their work.”

“We will be careful,” Shelamzion promised, taking my hand. She laced her fingers through mine and pulled me toward the stairs. “I want to see everything.”

“I don’t know everything,” I protested, trying not to lose my balance as I followed.

“Then take me to the places you do know,” she said, her small sandals slapping against the stone steps. “And we will learn together.”

As my young mistress and I explored the stables, the cookhouse, the henhouse, and the garden, I wondered if the gods had finally smiled on me. Thus far I had found no comfort or friendship in the high priest’s house, but finally, unexpectedly, I had been granted an easy job and a friendly mistress. This girl might learn to keep me in my proper place, but until that time my life would be far easier and I would sleep in peace and safety, not worrying about being scalded by hot soup, trespassing on another slave’s territory, or being stepped on by a horse.

And if I did my job well, who knew what might happen? My parents’ gods might finally hear their prayers and send me home.

When my little mistress became tired of exploring, I suggested that we sit in the shade of a terebinth tree. She agreed and eagerly followed as I led her to a spot where we could rest unmolested. I sat on one of the bulging tree roots, facing the house, while Shelamzion sat and turned toward me.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes crinkling as she grew serious. “Now you must tell me about yourself.”

I blinked. “What do you want to know?”

“Where were you born? Who is your father? What happened to your mother? Did your uncle send you here? Did your father die? Was he a farmer? Did he raise horses?”

I took a deep breath, stunned by the avalanche of questions. “I was born in Egypt.”

“Is that near Jerusalem?”

“It is far away. A journey of many days.”

“How did you get here?”

“I walked. With other people.” I closed my eyes, resisting the memory of that torturous ordeal. Several months before, a slave dealer had put shackles around my wrists and dragged me and a dozen other slaves to Judea. I walked over hot sand in papyrus sandals so thin my feet blistered, and my wrists still bore scars from the cruel iron bracelets. But that was not the worst of it—the most horrible aspect of the journey had occurred each night, and memories of those hours still haunted my dreams.

But I would not speak of those things to this innocent child. No one—not even a slave—should experience those horrors. If I were to see that slave trader at this house, I would find a knife and plunge it into his heart.

Shelamzion regarded me with a serious look—a look I had never seen on the face of another child. “You seem sad. Do you miss your parents?”

I nodded.

“Where are they?”

“Probably in Memphis.”

“You don’t know for certain?”

I shook my head. “They could be dead.”

“I am sorry. What was your mother’s name?”

I squinted into the sun, trying to summon the face of the woman who had dressed me in a plain tunic and cut my hair short. By then she was half starved and desperate enough to sell her only child for food.

I looked away from my earnest mistress. “My mother was called Oseye.”

“Was she sick?”

“She was hungry.”

“Why didn’t she eat?”

“She had no food.”

“Why didn’t she ask someone for something to eat?”

I blew out a breath. “She had no one to ask. Please, miss—I don’t like to talk about my past.”

“Sorry.” Shelamzion pressed her lips together as pain glowed in her own eyes. “I know how sad feels. I was sad, too, when Father and Ketura died. So was Mother. Mother is still sad . . . because Ketura died, and not me.”

I was startled by her admission. Could a child sense such a thing? I had not spent much time with the girl’s mother, but no decent woman would admit such a thing to her daughter.

“You . . . can’t know that,” I said, hoping to ease the girl’s sense of loss. “Your mother would be sad if you died, I am sure of it.”

“I’m not.” Shelamzion pushed a wayward curl from her face, then hugged her knees and studied a root pushing up the earth at our feet. “When I grow up, I will have children and I will never, ever love one more than the other. It is not fair.”

“You are right, mistress. But life is not always fair.”

“It should be.” Her eyes met mine. “I am not beautiful like Ketura.”

“Not so. You are a pretty little thing—”

She shook her head. “Do not say that. Friends should always tell each other the truth.”

I dipped my chin in an abrupt nod. “You are right.”

She drew a breath and began again. “I am not beautiful, but my father loved me. He taught me to read the Torah and said I was a smart girl. Father said HaShem makes us all different, and we are to be who HaShem meant us to be. As it says in the writings, ‘You fashioned my inmost being, You knit me together in my mother’s womb. I thank You because I am awesomely made, wonderfully; Your works are wonders—I know this very well.’”

Shelamzion’s shoulders slumped as she finished, and I knew she must have worked hard to memorize so many words. “Did your father ask you to learn that?”

She nodded. “He said studying Torah and the writings and the prophets would make me wise. He said most fathers taught Torah only to their sons, but since he did not have a son, he would teach me as long as I wanted to learn. Since he is no longer here to teach me, perhaps you can help me study.”

I did not know what to say. Despite living in the high priest’s house for several weeks, I did not understand what the Jews believed or why they believed it. I did know they worshiped an invisible God, they were strict about obeying his Law, and they washed their hands several times a day.

“I do not understand the Jewish God,” I admitted. “And what I hear of your Law confuses me. If you want me to help you study this Torah, you will have to teach me first.”

“We will learn together.” She placed her hands over mine, her eyes shining with earnest innocence.

“How did you come to live here?” I asked, nodding toward the main house.

She relaxed and released me. “The high priest is a kinsman. Mother says I should call him my uncle.”

“Is he your uncle?”

“Well”—she shrugged—“Mother says John Hyrcanus is my grandfather’s . . . wait. I get confused. His grandfather was my great-grandfather’s brother.”

I lifted a brow. The connection seemed weak to me, but the Jews were a peculiar people.

Shelamzion propped her chin on her bent knees. “Do you know him?”

“Who?”

“Uncle.”

I snorted. “He is not my uncle; he is my master. I don’t know him, but I have met him. He told me you were coming and said you would be my mistress.”

Shelamzion clapped in delight. “We shall be great friends. I did not want to leave Modein, but now I am no longer afraid. You will sleep with me in my room, won’t you?”

“My place is outside your door,” I said. “That is the way things are done here.”

“No.” She lifted her chin. “You shall sleep by my bed, on a soft pallet. And we will tell each other stories every night until we fall asleep. And I will tell you secrets and you will tell me secrets, and we will never, ever tell anyone else.”

I felt a wry smile creep onto my face. Gaia would probably admonish me for encouraging this sort of intimacy, but why should I keep this girl at a distance? She seemed to like me, ignorant though I was. I saw nothing objectionable in her. Perhaps we could be friends for a while . . .

If the gods were good to me, we might be friends until it was time for me to leave.