Naaman crouched in his chamber by himself. He had hardly slept at all the night before, after the high priest’s visit. He was not on his ivory-inlaid bed, but in a corner on the hard floor. That seemed more fitting. Truly the gods hate me, he thought.
He heard footsteps outside the door, and voices, but he did not get up. He had ordered his manservant to let no one in.
And yet the curtain was pushed aside.
“I do not wish to be disturbed,” growled Naaman. It made him angry that he even had to speak.
Still, Doronit entered. She looked timid but determined. “Good morning, my husband.”
Scowling, Naaman opened his mouth to tell her to go away. But then he noticed how different she looked than when he had last seen her yesterday. Yesterday, she had flung herself around screaming, her hair loose and wild, her eye paint smeared under her reddened eyes. Now she looked neat and calm, although tired. She had brought a slave with her — Adara.
Kneeling beside Naaman, Doronit took his hands. He flinched and tried to pull them away, to hide their hideous white-blotched skin from her sight. “Naaman, my love!” Doronit’s face was glowing. “I have such good news. There is a holy man in Samaria who could cure you.”
He stared at her, wondering if her grief had driven her mad. “A holy — in Samaria, the enemy’s capital?” He gave a short laugh. “Where did you hear this?”
“Adara told me,” said Doronit.
Naaman laughed again, a harsh cackle. “I see. A slave girl told you. So you have it on the best authority.”
“Please, my husband. Let her speak.”
The girl was kneeling beside Doronit, waiting with her head bowed and hands together for his permission. Naaman felt that he should stay angry, very angry, in order to ward off such a false hope. It must be false, just like the hope raised by the royal physician and all the other quacks. Still, he did not have the strength to be angry. He grunted permission.
Adara raised her eyes to his and began, “My Lord General — ”
“How do you know a holy man of Samaria?” Naaman interrupted. He was afraid to let her speak, at the same time that he longed to believe her. “You are from Ramoth-Gilead.”
“Yes, my Lord,” said Adara. “I heard of holy Elisha from our housekeeper, before I was captured and brought to Damascus. I have not seen him in the flesh, but I know him through his powerful spirit.”
Naaman grunted again. “Even if there is such a man in Samaria who could cure me” — in spite of himself, his heart beat faster as he said the words — “why would a holy man of Israel want to cure the commander of the army of Aram?”
The girl almost smiled. Her expression seemed to say that she too thought it was absurd but wonderfully true. She gazed at him with calm tenderness, as if she were the mighty general and he were the humble slave. “I know he would, my lord.”
Naaman felt his eyes sting, and he realized with horror that he was going to cry. He leapt to his feet, flailing his arms. “Out! Out, both of you foolish women!”
Scrambling out of his reach, Doronit and the girl ducked under the door curtain. Not a moment too soon, before the mighty commander of the armies of Aram burst into spasms of sobs.