Sodom’s sins were pride, gluttony, and laziness, while the poor and needy suffered outside her door.
—Ezekiel 16:49
WE SPEND THE NIGHT WITH Lot’s household. The following day, Chiram comes into the city and speaks with my father, who calls me to him. “Adir, the caravan requires my presence. I will return there with Chiram and will arrange for the pitch in exchange for our wine and oil as I leave, but scout the market here to see if there is anything else worth taking with us. I will send for you soon.” He gives me two small bags. One, I know has only a small finger ring or two of silver for my belt. The other has more, and I hide it in a fold of my robe.
Proud to be entrusted to the task, I nod. “I will, Father.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I will tell Danel that your dog is with you.”
“Thank you, Father.”
That afternoon I take Nami with me to scout the goods for sale along the gravel-and-sand streets of Sodom. Perhaps it is the flowers in the women’s hair or the ribbons, but soon I become inured to the city stench.
Although I have worked with Nami to teach her the rudiments of herding, I wish to learn how to communicate better with her. There is no question in my mind she has received some training. Desert tribes raise such dogs with great care as companions and hunters. I just do not know her signals or the words she knows. I was delighted to find slapping my thigh brings her to my side … most of the time. She is alert to everything, but stays beside me if I signal her thus, unless a creature needing chasing dashes by. Then she has as much trouble with obedience as I. But, otherwise, if I stand still, she stands beside me, and if I walk or even run, she matches my pace with delight. The faster we go, the happier she is.
I suppose we make a sight together, the lanky boy and attached desert dog. Several of the street vendors nod and wave at us, in a good mood because of the flux of people—and thus business—arriving for the Spring Rites. One even slips me a treat, a meat stick, which I share with Nami. With great care, she takes the offered morsels from my sticky fingers.
Then I begin my duty to find bargains for trade. The cloth vendors are my favorite stops. Although I do not have skill with weaving, I know a fine work from a sloppy one and can tell where almost any cloth originates from the texture, dyes, and knotting.
I eye the ruins of several buildings that have partially collapsed and wonder what caused such, and why they are not repaired. Sodom is not a sophisticated city, not like Ur or Babylon or the Egyptian port cities where rare items are to be found—ingots of gold, tin, or even cobalt blue glass, tortoiseshell jewelry, and elephant or hippopotamus ivory. I love the port cities—the smell of the sea and exotic spices. Here in Sodom, the displays are mostly locally grown food, weapons and pottery, although there is one vendor who has a few pieces of nice ebony from Egypt. Since we are headed there, I am not tempted. The main source of wealth for Sodom is the pitch which we are prepared to transport. Pitch, as Lot explained to Mika and Raph, is harvested from the sea where the water cools it into a gooey mass, but it also oozes up through the ground. The primary hazard of night travel from the city is not predators, but the likelihood of stumbling into a pit of pitch or one of the old grave-shafts, if you do not stay to the paths.
I stop to watch a potter folding the edges of what is to be a small oil pot, admiring his skill. I do not have such a skill, though I have a good eye for what is well made, be it pottery, metal, or weavings.
At the far end of the main street, near the city wall, I skirt a row of large jars of pitch and stop at a cloth merchant’s shop. It appears to be a house as well as a shop. I give only a cursory glance to the pieces stacked outside. The least-worthy items are usually displayed there to minimize any loss by a snatching thief.
I signal for Nami to stay outside and wait for me. She appears willing to do so, at least as long as I don’t tie her and leave her for long. Inside, I let my fingers choose what to study. They stop on a fine piece and only then do I look at it. It is a small rug in deep reds and blues. I pull it from its heap of fellows and take it out to the daylight with another mediocre piece to study. The owner steps out with me. A shaft of light angling over the stone wall reflects off a tiny silver ring that curves through his left nostril.
“You have an eye, boy,” he says, cocking his head at me.
Once my gaze rests on him, it is captured by the strange travel of his left hand across his body. His fingers draw up his chest, through his oily beard and along the side of his face to touch the top of his balding head before starting the cycle again. He seems unaware of the ceaseless tide of his hand, but it is distracting. “You know your weave,” he says. “Finest pieces I have.”
Of course he would have said that about anything a customer chose, but I have no doubt for the one piece, he is correct. The double knot weave and pattern identify it as originating from the north, where young girls weave their family pattern into dowry rugs. The dyes are rich and pleasing. As we are bound for Egypt, this would be a worthy item to obtain.
I shrug, beginning the ever-fascinating game of negotiation. “It may be, but I have not the funds to buy a fine piece. Perhaps you have others more in my range. It is a gift for my mother.”
“Perhaps it is not as expensive as you think,” he says. “And a gift for your mother should be as fine an item as you can manage. How much do you have?”
Only an amateur trader or a herder or farm boy would fall for that, but I put my hand to my pouch as though to pull out my coins to count and then stop, letting my head fall, as if shamed I am not learned enough to tell how much I have and do not want to embarrass myself.
Again I shrug. “Not much, but what is the price for this small rug?”
Thwarted, the merchant names a price, less I am certain, than he would have ordinarily begun with, but something above the range of this ignorant boy who cannot even count his coins.
“Perhaps you should consider this piece,” he advises, indicating the other cloth. Its price is not worth mentioning—a pile of salt.”
Salt is highly prized in the desert and mountains far from the sea, but here it is as common as dust. His hand continues in its absorbing path of stomach-beard-cheek-head, as though too unhappy to rest anywhere.
“Perhaps I should look at something entirely different,” I say, half turning back into the store and then pausing to look at the piece in my right hand. “But my mother would like these colors.”
“They are very fine,” he agreed. “If I knew how much you had to spend I could advise you better.”
At that moment, I notice through the opening of the house that Nami has her jaws almost level with a large chuck of raw pig meat at an adjoining stall, and I slap my thigh loudly. She turns her head and hesitates before trotting to my side, her flowing ears flat in shame I have caught her in a transgression or thinking of one.
The merchant’s hand pauses in its journey, caught in an invisible web at his chest. “This is your dog?” There is a note of disbelief in his voice.
“Yes,” I say, suddenly alarmed, although I cannot name a reason.
“A saluki,” he says, as if to himself. “So the rumors are true.”
My free hand drops to stroke Nami’s head. “What rumors?”
Abruptly, the merchant’s hand resumes its nervous path and he ignores my question. “I might know of a man who would be interested in such a dog. Perhaps we can come to an agreement about the rug.”
Curious now, I ignore the scent of danger. “Who would be interested? She is terrible at herding donkeys.”
He flinches. “Herding donkeys?”
For the first time, I pay closer attention to his features. He could be of a desert tribe. Some gave up the nomad life for a place in the cities, although their people disdain them.
I run my fingers through the long, silky hair of Nami’s ears. “Yes, I am training her.”
He straightens. “This dog was not bred for herding.” An angry tone has crept into his voice. I find this interesting, as professional traders do not allow anger to show in the midst of a negotiation. We are into personal territory here, and I should move us back to a discussion of the rug or leave.
Perversely, I instead sink us deeper into the trench that has opened before us. “Oh,” I say, all innocence. “Tell me what you know of such dogs.”
He scowls, and the hand moves faster in its predetermined path. I should leave, but I want the rug and I have a wedge now. Besides, I would like to know more about Nami or at least her breed. The desert nomads prize their dogs, but they do not share information about their training. My hope is this man, perhaps ostracized by his tribe, might do so.
“You should not have this dog.”
“But she is a good dog. Why not?”
“If you will not sell her, then you had better leave.”
There is no mistaking the danger that weighs in the air like the pressure of a storm. His hand stops again and slips to one of the two daggers prominent in his sash.
“Leave my premises,” he says.
I take a deep breath. “I have decided I do want the small rug.”
“Go.”
“My mother will like the colors.”
“Go now.” Menace rumbles in his voice.
“I think since I have seen it, I will be happy with no other piece,” I say, as if unaware of his anger. I want this rug to show my father I can be trusted to find and negotiate fine goods.
My hand still rests on Nami’s head, and I feel, rather than hear, her warning rumble. The man’s hand has tightened on one of the hilts. He freezes at her growl.
I name my price for the rug in my hand, a fair one, holding out the copper rings to him.
His face suffused with rage, he snatches them with his free hand.
I take two steps away, still facing him, not wanting a knife in my back. Nami, to my amazement, also backs, keeping a watchful eye on the merchant.
Slowly, his gaze locked on her, he releases his grip on his knife, perhaps finding his temper or perhaps not wishing Nami to attack him if I am harmed.
Only then do I turn, but not without a backward glance over my shoulder, and I realize my fingers, which clench the small rug, are drained of blood.