CHAPTER 12

The immediate problem facing Jimmy was that Eugene had taken the backpack. Jimmy sat on his pile of clothing for a minute, resting after the long morning, and looked off into the woods, hoping to catch a glimpse of Eugene in the distance. Nothing stirred, and so he snapped out of his reverie and, with renewed determination, assessed his situation.

He had killed a man. He had saved a princess. Wonderful, beautiful Tamar. She had sent him to her uncle. She would meet him again—and all the rest was receding quickly.

His computer simply could not come with him. Neither could his extra shoes, nor his book, nor most of his clothing. Really, he thought, he could carry only what would fit into his windbreaker’s pockets, and one pocket was already full of his pills.

He stood and stared down at the mess, then decided to forget it. The less he carried, the easier it would be to travel, and he still had to get back down the cliff and across the crater. Jimmy made sure his medicines were stuffed into his pocket, pulled up his socks, then took a good look at his camp, trying to remember it—why, he didn’t know, but he felt that it needed to be remembered, at least by him.

An idea came to him, and he ripped the map out of the back of his book, then used his knife to cut it into a rough circle. Carefully, he drew in the river, noting the waterfall and the pool below, then wrote “Jimmy’s Place” in its approximate location on the map and rolled the paper into a small scroll. He wedged the scroll between the branches of his olive tree.

There, he thought, surveying his work. And now it was official.

He zipped his pills in his pocket, took a last look at Jimmy’s Place, and headed off toward the crater.

Toward Tamar.

The trick to spotting shadows was knowing where they were supposed to be.

Strangers never did, however, which was the secret to the Levites’ stealth.

They were an old tribe, natives of the land that had become Sheba, and kept themselves apart from the rest of their people. Darker in appearance, taller and leaner than the city dwellers, they made their encampments deep in the forest and answered only to the Law. Not even the queen dared to order them about—the Levites knew the valley, could hide and stalk better than any predator, and were swift to exact revenge for injuries to their own and swifter to punish those who dared to break the Law.

The Levites and the Sheban people worshipped The Law.

The changing fashions of Sheba never seemed to reach the Levites, who wore only black loincloths and shunned all footwear. Their weapon of choice, as it had been for millennia, was a spear as tall as a man, thick as his forearm, and tipped with a wickedly sharp bone point.

Some city dwellers maintained that the Levites had long ago lost the capacity for speech, that they grunted and hooted like the animals they lived among—that, although the sentiment was never phrased in so many words, they were somehow subhuman. The queen and her counselors knew better; rare was the day one would hear a Levite speak to anyone outside the tribe, but when they chose, they could be as articulate as anyone else in the valley. Unlike the others, though, they were also fluent in the language of the forest, and could disguise their conversations as so much background noise.

They watched Jimmy as he trekked back down the stream, followed stealthily as he climbed down the cliff, and lay in wait, their numbers ever swelling, as he stumbled down the road toward the holy city. When he reached the edge of the forest, he paused for a moment at the border, just long enough to reach into the river and retrieve a palm-sized ruby.

The Levites waited, listening for the signal.

Jimmy examined the stone, holding it up to the fading light, and marveled at its flawlessness. But it was only one of many, just another pretty rock like the thousands he had seen sticking out of the dirt and water on his journey, and he tossed it back into the river without another thought.

As soon as the ruby flew from his hand, the Levites relaxed. When Jimmy continued over the border and down the road to the city, they melted back into the trees.

Jimmy heard a bird’s cry pierce the air, then cocked his head toward the woods an instant later as another bird responded. Odd, he mused; he thought he had not heard that particular call before, but chalked it up to his preoccupation and let the matter pass.

But even preoccupied, he could appreciate the beauty of Sheba.

The sun had begun to set as he left the shelter of the forest and found himself facing a vast plaza adorned with marble columns and fountains. It stretched from the edge of the forest all the way to the city gates, massive iron structures encrusted with jewels of many colors. The gates, he noted with dismay, were already closed for the night. The jagged rocks running along the top of the white city walls were nothing less than diamonds. Among the fountains and the peripheries of the plaza stood rows of lean-to structures to serve the latecomers to the city. Families, merchants, and travelers gradually filled these structures and settled in for the night. Here and there, Jimmy could see fires dancing under cooking cauldrons. He stopped on a mound at the outskirts of the plaza, hesitating to step on the marble floor, and stared at the city above the walls. Beyond them, he could see low buildings topped with sapphire-shingled roofs, towering spires with emerald windows, and, in the distance, enormous domed edifices that glowed crimson in the sunset light. Every surface glinted and gleamed, and Jimmy allowed himself to linger and marvel.

Tamar. What a perfect city for her.

Then he stepped away from the marble plaza and set off back to the edge of the forest, preparing to spend the night behind the mound. From his position, he could see latecomers approach the city by other roads, then settle near the gates or camp in the lean-tos, waiting for the morning. Most wore robes, the cloth far coarser than Tamar’s but no less vibrantly dyed, and bedded down on blankets they unrolled from packs slung across the backs of laden horses and donkeys. Merchants, he supposed, or perhaps travelers like himself. Still, Jimmy decided that there was no need to call attention to himself, especially with his nonexistent Amharic , and curled up by himself behind the rock, angling his body to keep one eye on the scene ahead.

As the first stars came out, Jimmy saw a small cluster of gray-clad men emerging from a side door in the gates, and his heartbeat quickened. Their uniforms resembled those of the two men he had seen by the lake and that of the man he killed, and he tucked himself closer to his protective rock, grateful for his decision to do without a fire.

He quickly understood that the men were a kind of police or soldiers.

The people camped outside the gate rose grudgingly at the soldiers’ prodding, but seemed to answer their questions. Jimmy couldn’t be certain—he would have had no idea of what was being said, even if he could hear it—but he didn’t like the torches the soldiers carried, and he liked the tone of their voices even less. They were armed with the same crescent machetes that the soldiers who had so swiftly and without a second of compunction slit the throats of Tamar’s companions had carried. The soldiers were searching among the travelers, and Jimmy had no doubt that they were looking for him.

He mentally measured the distance to the forest and was charting a path to run back to the trees when he was startled by multiple voices approaching, chattering quickly to each other. A caravan of six camels approached his rock from the woods. He held his breath, waiting for the train to pass, but his heart sank as the beasts came to a halt on the other side of his rock. As Jimmy lay in silence, the camel drivers began to unload their wares, while two women started a fire and prepared a meal. Their children, who had yet to tire from the trip, ran about the campsite in a game of tag, and eventually chased each other around the rock.

Jimmy sat up and stared at them.

They stared back, then ran.

To Jimmy, it sounded like they began to yell Uma or Ima, but he had no doubt that they were calling for their mother.

“Mama, mama!” the boy cried, tugging on his mother’s robe. “Mama!”

She sighed and rested the wooden spoon against the cooking pot. “Yes, darling?”

“Mama,” said the boy, his dark eyes wide, “there’s a stranger on the other side of the rock!”

She turned, noted Jimmy’s shoe, then bent back to her son. “Yes, I know. We saw him when we came by. Leave him be.”

“But Mama…”

“Leave him alone,” she insisted with a scowl, and the boy walked off with his brow furrowed, uncertain of his mother’s wisdom.

The woman had just begun to season the stew when two soldiers walked into their campsite, barking orders to clear a path and bring out the patriarch. She smoothed her robe, gave their dinner a final stir, and stepped out to meet them. “Is there a problem, good sirs?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

The larger of the pair sneered back at her. “Where’s the old man?”

“Attending to the urges of nature,” she replied, her temper mount. “He will return shortly.”

The soldier’s sneer changed to a smirk. “Well, he won’t mind if we have a look in these bags while he’s gone, will he?”

“Of course not,” she lied, and held the children back as, one by one, the soldiers ripped open each carefully packed case and saddlebag and flung their contents to the ground. Their frustration seemed to grow as they poked and prodded bedrolls, and the woman had almost reached a breaking point when her father returned from the river.

Seeing his daughter’s consternation, he placed his hand on her arm, then said, “May I help you locate something, sirs? I assure you, the taxes have been paid.”

The smaller soldier caught him by the front of the robe and drew their faces close together. “We’re looking for a stranger. Have you seen him?”

“No, sir,” he replied.

“He’s a dangerous giant,” the larger soldier added. “We have orders to kill him on sight. He killed five of our men.”

The old man’s jaw dropped. “But he’s a stranger among us! It’s the Law!”

The first soldier smiled, then released the patriarch and wiped his hand on his shirt. “You would do well to do as you’re told. Now, have you seen a stranger?”

The old man did not answer.

When the soldiers finally retreated and moved to the next group of travelers, the patriarch exhaled slowly and looked about him at the tattered remnants of their wares.

“An odd place to look for a giant,” he said, prodding a ripped saddlebag with his sandal. “I can’t see him being quite as dangerous as they described if he can fit in here.”

His daughter folded her arms across her thin chest and scowled in the direction the soldiers had gone. “Barbarians, all of them. Thugs. This would never happen if the queen…”

The old man squeezed her wrist hard enough to silence her, then shook his head. “No, my dear. Not that. Hold those thoughts, if you must, but hold them closely.” Releasing her with a pat, he sighed and cocked his head toward the rock. “The boy hiding behind there—do you suppose he’s the one they’re after?”

“He was dressed oddly enough,” she replied, rubbing her wrist. “Probably a good candidate.”

Her father snorted. “If that boy killed five soldiers and raped as many women, I’m Solomon himself. Come on,” he said, starting toward the rock. “The scrawny little thing’s probably starving.”

Jimmy crouched low with his back to the rock, realizing as the young woman babbled at him that he really didn’t want to pull out his pocketknife again—the soldier’s dead eyes still haunted the corners of his mind—but he began to relax when the old man beside her smiled and beckoned him toward their fire. The night was chilly, and although the children continued to stare at him unabashedly, the stew was warm and hearty, manna to his rumbling stomach. He clutched at the flatbread that continued to pass his way, grinned his thanks when his bowl was refilled, and had drunk two cups of juice before he realized the sweet liquid was fermented. With his stomach full, his body warm, and his brain lightly clouded, he listened to the conversations passing across the fire and tried to make sense of them, hoping that a word or two might click into focus if he listened long enough.

He had mellowed into a near-doze when voices in the next camp began to shout. He startled and thought to run away, when the old man put a hand on his shoulder, preventing him from bolting.

The old man raised his hand for silence, then pointed toward the scuffle at the nearby fire. Four soldiers had seized a young man, and his companions watched in helpless horror as his wrists and ankles were bound and he was thrown into a wheeled cage. A woman began to weep, and when the soldiers started to pull the man away, she tried to run after him, calling through her sobs. Before she could reach the cage, two members of her family grabbed her about the waist and restrained her, holding on tightly until her struggles faded and her head bowed in anguish.

Oppressive silence fell upon the travelers, and Jimmy stared at the old man. “What just happened?” he asked. “What…that…” He pointed after the cage, suddenly remembering his language problem.

When the soldiers had disappeared, the old man bent to his ear and whispered, “Onion,” then steered Jimmy away from the firelight.

Jimmy’s eyes widened. “You speak English?”

“Is that what thou callst thy tongue?” he murmured, motioning for Jimmy to lower his voice. “I could not be certain, thy speech is strange…”

“All that for an onion?” Jimmy interrupted.

“Aye, and he be unfortunate, but thou shouldst keep silent when the High Priest’s men come hence. Thou art new-come unto this land?” Jimmy nodded, and the man’s eyebrow lifted fractionally. “Prithee hearken unto my words, lad—make not a spectacle of thyself, and when they come nigh, happy is the man unseen. Dost thou perceive my meaning?”

“But what’s all the fuss about a lousy onion?”

The old man pondered his words for a moment, then replied, “The High Priest’s men search tonight for a stranger of great prowess, a giant who hast slain five soldiers and ravished as many maidens. A strange tale, I believe,” he added, glancing at Jimmy’s thin arms. “But when they came unto that man’s fire, instead of a mighty stranger, they discovered an onion secreted among his chattel.”

“So?”

“’Tis a thing of great worth,” he continued, surprised at the question. “For one of his station to have come unto such wealth…methinks he could not have done so within the Law.” He paused at the sound of a distant scream, and turned his weary eyes back to Jimmy. “Justice is swift in this land, young sir. Heed thou my words and strive to walk about unseen.”

Jimmy shuddered as the screams slowly faded. “What happened to him?”

The old man held one hand stiff and brought it down on his opposite wrist, miming a sword. “He will never steal again.”

The city of Sheba was littered with palaces, some modest, others ostentatious. The home of Ezra, patriarch of the Scribes, lay in the perfect niche between the two extremes: large enough to be impressive, but with just the right amount of decoration to show guests that the master of the house had both wealth and taste. His favorite room in the complex was the large, open-air dining room, which could be covered by a waterproofed canopy when the weather was poor. On that night at the end of the rainy season, the canopy had been retracted, and Ezra dined by candle- and starlight.

Seated to his right was his niece, who had bathed again, had her long hair combed into neat waves, and been anointed with perfume for the occasion. As the steward left a platter of sliced fruit between them, Tamar said, “He is young, Uncle, and quite handsome. He has hair like a woman…”

Ezra discretely shook his head, silencing her, then looked around the room at his servants and said to them, “I believe we have all that is required for now. Thank you. If you would kindly give me a moment with the princess, I would be grateful.” He paused, thinking briefly, then added, “There is still half a roast in the kitchen, is there not? Perhaps you would care to help us complete it—we cannot do so alone.”

The servants smiled as he patted his stomach, and slipped back into the palace, closing all of the doors and windows behind them. When the last latch had caught, Ezra gave Tamar a quick look of disapproval. “My dear, you must choose your time more carefully,” he instructed. “See what ears are around to receive your words before you begin to spill them.”

She bowed her head, suitably chastened, then turned her eyes back up to her uncle. “Amnon tried to hurt me.”

The lines around Ezra’s mouth deepened. “You’re certain it was he?”

“Or his father,” she replied. “Why would those men have attacked my party so brutally but only attempted to subdue me?”

“I’m sorry to say that I’m not surprised,” he murmured. “I should have anticipated this. I’m sorry.” He picked up a piece of grapevine and began to twirl it between finger and thumb. “This is the first time in generations that the Elders have not selected a daughter of the Priests as the new queen.”

“I know, Uncle.”

“Yes, my dear, but you must remember that the Priests’ honor has been hurt, and their ability to tax has been vastly curtailed. That is, perhaps, even more important to them than their honor,” he added with a snort. “The High Priest and his son will use all their power to reverse this decision.” He paused, then continued sadly, “No, Tamar, it would surprise me not at all if the High Priest or his son attempted to make you impure.”

She looked down at the table, studying her delicate fingers, and whispered, “The stranger saved me.”

Ezra made no reply.

“You won’t hurt him, will you, Uncle?”

He sighed softly and helped himself to a quartered peach. “Remember, child, that you have great responsibilities.”

She reached across the table and gripped his gnarled hand. “Please, Uncle. Don’t hurt him. Perhaps he didn’t know the Law, perhaps it is not the Law in his land. But he saved me, Uncle! He…”

Ezra held up one hand, surprised by her sudden passion. “Dearest, you have my word that I will not touch a hair on his head. But my promise to you is empty, I fear—when the High Priest catches him, he will kill him.”

Tamar’s fingers tightened on Ezra’s hand as her eyes hardened. “Not if you make the stranger your guest. Not if you give him your protection, Uncle.” Her jaw clenched, and Ezra could see the determination in her face. “Do this for me, please. As your niece, I beg it of you.”

He patted her hand and nodded slowly. “And as my queen, it is yours to ask of me.”

Her fingers relaxed their grip and she offered him a half-smile. “Not yet, Uncle.”

“Soon,” he replied, taking up his glass. “Soon enough for me.”