THAT SAME AFTERNOON SALA AND LORD NAHSHON PRESENTED themselves at the house of Lord Arazu. They had dressed in fresh linen tunics, with carefully combed hair and perfectly clean sandals. Arazu had been correct when he had said everyone would know where he lived; the first person they asked was able to direct them.
The noble’s house was one of the largest in a neighborhood of large houses. When the servant escorted Sala and his father inside, Sala saw that it was large enough to accommodate an indoor courtyard. Sala had never seen such a thing before. The courtyard had its own roof, which was supported by four posts at each of its corners. A staircase led from the courtyard up to the second floor of the house, which Sala assumed was the family residence.
Two men besides Lord Arazu were sitting in the cool of the courtyard, looking comfortable in their cushioned wicker chairs. Arazu stood to welcome the newcomers and then presented Sala and his father to Lord Edri, the king’s treasurer, and Lord Ratu, the high priest. The two Israelites were invited to join them and Sala did so after first giving his father an amazed look. How did they rate this kind of attention from a brief meeting on the street?
All of the men were served wine by one servant while another servant placed a tray of nuts and fruits on a low table next to them. Once the underlings were out of hearing, Lord Arazu turned to Sala’s father with a smile.
“You will have guessed from the attendance here, we in Jericho are very much interested in your proposal of shipping our excess produce to other countries. We are fortunate that our farmers are so industrious and we do indeed often have an abundance of grain and olive oil and wine.”
Lord Nahshon nodded and remained silent.
Lord Edri, the treasurer, said, “In a city such as this, which is based upon the agricultural bounty of the countryside, we are always looking for opportunities for investment. Jericho is not on any of the main overland trade routes, so our options are limited. However, if you are looking to buy up our produce to sell abroad . . . well, we would be interested.”
Something about the way the treasurer expressed himself set off an alarm in Sala’s mind. He glanced at his father to see if he was getting the same impression, but Lord Nahshon’s expression was unreadable.
His father replied to the treasurer, “Our preference is to buy early in the harvest, and we like to have a guarantee of how much product you will supply. I can provide the caravans to move the food from Jericho to Gaza so you need not concern yourself with that expense.”
Sala remained silent as the bargaining went on, but inside he was growing more and more angry. These rich scoundrels were planning to sell the harvest right out from under the people of the city! They would pay their usual amount to the farmers and then turn around and sell the fruit of Jericho’s farms for more than twice the price to his father.
Sala held his tongue, but when the discussion appeared to be winding down, he could not resist. Leaning forward, he said, “Excuse me, my lords, but what will you do if you sell the early harvest and end up with not enough food to feed your own city?”
Three pairs of dark eyes stared at him with veiled hostility.
“We will take care of our own people, you can be sure of that,” the high priest said stiffly.
Hah, Sala thought. You will take care of yourselves, you mean.
His father reached over and touched Sala’s arm lightly. He said to the others, “I think we will be able to do business.”
The three Jericho nobles relaxed.
“I just have one more concern,” Nahshon said.
“And what might that be?” Edri asked genially, certain he had gotten what he wanted.
“I am a little worried about the stability of your government. I have been hearing rumors that there is a movement to dethrone the king and put his son into his place. Is there any truth to this gossip?”
Lord Arazu flushed red all the way up to his bald head. “It is true there is a group of troublemakers trying to stir up dissent, but Makamaron has ruled successfully for thirty years now. He has the admiration and respect of the citizens of Jericho. This upstart son of his will be king when his father dies, and not one day before.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Sala’s father said. “With the advance of those Israelites who escaped from Egypt, a divided government in Jericho could lay you open to an attack. They are close enough to be a concern—just across the Jordan, or so I have heard.”
The treasurer, a skinny man with a long thin nose, gave a short laugh. “Have you seen our walls, sir? And the spring that lies within them? We can hold out against a siege for years. I would not worry about Jericho falling to any enemy.”
“A siege would destroy your commerce, though,” Sala pointed out.
Arazu glared. “There will be no siege. That ragtag crowd cannot come against well-armed troops, such as we have in Jericho. Put that thought out of your mind, sir. It will not happen.”
Sala looked at his father, who said mildly, “I am glad to hear that.”
After a little more discussion, and a plan for them to meet again to discuss amounts, Sala and Nahshon made their way out of the impressive house that was at least three times as large as theirs and walked in silence to the gate that would admit them back into the Lower City.
The three Jericho nobles who were left alone immediately broke into discussion.
“So visitors who have been in the city only a few days have already heard of the discord between Makamaron and Tamur,” Arazu said.
“Do we know who is spreading this nonsense?” Edri wanted to know.
The high priest gave the treasurer an impatient look. “The prince himself, of course. And that group of malcontents who hang around him.”
Edri steepled his hands and looked grave. “I was there when the king and the prince drove down the main street today. The crowd cheered Tamur as if he were some great military hero.”
Arazu let out a long frustrated breath and the three of them sat for a while in silence. The servant came in with the wine jug but Arazu waved him away. Finally he said, “If Tamur succeeds in deposing Makamaron, then we are done. The prince will appoint the members of his own circle to take our places.”
Edri, the treasurer, slammed his hand down on the wicker arm of his chair. “There must be something we can do to stop this royal upstart.”
The high priest sighed. “It is going to happen eventually. Makamaron is an aging man. With the festival of the New Year coming up, my great fear is that he will fail to complete the sacred marriage. I have asked him if he is adequate to the task, and he insists he is, but I have my doubts. If he should fail to consummate the union, and the hierodule tells the prince he has failed, then Tamur will have solid grounds for deposing his father.”
No one disagreed. Belief was strong among the Canaanite people that the fertility and strength of the nation were bound up with the sexual and physical prowess of the king. If the king was impotent, then the land and the flocks and the people would wither. If the king could not make the sacred marriage, then it was time for him to step down and turn his sacral role over to his son.
“Who is the hierodule this year?” the treasurer asked.
“Arsay,” the high priest responded.
Silence fell as they considered this comment. Arsay was one of the priestesses of the Temple of Asherah. It was her turn to be the hierodule, the stand-in for the goddess Asherah, who would be the king’s partner in the making of the sacred marriage. But Arsay’s brother also happened to be one of the prince’s closest friends. The chances that she would hold her tongue about any failure on the king’s part were next to none.
“We need at least another year out of Makamaron,” Arazu said. “If we can make money from this deal with the Gaza merchants, we will be in a much better position when he must finally relinquish the kingship.”
The high priest leaned forward as if he had just thought of something. “What if we get a new hierodule? Someone whose loyalty is to us? Someone who will keep quiet if the king proves incompetent.”
The others looked at him with respect.
“That is an excellent idea,” Arazu said. “But who can we get? I don’t believe we can trust any of the priestesses.”
“I must think about it,” the high priest replied.
Edri said, “We don’t have much time. We are within a week of the festival.”
“I know, I know,” the high priest returned. “It is the only way we can assure Makamaron will keep his throne, however.”
The three men agreed and they all decided to give some serious thought to finding a woman to take Arsay’s place as hierodule in the coming New Year festival.
“What a collection of villains they are,” Sala said disgustedly as he and his father walked away from Lord Arazu’s house.
“They are that. But their villainy may work in our favor. A divided city will fall more easily than one that is united.”
“But, Father . . .” Sala fixed his eyes on the high wall that protected the Upper City, then moved beyond to the huge embankment and wall that surrounded the entire town. “What that ugly-looking treasurer said about Jericho withstanding a siege has some truth. Look at those walls. This city could hold out forever within walls like this—especially if they have water and food.”
“That may be how it looks, Sala, but did it not look just as impossible for the Israelites to escape from Egypt? Yet they did it because it was Elohim’s will. We have heard of the terrible plagues Elohim sent upon the Egyptians to force Pharaoh to release our people. Why should He not also lift His hand at Jericho?”
Sala walked beside his father and thought about what Lord Nahshon had said. His father had been on fire ever since he had first met with Joshua, the Israelite leader, and Lord Nahshon had passed his passion along to his son. Sala had no doubts that Canaan was the Promised Land that Elohim had given to Abraham for the Israelite people. When Joshua had asked Sala and his father to go to Jericho in order to discover the military weaknesses of the city, Sala had been both thrilled and honored to accept such an assignment.
Thus far the army of the Israelites had been brilliantly successful, mowing down the armies of Heshbon and Og and destroying all those who lived in their lands. The entrance into Canaan itself lay through Jericho, and Sala understood that Joshua’s army would be just as merciless here if it were able to get into the city.
It is only right that this should happen. Elohim is with us and this is what He wishes—His land to be in the possession of His people. I must put my trust in Elohim. If we follow His will, He will always be with us.
Sala and his father had passed through the wall that separated the two parts of the city and the Sign of the Olive was right in front of them.
“Shall we stop for some supper?” Lord Nahshon asked.
Sala agreed and they found a table and ordered food. Sala was eating and watching the people walk by on the street. He took particular notice of one family group, mainly because other people on the street were turning their heads to watch as the three women and two men passed by. As they drew closer, Sala’s eyes were drawn to one of the girls. Her head carriage and walk were so proud and lovely that she reminded him of a ship in full sail.
He looked closer and felt his eyes widen. She was an amazingly beautiful girl. Her black hair fell in a shining loose braid over her shoulder, her skin glowed, her full mouth . . . Sala shook his head as if to clear it.
She stopped outside the wine shop door and looked in. For the first time Sala saw her huge dark eyes. His own mouth dropped open. He remembered those eyes. He would never forget them, filled with terror as she raced down the street in Gaza toward him.
Rahab. He said the word soundlessly. The two men with her were looking around the shop as well, clearly searching for a free table. There were none to be had and the family was turning away when, without any conscious thought, Sala leaped to his feet and ran out into the street to stand in front of them and stop them from leaving. He looked at the girl’s startled face and said, “Rahab!”
She looked back and for a terrible minute he thought she didn’t know who he was. Then her face broke into a radiant smile.
“Sala! Is it really you?” Her voice was even huskier than he remembered.
“Yes.” He tried to laugh. “It is really me.”
“What are you doing here?”
They said it at the same time, and then they laughed together. Her teeth were so white, her mouth so delicious.
What had happened to the skinny, brave little girl he remembered?
“I am here with my family for a visit,” she said. “What about you? Are you here with your father?”
Suddenly he realized what he had done. Rahab’s family knows we are Israelites. They could reveal our true identities.
His father’s voice spoke from behind him. “Who are these people, Aru?”
“Lord Nahshon!” Rahab said eagerly. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Rahab—the girl Sala rescued from the kidnappers. This is my family. You met my brother, Shemu, when he came to bring me home. This is his wife, Atene, and my father, Mepu, and my mother, Kata.”
She was glowing with delight at this unexpected reunion. Sala glanced at his father’s grim face, then looked back at Rahab. He knew very well that he should not have stopped her, but somehow he could not bring himself to be sorry.