Deborah Calling Read online

  The scribe wrote that down, too.

  “Very good,” Judge Zifron said.

  The boy-servants carried Sallan downstairs in a chair, a wool cap pulled down over his ears, his coat buttoned up to his neck. The servants placed the chair in front of the table, facing everyone. Deborah was shocked again by how old Sallan appeared, with his waxy skin and silver stubble.

  “The prices,” Kassite said, “will have to be agreed upon in advance, considering that I will be making very large commitments—”

  The judge held a hand up to stop him. “We’ll discuss it, sure. It’s all very good. Excellent.”

  Seesya leaned against the table, taking his time, touching each of the blades as if they were objects of desire. The courtyard grew silent and tense.

  “Tell me, slave,” Seesya said. “How are you feeling this evening?”

  Sallan cleared his throat. “Repulsed and disgusted,” he said weakly. “How about you?”

  Everyone laughed.

  Seesya’s face reddened, and he touched the hair over his right ear as if checking that it was in place. “You think all this is a joke?”

  “I’m resigned to my fate.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Seesya selected a long knife from the table. “We can start with this fine instrument—”

  “Hold on,” Judge Zifron said. “Even a slave deserves a chance to do the right thing.”

  Seesya held up both his hands in a gesture that would have signaled respectful deference to his father, if not for the long knife he was still holding, the blade glistening in the flames of the torches.

  All eyes were on Sallan, but he said nothing.

  “Tell us how to make the Reinforcing Liquid,” the judge said. “You’ll be free to go back to your quarters and rest peacefully in your bed.”

  “There has never been a slave more fortunate than I,” Sallan said, his voice shaky. “There has never been a master more generous than you have been to me. The pain of refusing you is greater than any physical pain your son could inflict on my old body.”

  “Then don’t refuse me.”

  “My body belongs to you, but my soul belongs to the gods. Long before I came here, back in my homeland of Edom, I took an oath before Qoz to keep the secret, which had been passed down from my ancestors. Breaking such an oath on my deathbed would surely condemn my soul. How can you ask me to sacrifice that which is beyond the grave?”

  Everyone contemplated Sallan’s words for a long moment.

  “You are not the man you were in Edom,” Judge Zifron said. “You are a slave now. The oath you took as a free man was lost with your freedom. As your body belongs to me, so does what’s inside your head.”

  Sallan grasped the edge of the table and pulled up, rising with difficulty, until he stood. His light-blue eyes focused on Judge Zifron. “If a master could really own what’s inside a slave’s head, we wouldn’t be in this situation, would we?”

  “Insolent!” Seesya stepped forward and raised his hand to strike Sallan.

  “Stop,” a thin voice yelled. “Don’t hit him!”

  Seesya paused and, with everyone else, looked around to see whose voice it was.

  “Please, Father.” Babatorr stepped forward, his pudgy face flushed. “The foreman is old and ill. We need him to teach me all the workings—”

  “Shut up, boy.” Seesya shoved Babatorr away and turned back to hit Sallan.

  Judge Zifron clapped. “Let the slave speak.”

  Glaring at Sallan, Seesya stepped aside.

  “Master,” Sallan said, “I have given you many years of loyal service, the full extent of my talent and the full bloom of my creativity. The baskets carrying your name have reached far and wide. Isn’t that enough to earn the small favor of a peaceful death?”

  “Go and die in peace,” Judge Zifron said. “Who’s stopping you? And you know what? I’ll even throw you a funeral befitting an Edomite prince!” He turned to Kassite. “What would that require?”

  A slight smile of irony crossed Kassite’s face. “A stone coffin,” he said. “Comfortable shrouds made of white linen, a good weapon for protection in the afterlife, and a purse with coins to buy gifts for the gods.”

  “It shall be done,” Judge Zifron said. “Anything else?”

  “A procession,” Kassite said. “There is always a big procession for a prince.”

  “No problem.” Judge Zifron sat back, pressing his hand to his heart. “You have my solemn promise for a funeral as grand as one held for a prince in your homeland. Every man in Emanuel will be summoned to attend and made to cry in mourning. But first, you must tell us how to make the Reinforcing Liquid so that we can keep the factory going.”

  Sallan lowered his head. “I cannot.”

  “And I cannot let my basket business die with you.” Judge Zifron raised his voice. “Didn’t you just say that the baskets carrying our brand have reached far and wide?”

  Sallan nodded.

  “Aren’t you proud of that?”

  Again, Sallan nodded.

  “Then how can you expect me to shut down the factory? You must give us the formula for the Reinforcing Liquid—I command you!”

  Sallan descended slowly back into his chair.

  Seesya stepped forward and looked at his father.

  The judge turned to Kassite. “My apologies, Prince Antipartis, for subjecting you to this spectacle, but surely you can see that we have no choice.”

  “A choice,” Kassite said, “is a privilege that one decides whether to exercise, or not.”

  Nobody made a sound while the judge tried to understand what his guest meant.

  “My sympathies,” Kassite continued, “are in conflict. On the one hand, like you, I carry the burden of feeding my slaves and mercenaries while suffering their constant impertinence and conniving idleness.”

  “That’s right,” Seesya said. “Disobedient, lazy bastards all of them.”

  His father nodded in agreement.

  “On the other hand,” Kassite said, “I am sympathetic to this particular slave’s fidelity to an oath that I, too, hold sacrosanct. Maybe the Hebrew god is more lenient when it comes to breaking sacred oaths? No disrespect intended to my gracious host.”

  “None taken,” Judge Zifron said. “Gods don’t care about oaths taken by slaves, and this foolish slave leaves us no choice but to use force to extract from him what’s ours.”

  “That is fascinating.” Kassite put one long leg on top of the other, lounging back in a pose of relaxed pondering. “In my country, a legend is often retold about the ancient Hebrew prophet Moses, also called the Law-Giver, who led your tribes through our land on their exodus from Egyptian slavery. It is said that the Hebrews revere the law so much that they accept as their leaders judges, not kings or lords. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Judge Zifron said. “That’s our tradition.”

  “A wonderful tradition,” Kassite said. “I was wondering whether Moses left behind a law about the extraction of a secret from the mind of a slave. Did he?”

  Judge Zifron looked at his guest in surprise.

  An awkward silence hung in the air.

  “The law?” Seesya leaned on the table with both hands, facing Kassite. “As my father said, the law is that this slave belongs to us, including what’s in his head—especially the formula required to make Zifron baskets!”

  “My son is right.” Judge Zifron shook his finger. “The law of theft applies here. By harboring our property in his head, this slave is guilty of stealing from us.”

  “And we know,” Seesya said, “what the punishment for stealing is.”

  Seesya’s soldiers hooted and stomped their boots.

  Seesya picked up the smallest knife. “We’ll start modestly, and then continue piece by piece for as long as the stealing continues.”

  Watching this, Deborah felt sick. It was surreal, a bad dream that would end when she woke up. But it was real, and she wished for Obadiah of Levi to show up in the courtyard a
nd pound his staff on the ground three times to stop this evil from happening. She looked at the doors to the street, but Obadiah wasn’t there. She adjusted her leather helmet on her head, which was damp with sweat.

  Sallan closed his eyes and held one arm forward as if he knew what to do and had rehearsed it before. His lips parted, and a strange sound emerged. Deborah, standing behind Kassite, recognized it as an Edomite chant, similar to the songs Antippet and Patrees sang at night by the fire.

  Seesya grasped Sallan’s wrist and pressed down so that the hand was flat on the wooden tabletop. He placed the point of the knife between the pinky and the fourth finger.

  The chanting was sad, but it was not fearful. The Edomite men around Deborah began to hum along with Sallan.

  “Slave,” Judge Zifron said, “this is your last chance.”

  Sallan continued to chant, his eyes shut.

  Seesya looked at his father, waiting for the go-ahead.

  “May I suggest something?” Kassite asked.

  Sallan stopped chanting.

  The judge turned to Kassite. “What is it, Prince Antipartis?”

  “Now that your slave realizes the certainty of the painful consequences of his stubbornness, perhaps you should send him back to his quarters for the night to contemplate.”

  Judge Zifron’s face lit up. “Perhaps I should.”

  “By morning,” Kassite continued, “he might see the futility of resistance and give in.”

  “By morning,” Seesya said, “this damn slave might be dead of his illness.”

  “That’s true,” the judge said. “And we might be left without the Reinforcing Liquid, though with plenty of regrets. No, he must talk now, or suffer the consequences.”

  Sallan resumed chanting.

  With a quick downward thrust, Seesya brought the blade down. Sallan’s pinky rolled on the table, leaving a trail of blood.

  Deborah covered her mouth, and everyone groaned. Sallan cried out once but then continued to chant.

  Placing the blade between the remaining fingers, Seesya said, “Here goes the next one.”

  “Father,” Babatorr pleaded. “Tell Seesya to stop!”

  Judge Zifron waved his hand. “Go inside the house if you can’t bear it.”

  Chanting meekly, Sallan swayed.

  “Speak up, slave.” Seesya held the knife with both hands, ready to press down. “One. Two.”

  The chanting stopped, and Sallan’s head slumped.

  Her eyes moist, Deborah tried to see if he was breathing. Let him live, she begged Yahweh silently. Her heart filled with admiration for Sallan, who was dying for an oath he’d taken in another country many years ago, whereas she could do nothing to keep the oath she had taken right here in this house only months earlier to come back and free him.

  One of Seesya’s soldiers brought a jar of water and emptied it on Sallan’s head, reviving him.

  Seesya grasped Sallan’s right hand and pressed it in the puddle of blood on the table. “Maybe we’ll speed things up a bit,” he said, selecting a longer blade and placing it over the wrist. “Speak up, or lose your hand. One—”

  Sallan began to chant again, though his voice was scratchy, as if he didn’t have enough air to push through his vocal cords.

  Deborah couldn’t stand this any longer. She wished for a rock that would fit in her sling, for time to prepare the Edomite men for a sudden attack, for a chance to do something—anything! But the cool voice in her head pointed out that Seesya’s soldiers outnumbered them five to one. What could she do to save Sallan without bringing death and destruction upon her, Kassite, and the Edomite men?

  “Father?” Seesya looked at the judge expectantly. “Shall we?”

  Sallan’s voice strengthened, and his chanting grew louder.

  Judge Zifron sighed. He raised his hand to signal his approval.

  “Before you continue,” Kassite said, “would you like me to take a look at the slave? The last thing you want is for him to die before you’ve managed to extract the information.”

  Judge Zifron gestured. “Go ahead.”

  Letting go of Sallan’s hand, Seesya grinned, the scar causing his face to seem even more menacing. He smoothed his oily black hair down over his ears, and his grin faded, telling Deborah that her father’s fire-starters had indeed left lasting injuries. She felt a mix of dread and satisfaction.

  Sallan ceased chanting and opened his eyes.

  Rising from the large armchair, Kassite took his time to fix his coat and straighten his hat. He went around the table, smiled graciously at Seesya, and took Sallan’s hand, which dripped blood from where the pinky had been severed. He pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket and bandaged the wound quickly.

  Deborah was impressed that he’d come prepared.

  Kassite repeated the examination procedure from before, peering into Sallan’s mouth and eyes. He grunted, went back around the table, and sat in the armchair.

  “Well?” Judge Zifron looked at him. “Can we continue?”

  “Medicine is not an exact science,” Kassite said. “And I am not an expert on torture. Perhaps he could tolerate a couple more amputations. More likely, he will die with the next one. You can try.”

  Seesya grabbed Sallan’s hand and reached for the blade.

  Sallan began to chant again.

  “If I were you,” Kassite said, “I would not do it.”

  The judge turned to him. “You wouldn’t?”

  “Do you know what he is chanting?”

  “No.”

  “An Edomite funeral chant.” Kassite said. “In my opinion, this man is literally at death’s door. All he needs is a little push, and your son is about to grant him this last favor.”

  Judge Zifron signaled Seesya to wait.

  Sallan stopped chanting and opened his eyes.

  Deborah struggled not to cheer.

  “Let me continue,” Seesya said. “He’ll talk before he dies. I guarantee it, Father.”

  Kassite laughed out loud.

  Judge Zifron turned, surprised by the laughter.

  “I am sorry.” Tilting his hat, Kassite laughed some more. “If your son can guarantee such a thing, then he must be in possession of the divine powers of the Hebrew god. As a mere human, who am I to disagree?”

  Acknowledging his guest’s irony with a chuckle, Judge Zifron clapped. “That’s it for today. We’ll try again tomorrow. Perhaps he’ll see reason.”

  Seesya held up the blade. “This is the only language slaves understand.”

  “I’ve made my decision, Son.”

  Lips pressed in anger, Seesya dropped the blade on the table and spat on the ground. “It’s a mistake!”

  A son hurling open criticism at his father was a crime punishable by flogging. Everyone in the courtyard froze, waiting to see what Judge Zifron would do, but he only shook his head and waved dismissively.

  The boy-servants stepped forward to lift Sallan’s chair.

  “Wait,” Seesya said. “I have an idea.”

  He grabbed one of the boys, bent him over the end of the table, and held him down. The boy faced sideways, his face a frozen mask of terror.

  Seesya picked up a two-pronged blade, placed it against the side of the boy’s head, and moved it forward so that the boy’s ear was caught between the two prongs. With a quick jerk forward, he sliced the ear off cleanly and flipped the blade sideways, tossing the severed ear into Sallan’s lap.

  The boy wailed.

  Sallan looked down at the ear in his lap and began to sob.

  Seesya grinned. “No more chanting?”

  His soldiers burst out laughing.

  “Slave,” Seesya said, “look at me.”

  Sallan raised his teary eyes.

  “Ready to talk?” Seesya grabbed the boy’s hair and turned his head to face the other way. “Or have another ear in your lap?”

  Sallan wept.

  Seesya sliced off the other ear.

  The boy screamed and struggled to get awa
y, but Seesya easily kept him down.

  Shocked into numbness by this dramatic turn, Deborah watched in horror. Ear removal was sometimes a punishment for escaping slaves, but this boy had not escaped. Had Seesya’s own injured ears given him the idea to do this? Was it her fault?

  “Well, slave?” Seesya flung the second ear at Sallan, hitting him in the chest. “What do you say?”

  Sallan continued weeping.

  Seesya dropped the bloody two-pronged blade, not letting go of the writhing boy, and picked up a long double-edged knife. He held it vertically, pointing down at the wound where the ear once was.

  “I’m going to push it through,” Seesya said. “Very slowly. He’ll feel it coming into his head like a mare feels her first stallion. And if you continue in this stubborn silence, I’m going to start carving up your other boy, piece by piece, starting with his most precious parts. Do you get the picture?”

  Sallan watched him through a mist of tears.

  Unable to stand it any longer, Deborah gripped her short sword and prepared to draw it from its leather scabbard.

  “One,” Seesya said. “Two.”

  “Wait.” Sallan held up his bandaged hand. “Don’t kill him.”

  “Are you going to talk?”

  “Yes.” Sallan looked at the judge. “Please, tell him to let the boy go.”

  Judge Zifron signaled his son to step away, and Seesya complied, pounding his chest while the soldiers cheered.

  Deborah’s hand let go of her sword. Behind her stoic expression, she was far from cheering, yet she was flooded with relief. She cared nothing for the Reinforcing Liquid, or the Strengthening Stew, whatever they called it. Let Judge Zifron have it. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She felt sick over the boy’s injuries, but the danger to Sallan was over. Once he told them what they wanted to know, they would have no more use for him and no reason to object if he asked to go home to Edom with the “prince.” She almost sighed out loud, relieved that the chances of getting out of Emanuel alive had greatly improved.

  Chapter 17

  Sallan’s unmolested boy-servant washed the other one’s wounds at the well and tied a rag around his head. Judge Zifron told everyone else to step out of earshot. Deborah and the Edomite men went to the other side of the courtyard and watched, but Kassite remained seated, and Babatorr was summoned back from the house to listen in. Sallan began to speak, the scribe wrote it down, and Seesya paced back and forth, tossing a short blade in the air and catching it by the hilt.