The Crimson Cord: Rahab's Story Read Online Free PDF Page B

remind him that they did not need a bigger house for two people would be to remind him of her worthlessness.
    He leaned close to her ear. “Did you not see the grand columns of the king’s halls? Why can’t a man like me, a man who saved the prince’s life, be afforded similar pleasures? We deserve more, Rahab, and after I convinced Nahid to cancel the debt, I knew the gods were smiling on us again.”
    Cold fear shook Rahab, though the heat of the fire and warmth of the midday sun made beads of sweat break out on her forehead. She met Gamal’s gaze, pulled her hand from his grasp, and wrapped her arms about her. “No . . . it isn’t right.” Her words, a mere whisper, were not lost on Gamal.
    “Of course it’s right.” He took a step away from her, his glare piercing. “Why don’t you ever believe in me, Rahab? No man always wins at the tables, but some have made enough to buy their wives jewels and build bigger houses on King’s Row. I can finally do the same for you, and you throw it back in my face?” The pitch of his voice rose with his ire, every word punctuated.
    She stole a look at him again, holding herself slightly away, afraid he would slap her. But he whirled about, slamming his staff against the stones as he walked toward the gate instead. “I will get the silver, Rahab, and make my fortune.” He threw a look over his shoulder. “You’ll see.”
    Rahab stumbled over to a nearby bench and sank down, huddling beneath the shelter of her own crossed arms and hooded veil. How could Gamal not see the dangerous end to his plans? Had Prince Nahid’s mercy meant nothing at all to him?
    She watched him pass through the gate, his curses lingering in his wake.

    Tendaji hefted a sack of newly threshed wheat over his shoulder, forcing himself to be grateful for such an abundant harvest. Sweat from the afternoon’s heat still glistened on his skin, and the weight of the sickle hung from his belt. But his mother would eat and that was good. Please, let her eat.
    When she was gone, he would stop caring.
    If only Kahiru had lived.
    He fought the urge to shake his fist at the sky. The moon god did not care about a Nubian’s grief. Most of the people of Jericho had little use for him or his family, especially since Kahiru had been lost in childbirth, taking their son with her. Kahiru, a Jericho-born Canaanite, had not cared about the color of Tendaji’s dark skin. She had cared about him, had loved his family, especially his mother.
    He swallowed the grief, hefting the sack to his other shoulder. She’d been so small, so beautiful. What had she ever seen in him, big brute that he was? He sighed at the memories, the harsh, blaming looks that followed her death. As if he had somehow caused it.
    And now his mother had succumbed, had let the grief of too much loss fill her belly in place of food. Perhaps there was only so much pain a body could hold and still breathe.
    He had seen too much pain.
    Kahiru’s face filled his mind’s eye, though it did not linger. The memories were fading with each passing year . . . Their son would have been walking by now. And had he lived, Tendaji would have taken him often to the fields to learn to handle the bow and arrows. As all Nubian boys learned long before they truly became men.
    He glanced at the half moon not yet fully visible in the fading sunlight and nearly spat in the moon’s face. What good were prayers unanswered? What use a god who did not hear?
    He rounded a bend leading to a small house on the farthest edge of town, struck by its crumbling mud-brick walls. Weariness made every muscle weak as he dumped the sack onto the cracked courtyard stones and sank onto the bench, wondering if it too would betray him and give way under his weight. A clay basin leaned against the wall, and tepid, brackish water sat in a cistern for him to wash his feet. He closed his eyes, imagining for the briefest moment what it would be like to have someone else care for his