“No.” Sheth glanced at Hanael, a plea for permission in his eyes. After a few moments, Hanael nodded. “Othniel is moving northward—and soon. We can give no more detail than that, but like my cousin said, we must be ready when he arrives.”

  “We should go,” said Hanael. “Dawn is coming. We did not see you, and you did not see us. Yes?” He lifted his brows, a silent command in the gesture, one that reminded me of the looks my father had given Malakhi and Gidal whenever they’d been up to mischief.

  The Levite looked back at the rest of his companions, who nodded their agreement. Then he set his gaze on me, something pensive in his expression that made me flush all over again. “Agreed.”

  Still reeling over the unbidden words that had flowed from my mouth, I followed Sheth and Hanael from the clearing and down the mountain path. When the time came to part ways, Hanael turned and placed his hand on my shoulder. “One of Malakhi’s men will come when the moon is full to relay any intelligence we gather, so if you discover anything of importance between now and then, send us word. Do you remember my instructions for leaving us a sign?”

  “Yes, the fifteenth brick on the fifth row down on the south fence of the courtyard,” I recited, hoping that I would find the tiny gap there with ease.

  “Excellent,” said Hanael. “I would remind you to be safe and not take too many risks, but after tonight I think you might be the bravest woman I’ve ever met, so I have little doubt you will be fine.”

  Sheth snorted a laugh. “I thought those Levites would drop to their knees and kiss your feet by the time you finished flogging them like mules.”

  I let out a groan. “I don’t know what came over me. My mother is the one to speak such bold things. I am only here to gather information and do my best not to get killed in the process.”

  “Perhaps some of your mother’s boldness has been passed on to you. Those Levites will be mulling over your words in the days to come, I am certain of it.” Hanael smiled at me and squeezed my shoulder. “I have a feeling we were meant to come across those men tonight, as if Yahweh himself placed them in our path.”

  I considered his statement all the way back into camp, but as I slid through the tent flap and beneath my blanket next to Odeleya, I shook off the idea. I did not know what had taken hold of my mouth tonight; perhaps a lack of sleep had melted away my good sense. I would keep my hasty words to myself from now on.

  “Where have you been?” came Odeleya’s whisper in the dark.

  A spark of fear shot through me. Had she noticed that I’d been gone most of the night? I prayed she would say nothing to Roma.

  “Only to relieve myself outside the camp,” I whispered. “I prefer not to use a pot in a tent with nine other women watching or listening.”

  She murmured agreement with my falsely modest sentiments. “I don’t like it either, but it’s too cold out there for my taste.” She shivered at the thought and snuggled closer to me. “Are you not frozen through?”

  “I’m fine. Rest now,” I said and settled my side against hers, as had become our habit in the past couple of weeks, hoping she would drift back into sleep with no further questions.

  “It’s nearly dawn. There is not much time before we must report to the commander’s kitchen,” she said with a yawn. “We’d best not sleep anymore.”

  My body went rigid. “What do you mean ‘we’?”

  “Did Roma not tell you? I begged her to let me assist you in Shechem and she agreed.”

  “Why would she do that? You belong here.” My jaw tightened as I sifted through excuses to feed Roma so she would reverse the foolish decision. I could not have Odeleya there with me. Watching over her would be a distraction from my mission and endanger us both.

  “I’ve already learned so much from you since you arrived, and I want to know more.” The girl had been closer than my own shadow, her happy chatter a pleasant diversion as we cooked and baked and cleaned, sunrise to sunset, in order to fill the bellies of the Hebrew laborers. The thought of such an innocent girl inside the home of the high commander of the vicious Aramean army made my skin prickle.

  “No,” I said. “It’s not safe. There are plenty of other women to learn from here in camp. I cannot have you under my feet while I work.”

  A little gasp burst from her lips, and guilt immediately coated my insides. I’d not meant to wound the girl, only to protect her from dangers she could not comprehend.

  “Please,” she said, her whisper a mournful plea. “I promise to be of help to you. I will do whatever you ask. I just want to . . .” She paused. “I just want to stay with you.”

  The desperation in her voice reminded me that Odeleya’s family had sent her off to fend for herself in a place where a multitude of enemy soldiers were garrisoned—soldiers who were notorious for their unscrupulous behavior. This tenderhearted girl, undoubtedly starved for any amount of kindness, had for some reason chosen me to cling to, and if I was honest with myself, she’d already slipped past my defenses. And Roma had insisted that the women in the commander’s kitchen were guarded well in exchange for satisfying his demand for well-crafted delicacies that could grace the table of Pharaoh himself.

  “All right,” I said, already regretting my softheartedness. “But if I feel you are in any danger, you will be sent back directly. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Oh! Thank you, Tirzah. I will not let you down.” She hugged my arm and kissed my cheek with a giggle that earned her a hissing command for quiet from an annoyed tentmate.

  But satisfied with her victory, Odeleya lay silent beside me until dawn, allowing me to think back through everything Malakhi had taught me over the past months. No matter how brave Hanael and Sheth might think me, walking into the enemy’s house with the purpose of stealing military secrets was a terrifying prospect, even without a twelve-year-old girl relying on my protection. I only hoped I did not disappoint her, or my people, as I plunged into the many unknowns in the days ahead.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Although the recipe I’d prepared was one my mother had perfected years ago using deer or gazelle meat, the commander preferred pork be served to him at least three or four times per week. Even touching the meat Yahweh had declared to be inedible caused my gorge to rise, but for the sake of Israel I swallowed my disgust and prepared the unclean food without complaint. Unable to taste the dish and ensure the spices were balanced with the roasted meat and date sauce, I was forced to rely on my nose instead.

  As Zimora, the head cook, carried the still-steaming pot into the house, I prayed that today of all days my keen sense of smell had not betrayed me. For if I’d learned anything in the past ten days about Barsoum, the high commander of Kushan’s forces in the Hebrew territories, it was that there was no such thing as a second chance within his household.

  Contrary to what Roma had said, I’d discovered that the woman whose place I’d taken in the kitchen had not stolen anything at all, but simply neglected to return one of the silver plates to the treasury room following a banquet. The plate had later been found beneath a basket, fully intact, but the unfortunate woman had already been taken outside the city and executed. Whether Roma knew the entire story and had hidden it from me for her own purposes I could not guess, but it had only taken one day within the walls of Shechem for me to regret allowing Odeleya to come.

  I brushed my hands clean on my tunic and glanced around the kitchen courtyard, searching for my young friend, feeling the impulse to check on her before I moved on to my next task. As usual, however, she was off running errands for the cooks. Thankfully the girl was hardworking and compliant and had already made herself indispensable in the commander’s home, so she was relatively safe for now. And as Roma had assured me, there was a rotation of guards on duty at all hours for the purpose of protecting the fifteen women who worked in the commander’s kitchen. Although, as my gaze landed on the two men now standing a few feet from our preparation area, their eyes ever trained on us, I wondered if they were there more for the purpose of preventing assassination attempts. For truly, it would take only one determined cook and a few oleander leaves to bring down Barsoum.

  However, as I was informed upon my arrival, if anything were to happen to the commander via foreign ingredients in his food, a hundred Hebrews would be burned alive and our own families summarily slaughtered in front of our eyes. There was little likelihood that any of the women who spent their days cooking for the commander and his guests would take such a foolish risk.

  Wishing I could keep my eyes on Odeleya at all times and yet knowing my mission in Shechem was of utmost urgency, I lifted a silent prayer for her safety and set about making bread for the commander’s next meal.

  Lost in the repetitive activity of kneading dough and busy repeating a few new Aramean phrases I’d picked up over the past few days in my head, I barely heard my name over my thoughts. I looked up from where I knelt before the trough to find Zimora standing above me, her expression grave. “You have been summoned before the commander.”

  The list of spices I’d used in the roasted pork barreled through my mind as my pulse overtook the familiar sounds within the kitchen courtyard. Had I mistaken one for something bitter? Or perhaps the meat had been dry? Would my life and my mission end today because I’d refused to compromise my commitment to the Torah and taste the pork?

  Gathering together every moment of training I’d been gifted by my brother, I pushed any fearful thoughts to the side, lifted my hands from the trough of dough, and wiped them clean with a nearby cloth. Then I asked her to lead the way, as I’d gone no farther than the kitchen courtyard and the servants’ quarters since we’d arrived.

  The laborers were nearly finished rebuilding the eastern wing of the villa, which had been partially destroyed during the initial Aramean invasion into Shechem. Although I’d kept an eye out for Sheth and Hanael among the many Hebrews tasked with the construction, I’d only seen Hanael once. Of course we’d both averted our eyes immediately, lest someone notice even a hint of connection between us, but knowing that he and Sheth were nearby gave me a constant infusion of courage as days went on. Hopefully, if my own fate now matched the woman whose position I’d filled, Roma would keep what she knew of my relationship to Sheth to herself for his sake. I could not bear for such brave men to suffer on my account, let alone Odeleya.

  Eyes on the ground, I followed Zimora past the completed renovations, and into a large chamber. Centered in the room was a long cedar table surrounded by twelve ornately carved chairs, five of them occupied. Knowing that to meet the eyes of my master unbidden was equal to summoning death, I kept my gaze on the tiles under my feet as the servant girl came to a halt near the head of the table.

  “Tirzah, my lord,” she said, gesturing toward me without raising her own eyes to the man who held our lives in his palms. “Her hands alone prepared the dish you enjoyed so much.”

  A rush of relief traveled from the base of my skull to my feet as I realized that my food had not been rejected by Barsoum. But thanks to my training, I did not allow myself to so much as twitch a finger at the realization, especially since the head cook had addressed the commander in his own language.

  “Ah, thank you, Zimora,” said a cool voice from the head of the table. Although I was unable to see the commander’s face, his devotion to food was obvious. His lower body spilled over the edges of the seat of his chair, his bare shins as big around as a normal man’s thigh. “I am glad to have the chance to relay my gratitude to the cook herself. From where do you hail, young woman?”

  I did not respond, but kept my breathing steady as I waited for the inevitable translation.

  “She does not speak my language?” Barsoum asked Zimora.

  “You do not speak the language of the Arameans?” Zimora relayed to me in Hebrew.

  Now I shook my head, shoulders tight, hands purposefully fidgeting with the seams of my tunic, as if I were terrified to be in the man’s presence. And although I should in fact be fearful, for some reason my heart beat steadily and I felt nothing but a buzz of energy that heightened my awareness of everything around me: the smell of the food on the table, the pop of a coal inside a nearby brazier, the creak of wood as the commander shifted his bulk on his chair. My own curiosity about the rest of his appearance would go unsatisfied, for I would play the part of dutiful, timorous servant well today.

  “You will tell her that I have not been served such a delectable dish in my entire time in Shechem,” he said. “The pork was tender and flavorful and the heat of the spices perfectly balanced with the sweetness of the date sauce.”

  Zimora unnecessarily repeated the words, and only then did I allow a small smile to curve my lips, my posture subservient as I timidly nodded acceptance of the praise.

  “It is my pleasure to serve in this household, my lord,” I replied in Hebrew, then waited as she translated my response.

  The commander asked how long I’d been in Shechem and where I’d come from, then awaited the translation of my answer with surprising patience. Unlike with Odeleya, I kept details of my concocted past to a minimum in a soft voice that I knew even Zimora would strain to hear.

  “Must be one of the villages I had destroyed a few months back. The elders of Manasseh did not heed my warnings about their incomplete tribute. It’s a wonder this one survived,” Barsoum said, addressing his tablemates with an air of disinterest.

  “Likely not unscathed,” said one of the other men. “If I remember clearly, your orders were to kill the men, burn the villages, and let your soldiers do whatever they wished with the women and children.”

  “Yes . . .” said the commander, drawing out the word as if truly considering what might have happened to me. The inquisitive gaze I felt focused on me made my skin prickle, and I hoped that my vague explanation would not be challenged. “She does seem a bit . . . subdued, doesn’t she? They likely passed her around before bringing her here.” He chortled, as if the thought of my violation amused him. I willed the nausea back down my gullet as he slapped a palm on his meaty thigh. “Well, regardless of whether my men sampled her or not, that pork was nothing less than paradise. I want more.”

  All five men burst into laughter, and I forced a flinch at the sound, eyebrows drawn together as if confused by their supposedly unintelligible conversation. Their amusement over the suffering of my people, over the many women and children who actually endured such horrors since they’d invaded our territories, seared through my limbs like molten iron. Here I stood, not three paces from the depraved beast who, at the behest of his equally wicked king, had been the source of so much torment, and I could do nothing but bow my head and feign bewilderment. My palms itched for the weight of the knives inside my belt.

  “Tell her that she is now in charge of preparing my personal meals and delivering them,” said Barsoum. “I want more of what she made here. And make sure that cook I bought from Egyptian traders last month teaches her everything she knows about food from her land. I have a feeling that in this woman’s talented hands such knowledge will ensure that I will be dining just as well as Pharaoh.”

  “Of course, my lord,” replied Zimora. Then with a deep bow, one that I copied, she left the room with me two steps behind, still the very picture of submission with my eyes on the floor. But inside, I was shouting for joy. Not only had my skills won me the access I’d hoped for, but from the conversation I’d overheard, neither the commander nor his companions had suspected that I understood every word. If I could keep up the ruse and stay in the good graces of the murderous tyrant who lorded over Shechem by keeping his ample belly satisfied, it would not be long at all before I could leave a note for Hanael and Sheth in the courtyard wall with information about this secretive coalition. My contribution may be small, but it would be one more step toward freeing my people.

  Never once in my imaginings of what it would be like to spy within the household of the Aramean commander had I guessed that I would spend a fair amount of time scrubbing vomit from the floor.

  Barsoum, as I’d come to discover over this past month, was famous for raucous, drunken banquets. He regularly invited soldiers he deemed worthy of reward to partake of their fill of his drink, his meat, and his women. And my duties were to keep the guests’ bellies satisfied and then to scour the room after the festivities had concluded.

  This night was my third such experience, and I’d already become fairly desensitized to the sights, smells, and sounds of such debauchery. But scrubbing the stone floor free of the contents of more than one stomach was an exercise in controlling my own instinct to retch. However, determined to not bring the slightest amount of attention to myself—a challenge that I’d actually come to relish—I breathed through my mouth as much as possible and latched my mind onto other things as I worked.

  In the last few weeks, I’d uncovered a number of potentially helpful pieces of information: a burgeoning connection between the king of Tyre and Barsoum that involved large shipments of cedar being traded for copper ore from the southern mines, though no talk of a military coalition; an expected caravan disguised as Aramean traders carrying weapons down from the north; and a call for foreign mercenaries willing to fight, without scruples and for an impressive wage, against Othniel’s ever-expanding army in the south. I’d scribbled each bit of intelligence in code on bits of papyrus and tucked them behind the brick in the courtyard, imagining each note flying directly to my brothers’ hands. Eitan in particular would be very interested in the caravan of weapons and the estimation of its arrival.

  The longer I served at Barsoum’s table, the less the men noticed me. I became nothing more than an invisible pair of hands filling their plates and topping off their cups of beer and wine. If their lips continued to be as loose as they had been in my presence thus far, it would not be long before my mission here was complete.