Trapping a Spider
Though his back hurt, then stung and itched as it healed, Nat enjoyed two weeks in the kitchen with his friends, turning the spit and peeling and chopping vegetables. As the injuries on his back healed, he could again wear the tunic of the kitchen slave. He joined in the friendly teasing and Cook began to expect more of him. It surprised him to fall so easily into the rhythm of the work.
Nat wondered if he would be allowed to continue in the comfortableness of the kitchen. Qinten could be capricious in his orders, once banning a slave from the house, other times sending them to work in a dirty job until he was needed again. It took little incitement for a slave to be beaten or sold.
Nat knew his ability to read and do sums would draw the Master’s attention back to him. He hoped Qinten would forget about him for a long time.
He would be happy in the kitchen for the rest of his life. Nat could see himself as second to Cook, preparing meals. Only his fears that Orak would give in and force Ziva to mate with Qinten darkened Nat’s thoughts and prevented his complete pleasure in his current situation. The only reason he would want to leave the kitchen to return to serve Master Qinten was his concern for his sister.
Did Orak tell her what her responsibilities would be if she mated Qinten? How did Ziva handle the news? I have not heard of a celebration to honor the upcoming mating, yet. We in the kitchen would hear, for we prepare all the foods for the celebrations. Please, Jehovah, Keep my sister safe.
Nat stood still, the potato he was peeling frozen in his hand. Where did that name come from? I have not used it for—for many years. Jehovah. Yes, Jehovah is the God of my papa—my papa, Enos.
“Why the sudden smile?” Avram demanded. “You haven’t smiled in all the time you’ve been back in the kitchen. You’d think you aren’t happy to be back with us.”
Nat shook himself and continued peeling the potato. “I am happy to be back here in the kitchen. I have been worried about a girl—a girl the Master wants to mate.”
“No concern of yours, this girl. Or do you fancy her?” Drak said.
Nat felt his ears grow warm.
“You do fancy her!” Avram crowed. “She is beyond you, if the Master wants her for a mate.”
“She is beyond me, but I still fear for her. A young girl should not have to be a part of his depravity.”
“True, that,” Cook said. “No one should be forced to join in his vile ways.”
“You fancy a girl! Imagine that.” Drak wasn’t willing to let it go.
“I do. What is it to you?” Nat brushed past Drak to reach another potato.
“I’m your best friend. I thought you would have shared all the details with me by now.”
“Can’t a man have something special, something here,” Nat waved in the direction of his heart, “without sharing with others. Who would not keep it to himself? Especially, with friends like you.” He glared at his friend until Drak dropped his eyes.
“Well, so what if I have shared other things? I wouldn’t have shared this, if you asked.”
Nat raised his eyebrows.
“I wouldn’t have.”
“And you know, now, why I have not shared nor will I share anymore.” He tossed the potato into the cold water and grabbed another to peel. For many heartbeats, the sound of his peeling was all that was heard in the kitchen.
“Back to work,” Cook growled. “We have a meal to prepare.”
The others returned to their tasks, chopping vegetables, mixing sauces, kneading breads, and other tasks necessary to the preparation of a meal for a large household. Nat was glad of the noise. He did not want to share anything about Ziva. Let them think he fancied her. It was safer that way. No one must know. His memory of his papa and Jehovah were sacred, as well, not something to be bantered about the kitchen.
Nat lost himself in thought as he peeled the pile of potatoes. Though aware Gowdy entered the kitchen, he thought nothing of it. Gowdy’s responsibility for overseeing the kitchen and kitchen slaves brought him in often. It felt good to be back in his domain.
“Nat!” Gowdy roared. “What are you doing here in the kitchen”
“Where else would I be? The Master sent me to be lashed.”
Nat could feel his friends in the kitchen holding their breaths, working silently to hear Gowdy’s next words.
“Did no one tell you to return to the Master?”
“No. I have had no word.”
Gowdy growled deep in his throat. “Mibiti has been searching for you. The Master is angry you have not returned to your duties. You must hurry to his side.”
“Like this?” Nat stretched his arms wide. “Smelling of onion and potatoes?”
Gowdy sniffed Nat’s hair. “And garlic, too. No, you must clean yourself and present yourself to the Master as soon as possible.”
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“In these clothes? As a kitchen slave. Yes. That will be good. Let him know I have been busy in his service.”
“No!” Gowdy shouted. “That will never do. Go to Mott. He will provide you with new clothes. Go. Now.”
Nat set the half-peeled potato on the table and silently left the kitchen. His friends reached out to touch him, then pulled their hands back as though burned. He was no longer one of them. He was the personal slave to the Master.
“What are you wearing?” Mott croaked when Nat entered the wardrobe.
“Clothing fit for the kitchen.”
Mott’s eyebrows nearly reached his hair. “Personal slave to the Master in the kitchen?”
Nat dropped his eyes. “He had me strapped. My friends helped heal me. I thought I was no longer needed in the Master’s service. I was not forced from the house or returned to the slave markets, so I returned to the kitchen.”
“Mibiti has scoured the house for days, searching for you. The Master is in a rage that you are not by his side.” Mott sniffed. “You cannot return to him like that. Go to the washing room. I will send for hot water. Wash the odor of the kitchen from your skin and hair. It will not do for you to return to him looking and smelling like the kitchen.”
Nat followed the pointing arm into a washing room and stripped off his kitchen tunic. He lifted the tunic to his nose and grimaced. Gowdy and Mott were right. Qinten would never allow him into his presence smelling like onions and garlic. Too bad. Onions and garlic were healthy.
A man entered with a bucket of hot water, which he poured into the large tub. More men carrying buckets of hot water followed him. Nat watched them dump the water into the tub until it was full of steaming water. I’ll cook in that!” He touched the water with the tip of a tentative finger, surprised to discover it not as hot as he supposed. He slipped off his small clothes and stepped into the tub. The warmth enticed him to sit and bury himself to the neck in the warmth. This must be how the Master bathes. I remember baths like this, long ago. My mama had a tub almost this big. It held Ziva and me. We splashed and played together while Mama scrubbed us clean.
Nat jerked. He was not here to remember the past but to get clean. He found the rough cloth and soap waiting on a table beside the tub and scrubbed the kitchen from his skin. He sank below the surface to wet hair. He scrubbed his hair with the soap and rinsed, then scrubbed and rinsed again to be certain the stink of garlic was gone.
Such luxury. Nat hated to leave it, but he knew he could not soak in the luxury any longer. The Master was waiting. He stood in the water, allowing it to drip back into the tub and found the large towel. He stepped out and dried himself. Back to the Master.
Nat wrapped the towel around himself before turning to find clean small clothes, a gold tunic, and soft gold slippers on a stool. When had Mott brought these in? He was sure no one had entered the room, but the clothing sat in mute rejection of that belief. Nat slipped on the clean clothing, his skin remembering its softness. He opened the door and returned to the wardrobe.
Mott spun his finger in a circle. Nat complied and turned under Mott’s inspection.
“Your hair is a mess. Here. Comb it.” Mott handed him a comb and pointed to a small glass on the wall. Nat combed his hair and reached to return the comb.
“Keep it. You will need it to look like the personal slave of the Master.”
Nat looked at his tunic, wondering where to put the comb.
“Here. Put this pocket across your shoulder.” Mott handed him a pocket on a long cord, both of the same gold as his tunic. “Now, go. The Master waits. We sent a message telling him you have been found, but he will not wait long.”
~ ~ ~
Orak looked up from the papers on his desk as Com entered his study. “What did you learn?”
“Much. And none of it good.” Com dropped into a chair near Orak’s desk. “You will not like the things I have to tell you.”
“I knew I would not.” Orak leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together across the front of his chest.
Com shuffled his feet and rearranged his robe.
“Com. Stop stalling. Tell me what you learned.” Orak leaned forward, setting his elbows on his desk.
“Qinten is the son of the governor—”
Orak hissed and stared into his assistant’s eyes. “This I know.”
“And a priest of Lorca.” Com hurried on. “I know you know this. He is working to position himself to be the next High Priest of Lorca. He sees himself as powerful and next to the god. As you know, he is responsible to supply the sacrifices for the many festivals.”
“This much I know. I supply most of the animals and other sacrifices to Lorca. Qinten keeps our business profitable. His god is ravenous. What can you tell me of the man?”
Com leaned forward, setting his forearms on his knees. “To be a High Priest of Lorca, a man must have a mate. As you know, he and his mate lead the Planting Festival and Harvest Festival. It seems Qinten thought he could get around it—until now.”
Orak clenched his jaws. “Why now?”
“Qinten has had little interest in a mate. He takes his pleasure in others, usually women mated to wealthy men, men who must stay silent to continue receiving the gift of his purchases from them.” Com bit the side of his lip as he looked at his employer.
“I have heard this,” Orak muttered.
Com breathed deeply and went on. “What you may not have heard is what he does to these women.” Com chewed on his lip as he stared at his friend.
When Orak shook his head, Com continued with stories of Qinten’s sick behaviors.
Orak was sickened by the stories of depravity Com shared. None of it boded well for Ziva. He could not allow her to be his mate. Qinten’s open animosity toward women demonstrated to Orak his certainty that he could not allow his daughter to be a part of the Lorcan Priest’s life.
At last, he cried out, “Tell me no more! The man has no good in him. I cannot allow him to take my Ziva as his mate.”
“You cannot. Not if you love Ziva.” Com shook his head and leaned back in his chair.
“I knew he was not a good person, not after what he did to my Elin. What can we do to prevent this? He believes me to be in his trap. I sell much to him for his god, but not as much as he supposes.” Orak picked up a pen and doodled on a scrap of vellum.
“Will it destroy you if he stops purchasing?”
“It will be a struggle, but we will survive. It will be more difficult for Qinten and the cult of Lorca. Few other merchants can offer as much as I.”
“Is there a way we can turn his trap on him? A way to make him suffer?” Com leaned forward, resting his elbows on his Orak’s desk.
“There has to be a way.”
The two men bent over the desk, thinking of ways to make Qinten’s life difficult. Many ideas were immediately discarded. Others were kept for further consideration. Orak would not write them down, fearing even a shred of evidence would be used against him, rather than Qinten. They spent hours working through the ideas, until they determined one would work. The complex plan must be carried out as quickly as possible. It held many dangers for them and for Orak’s business. However, it would be worth it, if they managed to keep Ziva safe from Qinten’s clutches.
Late that afternoon, Com left the study, orders and directions set in his mind. Orak knew he would find Keb and get things put into place. His fingertips rubbed circles across his temples. Making plans to ensnare a spider in his own web gave him a headache. The plan had to work. He would not allow Qinten to have Ziva.