Nat fingered the pouch containing the coins Cook handed him just before they left the kitchens.

“You are not to waste this, use it only on the items on your list, and get the best price you can. I expect you to bring most of these coins home.” Cook had glared at him. “And stay safe.”

The last had been almost a whisper.

Now, Nat walked once again free of chains. This time he traveled with Drak and Avram. They had been sent to purchase sufficient produce for the upcoming Growing Festival of Lorca, which was to be celebrated in the priest’s home. Qinten sought the honor of High Priest of Lorca. Second in line for this honor, the festival celebration in his home would give him merit in the upcoming election.

Nat knew he must bring only the freshest, only the best fruits and vegetables. Cook required rare fruits, found only in distant lands. He especially desired pomegranates. He hoped to scatter the seeds across the desserts. Nat understood they would be expensive, if they were available.

As they walked through the market, Nat kept his eyes open for danger. Cutpurses and robbers attacked the unwary and unsuspecting and those who shopped alone. He did not want to be their victim. This was no time to jest and play with his companions. He enjoyed this freedom and hoped to be called upon to do it again.

They searched each stall for the needed produce, purchasing beans in one, pears from another, gingerly placing each item in the basket Avram carried. A stall in the middle of the market held the prized pomegranates. Nat signaled Drak to be extra vigilant in his guard duties.

“Pomegranates,” Nat said. “How much?”

“I have but three that are not promised to another.” The shopkeeper moved the fruit to the top of the pile. “These are a copper each.”

“Promised? Promised to whom? I will pay you two coppers for each, if you give me eight. If you give me ten, I will pay twenty-five coppers.” Nat fingered the coins in his pouch.

“The High Priest of Lorca has requested them and offered fifty coppers for twenty. I have but twenty-three.”

Nat knew he was inflating the value of the fruits. No one would pay so much for so few, even these rare fruits.

He shrugged. “Then, three will have to do.” He reached into his pouch and handed the man three coppers.

“You offered me two for each. Now you give me only one?” The shopkeeper moved to draw back the three prized fruits.

“Two if you sell me eight. You have but three, so, three coppers it is.” Nat reached for the three pomegranates.

“The High Priest does not need all these. I will sell you ten, for twenty-five coppers, as you offered.”

“You are certain the High Priest will not miss them?” Nat reached into his pouch for more coppers as the shopkeeper shook his head. He counted the correct number into the merchant’s hand. The coins disappeared below the counter and he handed over seven more large pomegranates. Nat silently handed them to Avram.

“Thank you,” Nat said and turned to leave.

“You are welcome. Be careful. They wait for you.” The man behind the counter nodded toward the other side of the plaza.

Nat nodded and the three young men crossed the plaza toward the street that would take them home. Suddenly, Kenji appeared in front of Nat, staring into his eyes.

“Hello, Kenji.” Drak stepped forward with outstretched hand.

“Drak.” Kenji continued to stare at Nat.

“How are you Kenji?” Nat worked to maintain his nonchalance. “Things good with you?”

“Yeah, they are. You got me outta Qinten’s place. For that, I owe you thanks.” Kenji stretched his hand toward Nat.

Nat did not trust this enemy from years ago, but he reached out and clasped him by the forearm. “Glad you are good, Kenji.”

“This is all the thanks you get. Don’t come into my market again. You will not get off so easy.” Kenji dropped his hand and disappeared into the crowd with his companions.

Nat, Drak, and Avram glanced at each other before continuing across the plaza. They neither rushed nor strolled across the market. Nat did not want to draw attention to their small group, nor did he want the trouble that would follow such attention.

He knew this was not a friendly encounter, regardless of the half-smile on Kenji’s face. He had experienced otherwise. He nodded to Drak to stay alert. Drak’s grimace told him all he needed. He didn’t trust Kenji either and would maintain his watchfulness. Nat scanned the crowd, glad of Avram’s quiet sensibility.

No laughter or congratulations passed between the trio as they made their way along the streets to Qinten’s home. The tension between them could be plucked by a lute performer by the time they entered the kitchen. Cook’s eyebrows climbed high, waiting for them to deposit their purchases in the pantry in silence.

“Was I wrong to send you boys alone to the market?” Cook broke the silence.

“No, Cook,” Nat answered. “We were able to purchase everything on the list, including ten pomegranates. Here is the pouch, with money left over.” He shook the pouch, making the coins within jingle, then handed it to Cook.

“As it should. Why the tension when you three walked in?”

Nat glanced at Drak and shook his head slightly. “We encountered an old friend on the market plaza. We weren’t sure Kenji would allow us to return peacefully.”

“Kenji!” Cook spat the name as he would spit out rotten food. “He did not interrupt you?”

“No. He thanked me and left. Strange for him.”

“We need those vegetables prepared now, if we are to be ready for the festival tonight.” Cook returned to his work.

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Nat hung his cloak on the back of the pantry door and retrieved the basket of vegetables. When he returned to the kitchen, Drak had gone back to his duties and Avram sat beside the fire, turning the spit, a smile firmly in place.

Hours later, the food was ready. Nat and Drak returned to their rooms to wash and don fresh livery. They were to help serve the meal and refreshments. The usual servers were not enough for a festival this large. They carried heavy dishes of food to the sideboard, ready to be served to individual diners. Fruits and deserts waited in the cool pantry for the appropriate time to serve.

Drak stationed himself near the slabs of beef and pork, ready to slice off portions. Nat stood behind the table of vegetables, available to dish up portions to the guests. Others were positioned behind the other tables, waiting to serve other dishes. All was ready.

~ ~ ~

Ziva sat in stiff silence beside her father in their carriage. How could Orak agree to take me to celebrate the Lorcan Growing Festival at Qinten’s home? It will be difficult to ignore the man in his own home. Her fuming made her kick a foot out, just missing Orak’s.

Hot embarrassment drove color through her face. She pulled her foot back and forced herself to consider her father’s situation. He had little choice. She gazed at her hands, tightly folded in her lap and remembered the conversation.

Orak had called her to his office that morning to share the invitation. “You must attend with me, Ziv. I am sorry. I know I promised you would not be given to Qinten. And you won’t.”

The flash of anger at those words filled her once more. She tamped them down now, as then. “Then why must I attend? You know he is an evil man.”

“Qinten is the priest responsible for the procurement of grains and animals for their sacrifices. You know I provide them with grains and cattle. After the fire in the granary, I must keep the contract.”

Ziva grimaced and Orak rushed on. “I must attend to ensure the sales continue. Qinten demanded that I bring you or I will lose the contract. We have no choice, not this time. Please, Ziva. Do not cause me a problem.”

Ziva had thought a few breaths, her face drawn. “Yes, Father. I will attend with you. Not happily, but I do understand.” She had leaned forward, kissing him on the cheek.

Orak had wrapped his arms around her in gratitude and love. “Thank you, Ziv. I knew you would understand.”

Now they sat in their carriage, dressed in Festival finery. She was not comfortable, for attending this festival meant she wore much less than she liked. The skimpy, low-necked top was made of a sheer light-blue fabric the color of a peacock’s feather. The skirt hanging low on her hips was equally filmy, though in a darker blue to protect a minuscule portion of her modesty. Tawna’s father, Bram, had provided the costume. Ziva still couldn’t decide if she should thank him for it.

The carriage came to a jarring halt. They had arrived. The coachman opened the door, holding it as Orak climbed out. Orak turned to take Ziva’s hand and help her out.

“You look beautiful,” he said, wrapping a cape around her shoulders.

“If only I could keep this cape on.” Wistfulness filled her voice. “This ‘costume’ is not appropriate for a decent young woman.”

“I know, Ziv. This festival is not appropriate for decent young women, yet we must attend. We will stay only as long as is required. I promise.”

Ziva gave him a weak smile, then squared her shoulders and planted a smile on her face. Together, they walked into Qinten’s house and the festival.

The festival overwhelmed Ziva with lurid sights and scents. Participants gorged on the food, pushing and shoving to get the finest tidbits, though there was plenty, and it all tasted wonderful. Ziva stood back, waiting her turn. She received only a small portion, still, more than enough for her.

Sweet incense enticed those in the room to exotic acts. Loud, fast music enticed men and women onto the floor to dance. The men felt free to touch the women and girls wherever they chose, receiving little or no complaint. Ziva sat along the wall, trying to escape the depravity.

Earlier, Qinten roamed through the crowds, speaking to the celebrants. His eyes landed on Orak and Ziva more than once, but before he could reach them through the crowds, they had wandered on, escaping his attention.

The music ended and the dancers moved to their seats, trading ribald jests. Priests moved across the floor, scattering sand.

Thirteen tiny boys, no more than three, dressed in only tiny loin wraps, carried colorful woven bowls, nearly as large as the child, filled with grains. Each boy carried a different variety. A priest stepped forward to accept the bowl from the boys as they drew near the low altar set at the feet of the figure of Lorca. Above them, a human male body with an enormous phallus loomed, his huge eagle head stared past a giant beak toward the low bowl held in his hands, filled with burning coals. The priest raised the bowl of grain to the horrid figure three times, then placed it in the bowl in its hands. Fire licked each bowl, until the fragrance of cooking, then burning grains permeated the room.

Ziva held her face calm, hiding her abhorrence. When the drums exploded into a wild beat, drawing girls and women to the dance floor in preparation for the final rite. She sat near the wall with a smile pasted on her face and her feet firmly planted on the floor, refusing to tap to the enticing music. She sat with folded arms, refusing to participate. Girls spun about the room with hips wiggling and breasts bouncing, tempting the men who followed their every move. She fought to prevent the deep embarrassment she felt for the dancing girls’ antics from coloring her light skin that showed every emotion. She moved farther back in the watching crowd until her back touched the wall, trying to hide.

Servants or slaves, probably slaves in Qinten’s home, busied themselves removing the remains of the meal the crowd of revelers had consumed. A young man in Qinten’s livery caught her eye, the same one she saw at the slave market. His elegant livery showed off the muscles in his legs and arms. The man looked at her, knowingly, then returned to his work.

Ziva did not believe in coincidences. This man must mean something in her life. But what?

She turned back to the spectacle as the music ended. The dancing girls vacated the floor and the musicians left the room. Chairs scraped the tile floor as men made space for the girls, bright with the sheen of sweat, to sit beside them. Orak moved behind Ziva, placing his comforting hands on her shoulders and bent to speak softly in her ear.

“This is the last rite. When it ends, we can leave this foul extravaganza. I tire of the noise.”

She looked up at him and a grateful smile flashed through her eyes. She faced forward to observe this last rite, eager to leave. She wondered what the final rite would include. Whatever it was, it would be vulgar and disgusting.

The buzz of activity calmed. Priests moved to the center of the room. Qinten stood at the base of the image of Lorca waiting. Nine prepubescent girls, dressed in tiny white dresses, led a young ewe lamb. The girls proudly paraded their fluffy charges around the circle of festival attendees. One by one, each girl was called to the altar.

The first girl knelt and presented her lamb to Qinten. He took the creature by the feet and raised it in offering to the terrible image. In one swift motion, he lay the lamb on the low altar and sliced its throat, to the roaring approval of the crowd. Lifting the carcass, Qinten allowed the blood to drip on the face and into the mouth of the little shepherdess. Another priest relieved him of the corpse and dripped blood into the waiting mouths of the cheering horde, then dropped it into the fire in the figure’s hands.

Each girl repeated the rite. Ziva noticed the sixth little girl kept her precious charge close, trying to protect her lamb. Qinten glared at the girl, until she stepped forward to offer her lamb. When it was her turn to accept the blood offering, Ziva saw the little girls’ tears join with the blood.

Orak and Ziva kept to the back of the throng, avoiding the offering of blood. She stared as each lamb was placed in the arms of the huge image to burn. The odor of burnt flesh joined with the acrid bouquet of blood and burning grains, sickening and disgusting her. She tried not to gag.

The drums exploded in wild rhythms and girls, including Kara and Tawna, leapt to dance wildly across the blood on the floor. But not Ziva. The vitality within her cringed away from the appalling vision. She had not shouted in joy nor raised her hands in adulation. She yearned to leave the scene of horror.

Orak appeared in front of her, took her by the arm, and guided her along the outside edges of the room and into the night. Ziva breathed deeply of the clear night air, grateful to have avoided interacting with Qinten. Their carriage stood waiting for Orak to help Ziva into the welcome silence.