It happened that Uncle Zaggi sent for me only a few hours after my little swim. I was out inspecting some of my troops and their chariots when the message came, so I drove over to the palace without delay; I didn’t even bother to change out of my sweat-soaked kilt. My driver turned the corner and we clattered onto the broad plaza before my Uncle’s door. His residence wasn’t really a very
grand place for such an important man. At least it could not be considered on a level with the fabled mansions of
Knossos
,
Troy
, or
Egypt
—or so hearsay told us; but, you see, Uncle Zaggi was not at that time quite so great a man as he would soon become.
His brother, on the other hand, my Uncle Maoch, had a much larger and nicer palace—and it was newly built, because he had inherited the office of Sheren, that is, Chief Lord, of Askelon. Zaggi had to be content, for the moment, with the office of Chancellor, and that rated him no more than the seaside palace of which I spoke before. It had once been a Canaanite kinglet’s home, back before Maoch’s and Zaggi’s grandfather, our great King Nomion, conquered Askelon—and all
Canaan
—some eighty years ago.
I dismounted, leaving my chariot in its driver’s care, and strode up the stairs to the main door. I must admit that the palace had its charms, for an ex-Canaanite structure. There were two stories and a large courtyard, complete with grain pits, while its cisterns boasted baked-lime plaster linings. A walled-off garden allowed access to the family shrine. Canaanites once worshiped Moon Goddess Nikkal there, but the altar now honored Goddess Astarte—along with Great Dagon, the Lord of Sea and Grain. Zaggi’s father had redecorated the interior of the palace with Minoan and Egyptian frescoes and the like, but the outside still looked depressingly Canaanite. The location was nice—right on the sea—but I don’t think Uncle Zaggi ever really appreciated the water. With his lean physique, he didn’t suffer from the heat as do most Philistines; besides, his eyes were eternally fixed on the mountain ranges to the east of
Philistia
, where his ambitions lay.
After pounding on the door and waiting a few moments, I was met by a slave girl, shy and handsome—in a Canaanite kind of way—dressed in a shapeless, olive-drab robe. Such as it was, that’s Canaanite fashion, even among non-slaves; yet it’s probably true that their harsh and swarthy features and complexion simply wouldn’t go well with our kind of clothing; or lack of clothing, perhaps I should say, since we like to wear as little as we can…whereas the Canaanites, after centuries in their blazing sun, prefer to cover up.
Frankly, it’s sometimes a bit difficult to tell Canaanites apart, but this slave girl looked familiar to me. She was about my age,
twenty-five; her hair fell black and straight, but modest ribbons gave it the appearance of a gentle wave, an effect which she then canceled out by the severe cut of her bangs—they came down to her eyebrows, almost. Those bangs were my clue, and I remembered her name at last:
“Rachel?” I asked.
“Yes, Lord Phicol,” she replied. “Lord Zaggi asks that you refresh yourself on the balcony for a few minutes; he’ll be ready to see you soon.”
We chatted a bit to get re-acquainted; then she ushered me out onto the balcony—the very spot where Delai had stood after her morning swim. Well, then, Rachel must have been the servant I saw, begging that little sea-fairy to come in from the deep. I looked outwards to the ocean and saw Astarte’s rocks, quite clearly now, glistening in the sun.
I found a bowl of grapes and olives to keep me busy while waiting for Zaggi. The sea breeze still freshened up the morning air. I enjoyed the view. And then Delai herself came out onto the balcony.
“Phicol!” she squealed, and ran to me. “What are you doing here? It’s so good to see you!” We embraced.
“Ah, dear Cousin, our Uncle’s sent for me, but I can’t say why….”
“‘Can’t’? Or
won’t
?” she asked, always curious about grown-up affairs.
“Can’t,” I repeated. “But whatever it is, I’m sure it’s none of your business!” Was this the little girl I used to tease? To whom I used to send presents from the hills when I was off to the wars? Her long brown hair streamed down her back, ringlets separating the locks; her bangs curled out from under a brightly-colored headband. It was a high-born lady’s coiffure, and her dress, like the hair-do, was aristocratic and Minoan in style: folds of white, soft red, and light blue spread out gaily from her girdle—a girdle that would have been too tight on any but our wasp-waisted girls of Aegean ancestry. The blouse had sleeves, but no front, except that it was fastened by a collar, so that her breasts were exposed—again, in Minoan fashion.
My morning glimpse of Delai had told me true: she was indeed a young lady now, her nipples painted, her eyelids shining with
antimony—and she wore an exotic perfume. I could almost picture Rachel holding an alabaster cosmetic bottle in one hand, a bronze mirror in the other, while Delai applied her make-up with delicate pieces of bone. And all the while, Rachel would be thinking, as do all Canaanites, that there’s something not quite
nice
about showing so much skin.
I took Delai’s hands in mine: “How you’ve grown!” I exclaimed (and how many times had she heard that?!). “And how lovely you are!” Delai whirled around on her toes for me to see her gown in all its glory. “But why so dressed up in the morning?” I asked.
Her brown eyes flashed as if she were on the verge of a serious pout: “Well!” she began, her straight and finely shaped nose in the air, “Uncle told me last night that I should put on my best dress for breakfast. He was going to have an important visitor, he said. But it seems that Auntie has taken to her bed, terribly indisposed, you see, and—”
“Oh? Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Just her usual lunar difficulties,” Delai went on. “And, lest I be the only female at table, the formal breakfast got canceled.” She appeared quite put out about it, I could tell, and I offered her some grapes. She grabbed a handful before recollecting that she was now an adult. Taking only one at a time, she continued her story: “So, Rachel brought me breakfast, and I suppose I shall now change my clothes. Would you believe that this is my only really nice gown?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that one. “Rachel is your servant now?” I inquired.
“Oh, she’s been mine, sort of, for a long time. At least she’s taken care of me for years. But this year, Uncle gave her to me as a birthday present. I’m fifteen, you know! Rachel’s a dear, but she does fuss.” A sly look came into her eyes, and she giggled a bit as she looked out onto the beach. “Phicol…a secret…you won’t tell?” Now the twinkle returned to her big brown eyes.
“I promise.”
“Well, just before dawn I went swimming—alone! It was so hot, I had to get out of my room. The wind came up, and it was marvelous! But don’t tell Uncle—he’d be furious with me; he might
even have Rachel beaten for letting me out of the house, out of her sight.”
“Rachel abetted your escape?” I wondered.
“Oh, no, she didn’t know about it until time to get me dressed. Canaanites are so funny…she feared someone would see me naked!”
I could well imagine Rachel’s horror. After all, a slave girl’s greatest pride is to present a well-groomed mistress, and Delai had certainly emerged from the ocean in a salty and drenched, as well as undressed, condition. “More likely you might have been kidnapped by some thieving townsman—or had caught cold in the night air,” I replied.
“You sound just like Uncle,” she complained. “In the end, though, even Rachel had to admit that it sounded like fun….” She sat down on a little fur-covered chair. “Rachel puts up with a lot of my pranks,” she confessed as she stared out at the water. She seemed really displeased with Uncle that morning, but I knew there was nothing unusual about that. Zaggi had brought her up ever since she was about two years old, just after her father got killed, but there’d never been much real affection between uncle and ward. For one thing, Uncle Zaggi was fond of reminding Delai that her father had been born a bastard, son of a concubine—and because of that, for some mysterious reason, she must show even more respect for her elders than is customary; with Uncle Zaggi, of course, being the prime example of the kind of elder he had in mind.
“Indeed,” I said, picking up on her last words.
But her own train of thought had changed, and she sounded melancholy when she spoke again: “Phicol…will I ever see the world—
Crete
,
Egypt
—anything but Askelon?”
“Remember what Uncle says:
Canaan
’s our home now. Why don’t you want to see
Ashdod
—or
Gath
? I hear
Gath
has splendid houses….” I was teasing her again, still thinking of her as a little girl, ten years my junior; and she didn’t like it much. “Someday,” I continued, “you’ll get to see
Egypt
, at least. After all, we’re Pharaoh’s vassals….”
“
You’ve
never been there,” she remarked, with a bit of sarcasm in her voice.
“The Sea King has many a way,” I replied. “
Neptune
will grant us our prayers, and one day we’ll see the world.” My mock gravity only irritated her all the more.
“My prayers are to Astarte,” she countered, dangling a little gold fish-amulet in my face; it was a decoration which she wore on her wrist in honor of the Goddess. “And you shouldn’t provoke the deities with flippant talk!”
“Ah, well, the gods will get me anyway, no matter what I say,” I told her, and she laughed at that—as she used to laugh years before, when we played ball on the beach, before I joined the Army. We chatted some more, but then Rachel appeared in the doorway.
“My Lord, the Master will see you now,” she announced.
“Yes, I’ll be there in a minute,” I answered, and Rachel left us alone again.
Delai stood up to take my hand. “Cousin, don’t stay away so long. I don’t see many people these days…. Uncle’s sons are just babies, and Aunt is so…well, I can’t even dislike her, unless she inflicts those brats on me. Rachel’s my only real friend….”
“I promise I’ll visit often,” I assured her, and turned to go; but I felt a bit sad to leave her just then, because I knew she wasn’t happy—and I wanted to stay and cheer her up a mite. Fifteen years old was no age to be cooped up in Uncle’s palace—even by the ocean—no age to be almost friendless….
The Marriage Contract
Princely Piram spoke: “I’ll steer my ships across the
Wine-dark sea until I reach
The land called
Crete
, and there my Mother’s kin I’ll
Seek—for Minos’ tribe,
Achaean-pressed, might join us in this holy quest!”
Young Rusa swore
Crete
he’d also reach: “Among our Mother’s noble clan,”
He said, “I’ll find a bride,
Fair, like her; then onwards sail, help-meet by my side.”
--the
Nomiad
, Stanza XIV
The corridor by which I approached Zaggi’s chamber was decorated with dolphin frescoes, a Minoan theme added to the palace by my grandfather, Rusa the Great, son of Nomion. Rusa’s favorite concubine, you see, like so many Karian brides, came from Minoan Crete—and she wanted something in her wing of the palace to remind her of her homeland. She didn’t have many friends at court here in Askelon. Besides, the frescoes came in handy because they helped to cover up the damage done by a great fire; it happened when the last