To sign up for Meridian’s Free Newsletter, please CLICK HERE.
Chapter Ten
But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities.
(Isaiah 53:5)
The sun hung large in the sky as Alma ran through the field toward his home. His father, Cephas, was coming to take him to the Sukkot Festival today. His mother, Ruth, had spent two days preparing food for the journey. Although his father served as high priest for Zeniff’s court, his family lived on a large homestead outside of the main city. As Alma pumped his eight-year-old legs, he waved to the laborers. His father employed a dozen men and their families, but on his leave from court, he could be seen working alongside the men. These were the times that Alma loved the best—when his father left the long hours of study and moved among the people, working in the fields.
Today Alma had a special surprise for his father. He’d been working on a wood carving—spending hours each day to get the figure just right. He loved carving, and each night he brushed the shavings under his platform bed so that his mother didn’t know he spent his time with wood instead of learning his letters.
He burst into the house and ran through the myriad rooms. “Mother!” he shouted. He found her in the cooking room, bent over a pot of steaming stew. “Is he here yet?”
His mother raised her face, her round cheeks dimpling with a smile. “No, son. I’ll be sure to tell you when he arrives.” She wiped her hands on a cloth and chuckled softly.
But he couldn’t wait. He skidded into his room and carefully removed the wooden carving from under his bed. It was nearly as high as his hips, so he used all his strength to carry the piece through the house. Once he reached the courtyard, he set it in the middle and stood back to admire it.
Just then he heard his father’s voice, calling that he was approaching. Alma ran out the gate and down the path. His father looked so regal as he strode up the path, his dark cape flying behind him. When his father reached him, he smiled and tousled Alma’s hair. “Greetings, son.”
“Father,” Alma burst out. “I have a surprise for you.”
His father’s face broke into a rare smile as he removed the traveling bundle from his back. Alma grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the courtyard. Just then his mother came out of the house. Instead of rushing to her husband, she watched father and son with amusement.
Alma pointed proudly to his statue. “See? I carved it myself.”
His father just stood there, staring, saying nothing. Alma looked at his mother. The light had gone from her eyes. What was wrong? He’d done all his chores, worked hard at his learning . . .
“You carved this?” his father asked, his voice sounding strange.
“Yes. It’s a quetzal bird. I added the scales of a snake—that was the hardest part.”
“I know what it is,” his father said. He glanced at his wife, then turned to Alma. “Why did you choose to make a bird like this?”
“The blacksmith had one in his shop,” Alma said.
His father glanced at his wife again, his face reddening. “This is an idol, son. This is the feathered serpent that is a pagan god. This image is offensive to our Lord and defies His holy name.”
Alma stared at his creation. He’d spent months carving it, bit by bit. How could he have known the small statue he’d seen was a pagan god?
“We must destroy it,” his father said.
Alma stared at his father, blinking hard. Destroy it?
His father strode toward the carving and picked it up as if it weighed little more than a leaf. He took it to the road outside the courtyard.
Using a piece of chert, he started it on fire, and within minutes, the statue was consumed in flames. Alma tried not to cry as he watched it burn.
His father came up behind him. “You have a talent, son, but you must put it to good use. You need to spend your young years learning, not carving animals and birds.” He took one of Alma’s hands and turned it over. “My son should have calluses from bringing in the harvest or caring for the flocks, not from idly chipping wood.”
His father left the burning site and returned to the house.
Alma sank to his knees, watching the wood char. He’d thought his father would be so pleased, so impressed with his hard work. The one thing that Alma loved to do—and now his father wanted to take it away. Alma wiped at the furious tears that ran along his cheeks, vowing to never show his father any of his carvings again.
Alma awoke to pitch darkness and heard a commotion coming from somewhere inside the palace. He raised his head and winced at the throbbing. For the past day and night, he had continued to drink with Jahza by his side. He ran his hand over the empty cushions next to him. She must have slipped out while he was sleeping. For a brief moment, he wondered where she’d gone. A twinge of envy pulsed through him as he thought of her with another man.
He rose to his feet and stumbled toward the jug of wine. Another sip and his mouth wasn’t so dry. He lit one of the oil lamps. The shadows leapt back, revealing a disorganized room. Rugs and cushions were scattered about, wall hangings haphazard, wine spilled on the elaborate rug. Alma’s head spun as he thought of what had taken place over the past day. It was like he lived in another world. No accountability, no expectations, no honor . . .
But now I am a high priest, Alma reminded himself.
Running footsteps sounded outside his door. He walked to the door, steady on his feet, and threw it open. He signaled a servant who was passing by. “What’s happening?” Alma called.
The thin man turned. “The king is sending out a new batch of men to find her.”
“Find who?”
“The girl—the one who rejected him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You really haven’t heard?” the servant asked in a half-mocking voice.
“I—never mind, tell me from the beginning.” Alma listened as the servant told him about Amulon’s daughter, Raquel, rejecting the king’s proposal of marriage, then fleeing the palace. An earlier search party had nearly shot and captured her, but then she’d disappeared. Now, even though it was the middle of the night, Noah had ordered the best trackers in the city to band together and find her.
Alma’s mind was still fuzzy, but he shuddered at the cruelty of tracking a girl. He’d heard stories of the king’s ruthlessness toward treasonous soldiers, but this was against a young girl . . . He’d seen Raquel that night at court; she couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen. He wondered if Amulon would take responsibility for his daughter’s insolence. Alma reentered his room and splashed water on his face from a basin Jahza had brought in earlier. Feeling slightly refreshed, he left his room in search of Amulon. The man had been a friend to him, and perhaps he needed support.
It didn’t take long for Alma to find the king and the other high priests gathered in the throne room. As always, Amulon sat next to the king. At least there doesn’t seem to be a breach between the men, Alma thought, as he watched them laughing and pointing. Then a snapping sound drew his eyes to the spectacle in the corner of the room. Two men, with their hands and feet bound, were facing the wall. A burly servant was whipping them, alternating between the two. Their backs displayed bright red stripes, and blood ran down the length of their bodies.
One of the tortured men whimpered with each strike; the other remained silent. Alma felt sick, wondering what these men had done. He looked at the king and caught Amulon’s eye.
“There you are, my friend,” Amulon said, motioning for Alma to join them.
Alma strode across the room, flinching each time the whip sounded. He tried to maintain a nonchalant expression as they smiled at him.
“Welcome back,” Noah said with a gleam in his eye. He slid over and made room for Alma on the cushions next to him.
Once Alma was seated between them, Amulon leaned over and said in a loud voice, “I heard Jahza had to return to her chambers to rest.” He winked at Alma.
The king bellowed with laughter and jabbed Alma in the ribs. “Well done.”
Alma forced a laugh, his face flushing. The court seemed to know everything almost as soon as it happened. “What’s going on here?” he asked before the conversation could fully focus on him.
Amulon drew a breath in, his eyes flitting over to the king, then said, “Those men were sent to find a girl, and they failed.”
“Your daughter?” Alma asked.
Amulon took a long drink of his wine before answering. “I no longer have a daughter.”
A chill passed through Alma as he studied Amulon, seeing outright fear in the man’s eyes. So this was how his friend endured the ordeal. Amulon was siding with the king in order to prove his loyalty to the throne—and most likely to save his own life. But to disown his very daughter?
Noah slapped his thigh and chuckled. “The young woman who insulted my throne will regret the moment it entered her mind.” He stood, using Alma’s shoulder for support, and shouted to the general court. “Do you hear that? Anyone who defies me will be hunted down and killed!”
Amulon raised his goblet of wine, his eyes determined now. “We hear you!”
The others in the room raised their goblets and drank to the king’s proclamation. A jolt passed through Alma as he raised his own goblet to his lips and obediently drank.
Noah pointed at the two tortured men. Their backs were bloody, their breathing ragged. “Take them from my sight. I’m tired of looking at such useless men. Throw them in prison until I decide their fate.” His gaze surveyed the crowd. “Where are the dancers?”
A couple of priests leapt to their feet, calling for the women. People scurried about, some leaving the room, others taking their places to watch the upcoming performance.
Alma glanced at the king. A smile was plastered on his face, and wine stained the front of his beaded cowl. As several veiled women came in, Amulon clapped and cheered. Everything had turned carefree again—as if no men had been tortured just moments before. A collection of instruments started up with lively and inviting music. The women swayed toward them, and one by one, they removed their veils. Their haunting eyes seemed to capture Alma. He was trying to push out the thoughts of an abandoned and disowned girl running for her life, so he focused on the dancers, standing alongside Noah and Amulon and swaying to the music.
He scanned the women quickly, not seeing Jahza. Perhaps she had indeed gone back to her chamber to sleep. Amulon drained his goblet then refilled it. Alma could certainly understand his friend’s need to drink heavier than usual. Amulon rose to his unsteady feet and picked a dancing partner. The man didn’t seem to have any qualms about dancing with other women even though he had a wife at home. It was just part of their callings as high priests in the greatest court in the land.
A slim hand reached for Alma’s arm, and he turned. A woman near his age stood before him, her eyes and smile welcoming. She was beautiful, yes, but in a different way than Jahza. She drew him toward her into a slow dance and whispered in his ear, “Hello, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Bethel.”
Alma drew back a little and met her gaze. “I was just recently made a high priest.”
“I know.” The woman’s laughter tinkled like bells. “We all know.” She lowered her lashes as if she were suddenly shy. “You are much sought after.”
It was Alma’s turn to laugh. This dancer was far from shy, in spite of her pretense. He knew the game now. In her arms it was easy to forget the things weighing on his mind—his father’s integrity, his mother’s modesty, what might have caused Amulon’s daughter to run away . . . And for a moment he even forgot about coming across Noah’s new bride sobbing in the garden.
An hour or two passed; it was difficult for Alma to keep track of time. His mind was muddled with wine again. He had learned to merely take small sips—that way he wouldn’t become sick again. The woman he’d first danced with, Bethel, had stayed by his side. From time to time he wondered about the whereabouts of Jahza. Maybe she already knew he’d moved his attention to this new woman—after all, it seemed that word traveled fast in court.
The evening meal was served. Alma still wasn’t used to the extravagant display of food—papayas, guavas, varieties of squash, mushrooms, quail eggs, avocado, deer and rabbit meat, cacao drink, honeyed sweets—it was luxurious. As he seated himself next to Bethel, a pair of warriors entered the room. Each of them wore a feathered headdress, signifying their important status. Their white cotton capes were soiled and dirty. Thick jade earrings adorned their ears and both wore gold armbands. A hush fell over the people.
One of the warriors raised his fist, holding several quetzal feathers. He bowed to the king, then said, “We have found these feathers that belong to the daughter of Amulon. We traced her to a hut near the river—and a boy named Benjamin was there.”
Alma cast a furtive glace at Amulon, whose face was reddening.
Noah stood, adjusting his cape of quetzal feathers across his broad shoulders as if preparing for a fight. “Bring him in. We will question him now.”
One of the warriors left, returning almost immediately with a young boy. Alma guessed he was around eight or nine years old. The thin child struggled against the warrior’s thick hand. The boy’s hair was wild and his clothing too big, as if someone had handed it down to him. His feet were bare, tanned, and calloused.
Alma cringed as the large men shoved the child to a kneeling position, his bony knees knocking against the floor. Their hands dug into the boy’s shoulder, forcing him into submission. Benjamin kept his mouth clamped shut, but his eyes took in everything. For a moment, his gaze rested on Alma, who felt a strange sensation. He was ready to feel sorry for the boy, as he had the men who were whipped, but this boy’s expression stopped him. It was not only defiant—it was as if he welcomed his capture. Alma doubted he’d seen greater courage than that displayed in this small boy.
Noah grinned and hitched up his snakeskin belt across his broad waist as he strode to the collapsed child. Amulon leapt to his feet, and the other high priests joined him. They formed a circle around the captured boy. Alma followed reluctantly, repelled yet curious at the same time.
The king removed his sword and playfully fingered the obsidian protruding from the wooden club. “Where is she?” he boomed.
The boy’s shoulders flinched, but he simply stared up at the menacing king. One of the warriors grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked Benjamin’s head back. “Answer his Highness,” he growled.
Benjamin licked his dry lips, his gaze still focused on the king. But he remained silent.
Noah chuckled and circled the boy, turning his sword over in his hand again and again. Alma and the other priests watched breathlessly. “It’s all right,” the king said in a soft voice. “He’ll talk soon enough.” He extended his jeweled hand with the sword. “The whips.”
Alma’s stomach lurched. Whipping a man was one thing, but this was a child. It took every ounce of Alma’s strength to remain an observer. At the king’s first strike, his eyes involuntarily closed. The boy’s chin trembled, and a tear escaped.
The wine Alma had consumed did nothing to soften the king’s brutality. Another strike and a muffled groan escaped the boy’s lips. More tears, but still the boy didn’t talk. He brought his hands to his face as his shoulders shook.
Amulon stared at the child, his eyes glazed over. It was as if he hadn’t registered this extreme torture of a young child. How far would Amulon go—or allow the king to go—in pursuing his errant daughter?
On the third strike, blood from the stripes had soaked through the boy’s clothing. Alma winced and took a step back, surveying the gathered men. The dancing women had slipped out of the room at some point; so had many of the usual crowd. It seemed that the only ones who’d remained were the warriors and high priests. For a brief instant he saw these supposedly great and powerful men of the court as men simply ruled by fear. Noah brought the whip down upon the boy’s back again. The boy was openly crying now.
“Where is she? No girl is worth this pain! Tell us where she is and you will be spared!” Noah continued to shout, but Benjamin refused to answer.
Finally, the king crouched in front of the boy and said, “Are you foolish enough to die for Raquel?”
The boy nodded, nearly choking on his sobs.
Noah straightened and wrinkled his nose, as if he were disgusted by the smell of blood. “Tie him up with the others.”
The boy was dragged away, and the high priests meandered back to the meal. Alma hesitated. The women were gone, the music had stopped, and suddenly he didn’t feel well. Perhaps the wine had caught up to him after all. He would have to sleep off the tortured image of Benjamin. The boy had amazing tenacity and endurance. And there had been something else in his eyes, something Alma couldn’t explain.
He asked for leave from the king, and Noah gave him a knowing smile. Alma stumbled along the hall to his quarters. The room had been cleaned, the cushions replaced, and the jug of wine refilled. Was it Jahza or the new woman, Bethel, who’d cleaned his quarters and brought the wine? He settled onto the cushions, fully dressed, expecting to fall asleep immediately.
His body relaxed as he hovered between the state of wakefulness and dreaming. The beautiful eyes of a woman filled his mind—but they didn’t belong to Jahza or Bethel. He tried to push Maia’s image out of his mind.
Then he heard the door open and shut, followed by the soft tinkling of an anklet or pair of bracelets. A moment later, a warm body slipped beneath the covers next to him.
