Abigail's Story by Ann Burton Page A

not yet retired,” he told me, “so he will receive us.” He gave me a sharp look. “You are sure of this, Abigail?”
    Afraid my voice would shake as much as my limbs, I nodded and took his arm.

CHAPTER
6
    B eing presented to the master of such a large house was a formal business in Carmel. Unmarried women were kept at home, and outside occasional visits to close female friends, not permitted under the roof of a stranger without a parent or chaperon. That was why I had needed Amri to accompany me, to keep my presence respectable and mannerly.
    Here, however, manners seemed to have gone the way of the trees and animals. We were ushered in without ceremony and brought directly to a banquet room. The servant did not escort us in or announce our presence, and disappeared as soon as we passed over the threshold. I feared such an ungainly entrance might offend the master of the house, until I saw his surroundings.
    It was clear that manners had not been of import here recently.
    The remains of a large feast still lay on the tables,beneath which skinny dogs slept among the discarded bones and scraps. When I saw two bare-breasted females, dressed in the abbreviated, semitransparent sadhin and standing on either side of a man sitting in a great chair, a startled gasp escaped me. Never had I seen women dressed so.
    Amri followed my gaze and touched my arm. “Wealthy men keep bedchamber slaves,” he murmured.
    â€œOh.” I averted my eyes from their nakedness, feeling ashamed for them and embarrassed by my own presence, and looked instead at the man seated in the chair.
    He was a large, bald man, and sat drinking from a goblet. He could not be called handsome or young, and indeed he seemed without much form, something of a lump of a man. Immediately I felt I was being unkind in my assessment, for he did possess regular features. Perhaps his eyes were on the small side, and set too close together, but they were a placid brown. His nose was neither too large nor too small, and only a little bulbous at the end. His skin and elaborately hemmed khiton were spotless.
    If this was Nabal, he had his faults, but beyond them he appeared an ordinary man. Perhaps there was hope in that.
    His extra chin disappeared as he regarded us, and his expression wavered between curiosity and suspicion. He made as if to speak, but the steward came in carrying two wooden tablets, and spoke in a whisper.
    The man set aside his goblet to open theivory-hinged tablets, which possessed an inner, thick layer of wax upon which were writing marks. He listened as the steward muttered and pointed to different marks. At last he snapped the tablets together and shoved them at the servant.
    â€œIf I wanted the herds near town, I would have sent for them,” he told the steward, his voice cross. “Nor will I travel to the hills to coddle them. They are paid to watch over my flocks, not to whine about marauders and hardships. Where is my hand basin?”
    One of the female slaves offered him a small, flat bowl of water, in which he washed his hands. The other slave held out a towel.
    â€œThat I have used. Bring clean linen.” He held his hands out to keep them from dripping on his fine garments and eyed us. “Well? What do you want?”
    â€œWe are grateful to you for seeing us,” Amri said politely, free to speak now that we had been addressed. “You are Master Nabal?”
    â€œI am. What of it?”
    â€œI am Amri, spice merchant of Carmel.” Amri bowed. “This is Abigail, daughter of the house of Oren.”
    â€œOren. Oren.” Wiping his hands on the fresh linen which the female slave had brought, he thought. “I know no such fellow.”
    â€œYou gamed last night with his son, Rivai,” Amri said. “It is his debt that brings us here.”
    The shiny brow furrowed again, and then Nabal uttered a grunt. “Nefat’s friend. I remember him,greedy for my gold he was.