But today she had announced that she intended to take a walk through the city, and that was that. She had not even allowed the girl to change into her rougher garments, so they looked like mother and daughter walking through the streets. Ester tried to rid herself of the unrest that had forced her outside to begin with, but she suspected the cause was lost.
The last time Ester had been in Jerusalem proper had been almost a year ago, and the trip had not been far, only to the palace of the governor, Pontius Pilate, to attend one of his feasts. She had not, on that occasion, really had time to think; she was with her husband, on the way to dinner, her thoughts busy with that. Now, however, she had plenty of opportunity to let her mind take in the goings-on around her: the bustle of the streets, the dust rising from the multitude of hurried steps, the song of myriad clangings and laughings and words and bumpings all joined together into one muted din as they entered the markets.
“Pe’kanims!” one merchant was calling out. “Shkedins, egozims, tzimukims!”
“Zay’tims!” another sang. “The finest in Israel!”
“Shezifims!”
“Charoov!”
“Abigail!”
Abigail turned with a smile for a vendor. “Michael.” She spoke in Hebrew, as did he and the others in the market.
“Are you in need of more te’enims so soon?” The man, dressed in a brightly woven mantle, motioned to the ripe figs before him.
She smiled and shook her head. “Mistress Ester just wished to walk.”
Though Michael acted as though he had not noticed her, certainly he had. “My apologies, Lady Visibullis. Have you been faring well?” His words had changed to Greek.
Ester forced a pleasant smile, and she answered in Hebrew. “Wonderfully, thank you.”
Abigail was giving the merchant a glare that would have withered a lesser man. “Good day, Michael,” she bade in a stony tone, in Greek. “And you can keep your figs and pomegranates and grapes. There are others just as sweet elsewhere.”
Panic entered Michael’s countenance. “A moment, my friends!” This time he spoke in Hebrew. “Again, my apologies. Do not hold my slip of tongue against my produce.”
Ester put a restraining hand on Abigail’s shoulder when she saw that the girl was practically ready to bite. “It is all right.” Her words were not only soft, but in Latin. She knew that most here would not know the words, as she herself was not even fluent.
“It is not. He has insulted you, and that is not to be tolerated. He is but a merchant.”
The word for “tolerated” was not familiar, but Ester understood the general meaning. “There are none who would act differently. Do not punish him for the feelings that come most naturally.”
Abigail’s speech drift back into Greek, her eyes on Michael. “Just because a feeling is natural does not mean it should be indulged.”
The merchant was, by this time, looking adequately abashed. “You are my best customer, Abigail, and my friend. Please, I meant no insult. It is simply a habit to speak in Greek–”
“Do not lie to me, Michael.”
Exasperation overtook the man’s expression now. “And why not, when you did just moments ago? You know there are no fruits as sweet as mine!”
Quite suddenly, Abigail laughed. “You are right. And so am I. Shall we forgive wrongs?”
The man nodded, satisfied. “Here. A tapooz for my gratitude.”
Abigail took the orange with a soft smile. “Thank you, Michael. I will see you as usual in a few days.”
The women walked away then. This had been a bad idea. They ought to turn around and go home now, before another merchant could insult her and anger Abigail.
“You do not have to defend me,” Ester eventually said as they moved out of the market quarter.
Abigail remained silent for but a moment. “They only respect what they see is worthy, Mistress. If you simply accept their insults, they will think you a coward. If you insult them in return, they will think you a tyrant. I simply wish to help you find that path that is most favorable.”
“And I appreciate your efforts. But I am a coward, Abigail. I always have been.”
Abigail looked over into her eyes. “I find it difficult to believe you, Mistress. Cowards do not–”
“Ester?”
The voice was not loud, and sounded as if from leagues away. But she stopped, shocked, and turned in the direction of the man who spoke. “Jairus.”
He was well dressed, still handsome. She knew he had risen to a leadership level in the synagogue, but it had been so long since she had seen him . . . and to see him now, and actually speak to him on the street–her nerves buzzed at the unexpectedness.
He looked incredulous himself. “It has been a long time. You look well.”
“Thank you. You do, also.” Ester searched her mind for something with which to fill the silence. “How is your daughter?”
“You have not heard?”
Their gazes locked again. “I suppose not. What is it?”
“She died.” He said it calmly, though perhaps with a bit of surprise that she knew nothing of it.
“Oh Jairus, I am so sorry! If I had known, I would have come–”
“No, no, it is all right. You see, she is well again.” His brown eyes were soft as he shared this news.