Read Online A Bed of Spices by Barbara Samuel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Samuel
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chicken and garlic thick in the air. The ring of his mother’s voice, light and happy, floated down to him.
Even before she ushered him through the courtyard and into his chamber, her eyes bright with excitement, he knew visitors had arrived. Relations from Mainz, come for the wedding feast of Hershel and Raizel. They would sing and dance, laugh and gossip and eat.
Solomon sank to a bench in his chamber with a sigh. He had no wish to join them. Their talk would be of weddings and sons, of business and survival. As it always had been, as it always would be.
Without enthusiasm, he shed his tunic and from his trunk pulled a freshly brushed velvet surcoat and the small embroidered hat he wore at home. As he took it out, the miniature painting of Egypt tumbled loose from its spot.
It was only a camel with white pointed spires of Cairo behind. Women in black veils gathered to one side, and a proud Muslim warrior with a scimitar stood victorious over a slain Christian knight. His father thought it grim.
Solomon inclined his head, and holding his coat on his arm, picked up the painting. The exotic promise of a faraway land was what had first drawn him to it. Even as a small boy, he had heard tales from the traders who sold his father his goods—fine carpets and spices and exotic woods—tales of elephants and camels; of pyramids and deserts and snake charmers. The traders spoke of the wisdom of the East, of knowledge only just dreamed of in the West, The tales had filled his young heart with wanderlust and a’longing for adventure.
Now he still longed to travel there, but it was for the physicians he would go. At Montpellier, even the priests had been forced to admit the excellence of the Arabian physicians. Fully half the body of medical knowledge had come from the Moors.
He fingered the painting. One day he would stand in this street and see for himself. One day he would train with the finest physicians in the world.
So perhaps he would take Rica this little painting. It was forever emblazoned upon his brain, and she, perhaps, had never seen such a thing.
His brother Asher called to him. “Solomon! We shall starve waiting for you!”
Hastily, as if burned, he tossed the painting back into its place, then dressed. At the door he paused, trying desperately to remember how he usually went down, how he behaved when he had nothing to hide. He felt as if the impression of Rica had branded him obviously, as if her mouth hovered in a ghostly image over his own.
He cursed himself. How could he have let himself go so far past his promises to himself?
For a moment, he pressed his fingers to his brow. How could he not? In the deserted meadow, damp and fresh from the water, she had been more beautiful than a vision. His heart ached at even the memory.
Madness. Perhaps there was some clue in the stars. He would consult the astrologers on the morrow. They often had much to offer.
Thus steadied, he descended.
But the evening was cursed, as the day had been. There were too many people, too many aunts and uncles and cousins and friends, all crowding in, laughing and talking and teasing.
The instant Solomon took his place at the richly laid table, he spied the girl. She sat nearby his mother, who fluttered around the girl with an oddly protective air.
Raizel’s sister, no doubt. And like Raizel, a beauty. Rich dark eyes and rosy cheeks; a glorious weight of hair and fine, clear skin with the shimmer of moonlight. She blushed when she looked up to find Solomon’s eyes upon her, and her pretty mouth trembled.
He set his jaw and bent over his plate, knowing there would be a proper introduction, and pressure from his father. “ It is your obligation to marry !”
Perhaps his father had grown weary of Solomon’s insistence upon waiting. Perhaps there would be no choice this time—and he could not protest that she was ugly. He looked at Jacob, who sat at the head of the table, viewing the assembled guests with the pride and
Even before she ushered him through the courtyard and into his chamber, her eyes bright with excitement, he knew visitors had arrived. Relations from Mainz, come for the wedding feast of Hershel and Raizel. They would sing and dance, laugh and gossip and eat.
Solomon sank to a bench in his chamber with a sigh. He had no wish to join them. Their talk would be of weddings and sons, of business and survival. As it always had been, as it always would be.
Without enthusiasm, he shed his tunic and from his trunk pulled a freshly brushed velvet surcoat and the small embroidered hat he wore at home. As he took it out, the miniature painting of Egypt tumbled loose from its spot.
It was only a camel with white pointed spires of Cairo behind. Women in black veils gathered to one side, and a proud Muslim warrior with a scimitar stood victorious over a slain Christian knight. His father thought it grim.
Solomon inclined his head, and holding his coat on his arm, picked up the painting. The exotic promise of a faraway land was what had first drawn him to it. Even as a small boy, he had heard tales from the traders who sold his father his goods—fine carpets and spices and exotic woods—tales of elephants and camels; of pyramids and deserts and snake charmers. The traders spoke of the wisdom of the East, of knowledge only just dreamed of in the West, The tales had filled his young heart with wanderlust and a’longing for adventure.
Now he still longed to travel there, but it was for the physicians he would go. At Montpellier, even the priests had been forced to admit the excellence of the Arabian physicians. Fully half the body of medical knowledge had come from the Moors.
He fingered the painting. One day he would stand in this street and see for himself. One day he would train with the finest physicians in the world.
So perhaps he would take Rica this little painting. It was forever emblazoned upon his brain, and she, perhaps, had never seen such a thing.
His brother Asher called to him. “Solomon! We shall starve waiting for you!”
Hastily, as if burned, he tossed the painting back into its place, then dressed. At the door he paused, trying desperately to remember how he usually went down, how he behaved when he had nothing to hide. He felt as if the impression of Rica had branded him obviously, as if her mouth hovered in a ghostly image over his own.
He cursed himself. How could he have let himself go so far past his promises to himself?
For a moment, he pressed his fingers to his brow. How could he not? In the deserted meadow, damp and fresh from the water, she had been more beautiful than a vision. His heart ached at even the memory.
Madness. Perhaps there was some clue in the stars. He would consult the astrologers on the morrow. They often had much to offer.
Thus steadied, he descended.
But the evening was cursed, as the day had been. There were too many people, too many aunts and uncles and cousins and friends, all crowding in, laughing and talking and teasing.
The instant Solomon took his place at the richly laid table, he spied the girl. She sat nearby his mother, who fluttered around the girl with an oddly protective air.
Raizel’s sister, no doubt. And like Raizel, a beauty. Rich dark eyes and rosy cheeks; a glorious weight of hair and fine, clear skin with the shimmer of moonlight. She blushed when she looked up to find Solomon’s eyes upon her, and her pretty mouth trembled.
He set his jaw and bent over his plate, knowing there would be a proper introduction, and pressure from his father. “ It is your obligation to marry !”
Perhaps his father had grown weary of Solomon’s insistence upon waiting. Perhaps there would be no choice this time—and he could not protest that she was ugly. He looked at Jacob, who sat at the head of the table, viewing the assembled guests with the pride and
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