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“Would Nabal force Father to sell one of us into slavery?”
    My brother made a sound of contempt. “Don’t talk foolishness, Abigail. For eight maneh, he would have to sell himself as well as you and me and Mother.”
    I knew the law. A man’s debts had to be paid, however he obtained the payment. As long as we were healthy, we would go to the slave caravans.
    â€œIf you do not pay this debt, he shall be held responsible. He shall do what he must.” Such a thing would break my father’s failing spirit.
    No, my heart informed me. It shall kill him. Long before the deprivations of life as a slave would.
    â€œIt is a stupid law,” Rivai flared, slamming his fist into the table. He winced and shook it. “It matters not what the law says. I am a grown man. I shall give them what I can borrow, and Nabal will have to be satisfied with that until I can find the rest.”
    â€œAnd if he is not?”
    My brother nursed his hand, his expression sulky. “I shall go to the shamar, then, and explain that it is not my fault, that the game was rigged—”
    â€œWhen the shamar are finished laughing, they shall put us all in chains and lead us to the slave caravans.” Too upset to remain still, I rose from the table. “Who is this Nabal?”
    â€œHe has the biggest herds of sheep and goats in Judah, and much property in Maon. They say no one has a tighter fist than Nabal, and that is why he has no wife or family or friends. Even his hired herdsmen are said to live like beggars.” Rivai gave me a cautious look. “Are you going to tell Father?”
    â€œI said I would not.” I needed to think, and I could not do that by weeping and wailing over my brother’s idiocy. “Come, wash and change out of your khiton. You must turn the wheel for me tonight.”
    My brother gaped. “You still mean to work?”
    â€œThere is no market for our tears,” I said simply.
    Â 
    Eight maneh of gold.
    As I walked to the storage room, the reality of the enormous debt seemed to loom over me like a towering ziggurat.
    Which it was, compared to our extremely modest income. A very good week of selling at market earned us barter equal to perhaps two silver sheqels. Most of that I traded again to other merchants for what my family needed to live: food and medicines, dyes for cloth and clay, hardwood for the kiln, oil for the lamps, flax and wool for weaving, fodder for the goats . . .
    Eight maneh. More gold than might be earned in ten good years .
    The red clay used to make our pots was very smooth and pure, thanks to the clean water of the spring near the bank from which we took it. Once a month my brother and I borrowed one of our Shomer’s carts to haul our pallets to the spring and refill them, a long and exhausting task that, like so many, had become too much for our father to perform.
    What will we tell Father when the Maon’s men come for payment?
    Earlier in the week I had washed and tempered a large mound of red clay, treading it with my bare feet, which rendered it malleable enough for the wheel. From this I gathered as much as I could carry, and asked my brother to bring the jar of soft rainwater I used for slips and turnings.
    My father’s wheel occupied one corner of the courtyard, separated by screens woven of olive wood and goat hair rope. It was not a very large wheel, only six hands across, but it sat balanced perfectly on its stone axis and spun freely with the lightest of touches. Time and countless mounds of clay had worn the surface of the gray speckled stone disk to a satisfying smoothness.
    Slaves, like women, were generally not permitted to make pots. In three days I might lose more than my personal freedom. I was no artisan like my brother, but working the clay pleased me. It made me feel that I was more than the one who cooked and cleaned and sold things.
    Are these the last I shall ever make?
    While I portioned