Her brand pulsated, changing shape and flaming like a blazing dagger. The eunuch’s skin turned a sickly brown. He raised himself to his full height. What right had this woman to scream at the chief eunuch, the third most important man of the empire, the man who held the power of life and death? He could force her pretty Jewish head under the waters of the pool and throw her corpse into the river and no one would dare object. No one, he reminded himself, except the Shah and the cry of his own gland, which even now begged for her. “How dare you try the chief eunuch’s wrath?”

She reached out and pinched him between the legs. “Now that you’ve tasted the joys of consummation, you who are the master of the harem have become a slave to this Jewish whore.”

He slapped her hand off and twisted it behind her back. The fire in her eyes was inhuman. She was a sorceress. She would put a spell on him that would shrivel his lust gland and maim the rest of him. The mud walls of the yard closed around him. He had a vision of himself, turning into a pillar of baked mud, a permanent spectacle for many Jewish generations.

He released her, picked up the jar and his pants, and rushed past her into the room, searching for the rest of his attire.

She dashed in after him, removing the sprig of mint from behind her ear and sniffing on it. “You stink worse than the Devil I lived with.”

The last trace of his dignity vanished. The Devil was known to await eunuchs and hurl them into the abyss of hell if they did not carry their severed organs to the afterlife. Narcissus curled one leg around the other as if to hide his bareness.

She laughed bitterly. “Have you forgotten I’ve seen all of you? Now before I lose patience, talk!”

He pursed his lips, searching the room for the slightest sign of fire, a flame, a candle.

She pounced on the jar in his hand.

They wrestled, the eunuch for the remains of his manhood, which would assure him a space in heaven, the woman for the life of her daughter.

“Have you killed her?!” she cried. “Have you?”

He freed himself from her clutch and wailed, “I swear by all the imams, I didn’t touch her. I made a potion to scare away her protecting spirits. I cut a lock of her hair to burn in the altar of the jinns.”

“And you dare come to my bed?” Rebekah pointed to her flaming bosom. “By this brand of the Devil, if you lay a hand on my daughter, I’ll deliver the black plague of ancient times on you!”