How to keep them in hand for the months-years ahead-after their time spent, absorbing so many bad ideas from this city? How could he survive without them to gather water, fetch clothes, find husbands?
How?
In the distance, he heard revelers returning. The delights of the festival were too brief.
He had little time to plan.
A torch running near the city wall gave him his best option. Burn. Burn the city! Burn it all! If he could destroy this horrid, wretched place, he could flee. In peace. With ease.
His eyes imagined it, the bricks crumbling away, the dark underside of the wine bin erupting with fury. The pagan temple, destroyed. Aye, that was the way of it. The dream.
But, could he still maintain comfort on his own? Without a wife to feed him, to keep his clothes. He was not young. And the children, his daughters, could they find him a comfortable place?
He'd hate to go back to Abraham.
And her, oh, yes. He could force her out. Could drag her to Egypt if need be. But he could not escape that tongue. That horrid tongue. And those accusing eyes. It had been so long since he'd had peace. Since he'd had a home to himself. Since there was order in his household.
No order. No purpose. He would burn his house. The torch approached. Ah, yes, he decided. Simply to fire it. Toss a few bottles of wine around. Run for the gates of the city. None would ever know he'd survived. Let the city burn. Let the family burn.
A waste, that. His daughters. So lovely in the morning. Undisciplined. Arrogant. Foolish. Vain women. But lovely in the morning. How could he dispense with them so cavalierly? There might be something for them to do yet. Caring for him in the cold dark caves, far from Zohar. How could he-these images, so destructive. He didn't know how they came into his mind.
Lot stopped running.
How to control the pictures in his mind?
He was sure now. The wine was one bottle of many. The tainted vintage. Yes, that had given so many other visions. Its magic still had an effect. Lot was used to this magic. A powerful wizard.
His family, not so much, yet. His poor wife had drunk such a bottle once. She'd seen spiders chasing her. Spiders the size of a horse. Lot had laughed at her then, enjoying her terror. She'd never known where the vision came from. He never told her, merely held on to the bottles.
One sip.
Spiders the size of a horse.
But he forgot himself. Was it then, as bad for her, as he'd imagined? Had she played with him? Seeing fake threats? Wouldn't put it past her. Always, to taunt him. To put him in a place. Would it always be thus with women? Stealing control from men?
Spiders the size of a horse.
A better plan took shape as he reached the wine stall. Behind, the hut was dark. His wife and daughters asleep. Or at least quiet. They feared him coming home. That was good.
He dug for the bottles, spilling some of his best vintage. A dozen shekels lost. He did not care for that now, sipping a bit from the overturned cask. Not that bottle. Below, there, yes, the tell-tale signs of white mold near the wax. How could he have missed it when he drank?
Did he miss it?
Lot didn't know. Perhaps the Priestess. Yes, that witch would lead his mind away. She'd already tried once.
But his plan was too bold. Too daring. Not for one like he. Not for a righteous man. But there was a chance of failure. He didn't want to think of it. Even his wife's last laugh-very last laugh-would haunt him. Not to be.
How to try it? How to see, if he, with the wine, could control visions, like the Priestess?
An answer awaited near the front of the city. If only there was enough time to test this plan. He raced for the gates.
Leaping past the straw and debris, Lot searched for the perfect test. Suddenly, he found his man. Tripped into him, really. Lot found himself tangled with a drunkard who visited his store whenever the citizens of Sodom tossed a bedraggled coin his way.
This creature was one his daughters had seen, daily, shambling by for a half-bottle of vinegar date wine, unmixed and past expiration. The scent of feces was upon him, this dweller in his own filth. Lot untangled himself, revulsed.
Here was the test.
Somehow, Lot forced his charge before him near the wine stall. Promises of drink, food, cleanliness, women-nothing got the overgrown urchin more than a few feet ahead. Dimly, Lot heard the chariots en route. Not yet, but they would be. It was grievous, what he'd done to the priestess. Someone would pay.
Ideally, someone else.
They reached the stall. Lot's shoulder ached from nearly carrying his charge. His legs hurt, to the groin. He couldn't stop now.
“Here!” he said, passing over a full bottle of wine. “Our finest vintage-no, wait.” Lot reconsidered. He couldn't allow this man to leave before he'd tested his plan. But he didn't want the fellow passing out again. Too hard to explain. Somewhat tipsy. Still lucid.
He knelt down again among the bottles, finding his most expensive brand. A light, brisk taste, with a bit of snake inside. His guest would drink it, but be refreshed. Energized. Ready to drink more.
So expensive, these bottles, sold only to men who went to the temples and whorehouses of Sodom. The very nice whorehouses, for an evening of culture with a courtesan before they indulged their filthy lusts.
“Now stay with it,” said Lot, crying inwardly to himself as he opened the bottle. A week's profits lost with that one and its brother. Of course, the urchin would drink both. And not appreciate it.
But he'd stay awake.
“Sit right there!” shouted Lot, as the urchin crawled before the stall to his special drinking place, the one downwind, where Lot had kicked him over so many times before. “Behind the stall. You want to be near the wine, don't you?”
The urchin couldn't speak beyond guttural moans. For the best, if Lot's plan was to work. He stayed, though, sitting back against a post so hard, Lot was sure the man would bleed. Perhaps die-perhaps, no. The urchin held up the bottle, sighed to himself, began to hum a tune, badly.
Lot had no more time for this one. But, was one sufficient?
“If that wretched friend of yours comes by, give him some to drink. You two will share, together, this night.”
Nothing from the urchin.
“Share, I say!” shouted Lot, and turned away.
Taking a handful of bottles, he strode purposefully toward his own hut. Again, he heard hoofbeats-from where, no dust in the street. Nothing. Yet. The priestess's revenge would take time. Had to take time.
There was little time.
Breathing deeply, Lot entered his home.
Lot's wife sat by the door, awake. Worry marked her eyes. She'd been afraid in her husband's absence? Of
