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 course she had. Where would she be, then, with no one to nag? Where indeed?
No hesitation. He must start his plan. The magic wine would help. He'd seen its effects. The magic wine. The magic wine.
“Arise, wife. It's a new day!
“Lot, what?” she asked, somewhat groggy. Perfect.
“A new day! Wake our daughters.”
“Lot-why?”
“We will have a guest. Perhaps two. A guest at least. A very special guest.”
“A guest? Lot, our humble home is not ready. Who is this special guest? Has Abraham come?”
“No. Not Abraham. Someone even more-you will see. Arise, wife. Arise! And wake our daughters.”
“Lot, what is wrong with you? Your clothes-they are filthy. Have you been drinking?”
“Woman, hear me. Worry not about my clothes. We shall clean that. I must have a bath. You must wake our daughters. It is a new day. A special day. We must celebrate. Before our guests arrive. A special toast. A special vintage. Just us. The four of us. Our family. Celebrate.”
Lot's wife stood confused now. He was speaking too fast. She couldn't understand that words. Not a bit of it. He had to slow down, somehow; make sure all of the plan worked. Test it against her. Then their daughters. Yes, then their daughters.
No time. He didn't have time to handle her stupidity. She must drink the magic wine, now.
“Here, wife. This will explain it. Have your first drink of the day.” He opened the bottle, filled a cup, handed it to her.
“Lot? It is so early. Are you-is this-what?”
“Don't argue with me. This wine is special. Ceremonial. Sacred. Do not resist. We must all have several glasses. Drink one. First. Then go and wake our daughters. They too must partake. Then, we must bathe, and get ready the house. Prepare a meal for our guests.”
“Who are our guests?”
“They are the children of God.”
“Lot!”
“I do not lie about such things. The children of God come for us. Come with a sacred message. Now, finish your drink,” said Lot, “and wake our daughters.”
Confused, but not daring to oppose her husband in his manic state, Lot's wife nodded, drained her glass. Her eyes glazed over, mouth wretched, she someone held the liquid down. Her look showed the beverage gave her no pleasure. Such a strong drink. Like medicine.
The taste confirmed Lot's story. No man would drink such a beverage for pleasure. She assumed he'd had the wine blessed, somehow. A special wine. And they would meet the children of God. Perhaps a priest, or one of Abraham's special advisers. She wasn't sure.
She hurried to obey her husband's orders.
Their daughters were slow to awaken. Lot's wife angrily struck the Eldest.
“Get up! Get up for your father! Your father I said.”
The girl recoiled, hiding her face. A red mark appeared. This was a saucy lass. She should marry soon. Have children of her own. Cease being a burden to her parents. If only there was a dowry.
“I said get up!” Lot's wife shouted, reaching far back to land another blow. The girl rolled away, dropping off the bedclothes. Near them, the Youngest also arose, more delicately.
“What is it, mother?” she asked sweetly. Always attempting to defuse the situation, with her pretty face.
“It is your father. We have important guests. It could be Abraham.”
“Pwah. Abraham!” sneered the Eldest. Lot's wife looked over.
“And what is so wrong with Abraham?”
“Oh, nothing. Him and his covenant. His old wife who 'gave birth.' Not a thing is wrong with them. Oh, save perhaps that little maid of his. Why she-”
Lot's wife raced over. Dealt another slap. This one harder. This one drew blood.
“Mother!” shouted the Youngest. The elder daughter stared sullenly, making no effort to hide the tears which streamed down her face.