The Eleventh Brother

by Rachel S. Wilcox

  The official tilted his head slightly toward the guard as the man gave a hurried translation, looked at Reuben, and shook his head. “There was no record of any missing payment,” they were assured.

  Judah dared to raise his eyes, watching.

  “No,” Reuben insisted. “I am sure—”

  The official waved a hand, speaking quickly, and the guard shook his head. “We keep very careful records. Everything was paid in full.”

  For a moment, Judah stared in disbelief and then lowered his eyes again, lest he should appear disrespectful.

  “Then let us give the money as a gift,” he heard Reuben say, “and we will present the vizier with other gifts as well.”

  “The vizier thanks you for your gifts,” the official told them, “and you will be most welcome to present them, but first, you are to come with me.” He gestured for Reuben to rise from the ground as the guard translated. The official clapped his hands, and the guards in the room advanced. Instinctively, Judah put an arm in front of Benjamin, pushing him back into the throng of brothers, but the man called out another command, and the guards paused.

  “You are to be escorted to a safer place,” the guard assured them, turning to the brothers, the slightest of bemused smiles on his face.

  The other guards stepped closer and, appearing somewhat less menacing, indicated that the brothers should follow. Judah watched the finely dressed official turn and walk from the room, becoming a darkened shadow as he marched back out into the sunlight. Looking uncertainly at the others, Judah followed, and his brothers moved along after him. The watchful, suspicious gaze of the remaining prisoners followed them to the last.

  Chapter 25

  Genesis 39:2–6 Abraham 1:1–2, 15; 3:11–12, 15

  “We may have some company,” Zaphenath announced, leaning into the sunlit room where his two sons played on the floor. Asenath, who sat beside the boys, looked up.

  “You’re home early,” she said. “Who’s coming?”

  “My brothers,” he said and ducked out again.

  Asenath got quickly to her feet, asking Manasseh to watch Ephraim for a moment. Manasseh nodded dutifully and looked toward where his little brother sat holding the carved figure of a soldier. Asenath hurried out into the corridor. “Zaphenath!” she called. He paused as she hurried after him, her feet bare and her hair braided loosely over her shoulders. “Your brothers are here?” she demanded, reaching him, breathless.

  Zaphenath shrugged. “I thought we should have a little feast.”

  She shook her head, reaching out, holding him by the arm. “Did you see him?”

  He looked back at her, and she kept her eyes on his face. Then he looked down at his feet before saying, quietly “Not yet.” He glanced up. “I hope”—he tried to smile, gesturing toward his face with one hand—“they don’t frighten the boys, all beards and wool.”

  He walked away before any more could be said. She stood alone, watching him go.

  Potiphar was scrutinizing the documents spread out in front of him, detailing the transactions of his household and the crop yield from the recently gathered harvest. He leaned down, giving closer review to several of the figures, while the newly appointed steward of his household stood somewhat nervously beside him.

  Finally, Potiphar looked up. “You’re sure these figures are correct?” Joseph nodded. Potiphar smiled, deepening the slight, fine lines around his eyes and mouth that had gradually been etched across his face in the time since he had first brought the young Canaanite into his household. “Because this is incredible.” He clapped a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “You’re making me a rich man.”

  Joseph—who had become Sasobek, man of Kemet, his body stronger and his face older and his person now fully a part of the household and his master’s country, no longer bearing any particular resemblance to the disheveled young foreigner who had been brought as a slave, barely able to speak—inclined his head. “The gods have been gracious to your household.”

  “Yes,” Potiphar said, “but you run the household. And you came up with the new planting system.” Joseph shrugged and smiled. “You’re earning this,” Potiphar added, patting Joseph once more on his shoulder, which was broader now and covered by a loose linen overcoat, pressed with delicate folds, worn over his chest and shoulders and belted near the top of the smooth linen kilt that had replaced the simpler one he had worn as a domestic servant. “Now,” Potiphar moved away, over toward the wooden chest in the corner of the room, “I have a question for you.”

  Joseph watched as his master knelt and opened the lid of the chest, digging around for a moment before pulling out two papyrus scrolls and closing the lid again.

  “My father was the high priest at the temple of Ra,” Potiphar explained, coming to stand beside Joseph as he unrolled one of the scrolls, “and he gave me both of these texts when I joined the priesthood.” Joseph looked down at the unrolled papyrus. “This first one,” Potiphar said, pointing at the inscriptions, “comes from this country. It’s a text to restore life to the dead. I’m sure you studied something like it with the other scribes in the temple.”

  Joseph’s eyes scanned over the characters—Beginning of the Book of Breathingswhich Isis made for her brother Osiris, to make his soul live, to make his body live, to restore him anew . . .”

  Nodding, he glanced at Potiphar, who met his glance. “Now with this sort of text,” Potiphar went on, looking back at the scroll itself, “the emphasis is always on the divinity of the soul in the next life—how that is the time when we can commune most fully with the gods and how death is the passageway that allows the communion to happen. The pattern is always death followed by a restoration of life, or breath”—he tapped his finger on the character for breathings—“which means an elevation to the realm of the divine—a unity with the gods—all using Osiris as the symbol.”

  Joseph nodded again.

  “Now.” Potiphar unrolled the second papyrus, revealing an illustration of two figures—a priest with the telltale leopard skin he wore to indicate his authority and primary role in the ritual, standing with his knife raised, and a reclined figure of a man stretched out on some sort of altar-bed.

  “This text is very different,” Potiphar said. “It starts out with a sacrifice, with death, again”—he pointed to the image of the man lying on his back—“but then the sacrifice is stopped, and his life is spared.” He shook his head. “And it’s then that the gods reveal their secrets to this man”—he pointed again—“who is still mortal. So the key here seems to be the sacrifice, which is like death but is not death.” He paused. “Meaning, as far as I can tell, that this sacrifice becomes the portal to commune with the gods but in this life.” Potiphar glanced at Joseph. “You’re from Canaan, and so was the man who wrote this record.” He pointed at the figure stretched out before the priest. “I assume this must all be founded on the beliefs of the desert people, so I’m hoping you might have some insight for me.” He waited. “Is this how the desert people connect with the gods?”

  But Joseph was staring down at the text, his eyes riveted to the words, feeling the strange, sudden pounding of his heart.

  In the land of the Chaldeans, at the residence of my fathers, I, Abraham, saw that it was needful for me to obtain another place of residence; and, finding there was greater happiness and peace and rest for me, I sought for the blessings of the fathers . . .

  “You can read it, I assume,” Potiphar said.

  And I, Abraham, talked with Jehovah, face to face, as one man talks with another; and he told me of the works which his hands had made; and he said unto me: My son, my son, I will show you all these . . .

  Joseph glanced at his master. “How did you get this?”

  “It’s a priestly document,” Potiphar said. “A sacred text.”

  “Yes,” Joseph said, “but where did it come from?”

  Potiphar seemed to weigh how exactly to respond. “It’s from Iunu,” he said at last. “The Temple of Ra.” Joseph look
ed back at the document. Potiphar was watching him. “Do you do have records like this in Canaan?”

  “My father had this record.”

  Potiphar’s forehead creased in perplexity. “Not this precise record, surely?” He pointed back down at the scroll. “My father gave me this text, copied from a scroll in the temple vault.”

  As Potiphar spoke, in a flash Joseph saw again the sun, and moon, and stars, rising around him and heard his father’s voice—a voice he never thought of, tried never to think of—reading aloud, in low, subdued thunder, I show these things to you before you go into Kemet, that you may declare all these words . . .

  “It’s a vision,” Joseph said and closed his eyes, trying to center his thoughts, trying to steady himself. “The man’s name was Abraham.”

  “Yes,” Potiphar nodded encouragingly, “that’s right. That’s the name. One of your countrymen, yes?” He pointed at the text. “So your father did have this record?” Joseph nodded. Potiphar raised an eyebrow. “Is it well known outside of Kemet? I never imagined—”

  “No one else has it,” Joseph said.

  It appeared that, rather than enlightenment, Potiphar’s conversation with his steward was serving only to generate increased confusion. “But I believe that text is kept exclusively at the temple here.” He shrugged, as if trying to come to terms with this strange new rift in the universe. “Though if this man traveled back from Kemet . . .” He gestured vaguely. “I just don’t know what use it would be, outside the temples. I didn’t imagine . . .”

  “My father had it,” Joseph said, staring down at the text, at the man bound on the altar, “because Abraham was his grandfather.”

  A still silence filled the room. Potiphar did not reply, and Joseph did not say anything more. Both men simply stood, looking down at the papyrus and its delicate script.

  Finally, Potiphar said, “This man is your father’s grandfather?” Joseph nodded. Potiphar looked back down at the scroll as well. “I see.” He glanced at Joseph. “Shall we . . . discuss it some other time, perhaps?”

  “If you’d like,” Joseph said. His voice sounded distant.

  “We have no more work to do this evening,” Potiphar said. “Go and rest, if you’d like.”

  Joseph nodded. “Thank you.”

  Turning from his master and the scroll, Joseph brushed through the curtains, moving out into the candlelit corridor. He walked along dazedly in the dim light, following the familiar path until the corridor led out into the courtyard at the center of the villa, open to the sky. Slowing, Joseph looked up, standing exposed beneath the stars.

  And it came to pass that the priest made an offering to the god of the king, and also to the god Ra—that was the diagram of Abraham, lying stretched out on the altar, with the sun-priest holding the knife over his body—and as they lifted up their hands upon me, that they might offer me up and take away my life, behold, I lifted up my voice to my God, and my God hearkened and heard, and he filled me with the vision of the Almighty, and the angel of his presence stood beside me, and immediately unloosed my bands . . .

  The words came back to him unbidden, flowing, released from the text, his father’s text, seeking him out across the desert and the night sky. Joseph closed his eyes as the words encircled him, wrapping him in recollection and the sudden hush that fell as he stood beneath the stars, hearing again the voice of the man whose life was so closely connected to his own, reaching out, summoning him—

  Abraham—Abraham—my name is Jehovah, and I have heard you, and have come down to deliver you, and to take you away from your father’s house, and from all your kinsfolk, into a strange land which you know not of . . .

  Opening his eyes, Joseph looked down at the linen coat that he wore wrapped over his shoulders and cinched tight around his waist, a mark of his authority in the household of Potiphar.

  Desiring also to be a greater follower of righteousness—Abraham’s record, his explanation, his testament to his descendants—and to possess a greater knowledge, and to be a father of many nations, a prince of peace . . . I became a rightful heir, a High Priest, holding the right belonging to the fathers . . .

  Melchizedek the prophet—it was his father’s voice again, holding out the linen robe embroidered with the interlocking squares, the symbol of his birthright, the inheritance from his own fathers—Melchizedek the priest . . .

  My name was Joseph, he thought, his eyes closed once more. Son of Jacob. Son of Isaac. Son of Abraham.

  “Sasobek.”

  He opened his eyes. Djeseret, who was passing through the courtyard, stood staring at him, the moonlight falling over her face. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, rubbing the back of his arm with his hand.

  She took another step closer, almost hesitant. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine,” Joseph said. “Where are you going?”

  “I was just going to talk to Potiphar,” she said. “Is he busy?”

  Joseph shook his head, feeling suddenly cold in the warm evening air.

  Djeseret looked at him a moment longer. “All right,” she said, her voice soft. “Take care, then.” He stood, listening to her footsteps along the corridor. Then he was alone again.

  “Oh”—he heard Potiphar’s voice, echoing out into the stillness—“Djeseret.” Joseph took another deep breath and walked on through the courtyard. He was nearly at the front door when he paused, turning back at the sound of Djeseret’s voice. “How can you say that to me?”

  While he couldn’t quite hear Potiphar’s reply, he did hear a raised voice and sensed a harsh retort.

  “No”—Djeseret’s voice again—“you don’t listen,” and then another low, growling reply.

  Joseph glanced around, relieved that none of the other servants were near enough to hear. He moved quickly, slipping out into the garden and pulling the carved, red-painted front door firmly closed behind. The red was to bar any demons, but the demons, it seemed, had already slunk their way inside.

  The night sky sparkled on the reflecting pool. He looked back only once toward the house before moving on, past the moon and beneath the stars.

  Chapter 26

  Genesis 43:24–25

  Walking along the dusty road, heading safely away from the official state buildings and the prison, Judah was the first of the brothers to catch sight of the breathtaking villa that sat beside the banks of the peacefully meandering River. The house and grounds of the estate were surrounded by a wall that was as cleanly whitewashed as the villa itself, and Judah could see palm trees dancing up over the artificial horizon of the wall, tossing gently against the bright blue sky. The sunlight felt warm across the back of his neck, and the reeds and grasses crowding along the riverbank swayed placidly. The overall effect was almost enough to soothe Judah’s mind into thinking that perhaps, at last, all was actually going to be well.

  He glanced back yet again at the guards accompanying them; the men seemed fairly relaxed and unbothered by their errand, and Judah hoped their attitude indicated that whatever awaited the brothers was not unpleasant.

  “Have you ever seen anything so grand?” he heard Levi murmur, with rippling comments of assent from several of the others.

  Judah glanced at Benjamin, who walked close beside him, eyes likewise raised to take in the view. Benjamin gave a low whistle. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “With any luck,” Judah told him, “you never will again.”

  A guard standing at the gate waved them by, allowing the foreigners entrance onto the property. The villa itself was situated at the end of a tree-lined path, leading the eye directly to the house. Palm trees shadowed the walls, and fig trees surrounded a pool filled with floating lotus flowers. The guards seemed content to let the desert barbarians take in the wealth and luxury of the estate, but two or three servants on the grounds paused in their work, staring at a sight none of them had ever before seen—a whole tribe of Asiatics, in full desert dress and appearance, standing in the middl
e of their master’s property. Even the presence of the armed guards did not appear to set them entirely at ease with regard to the visitors, and they whispered to each other, pointing.

  As the brothers stood on the path, gazing around at this unexpected oasis, Judah turned toward the villa and saw a familiar figure emerge from behind an imposing, red-painted wooden door guarding the entrance to the home. It was none other than the young man who had met them at the prison, still arrayed in his handsome linens but no longer projecting so severe and formal a presence. Instead, he practically strolled toward them, as if enjoying the sun on his skin and the beauty of the day. Drawing close enough to speak, he raised a hand and called out in the unfamiliar language of Kemet, to which the guards responded in kind. The brothers glanced at one another, and the man came to a stop a few paces in front of them and smiled.

  “I am Amon,” he announced, as the guard who had translated stepped quickly forward. “You are at the home of Zaphenath-Paaneah, vizier of all Kemet.” Glances rippled once more through the gathering of the brothers. “You are welcome guests at his home today. Follow me, please.” Amon gestured with one hand, and murmuring to one another, the brothers hesitantly but obediently followed. They walked past the reflecting pool beneath the shade of the trees, following the linen-clad steward while the guards followed along behind, all heading toward a small, squat structure situated toward the outer walls of the compound. Judah could see three women, attired in the usual linen dresses with thin straps, standing outside this smaller brick building, smiling at their approach.

  “This is where you will bathe,” Amon announced, stopping in front of what Judah realized must be some kind of bathhouse. “You must clean and dress again before entering the home of Zaphenath-Paaneah.”