by Mesu Andrews
“And I am ready to explore.” Sebak grabbed Mered’s shoulders and shook him with delight. “It’s time. Go home to your wife, my friend, while I take mine to our chamber and—how did you say it?—‘enjoy exploring every new experience.’ ”
Mered watched his master return to the feast, passing the dancing girls and their floating veils as if they were old maids in rags. He greeted the men’s table first, bowing deeply to King Tut and offering lavish praise on his successful hunt in the Fayum—two wild oxen, a lion, and a hippo. Sebak offered only a curt nod to Vizier Ay, noticeably aloof toward Egypt’s governor. The groom then bowed to his uncle Pirameses, master of neighboring Qantir. He was Sebak’s nearest relative, and because he was higher on the family tree, decorum dictated respect—though Pirameses and Sebak were nearly the same age. Pirameses extended his well-muscled arm, and Sebak gripped his arm, forearm to forearm—even tonight a test of wills. The two men were flint against flint, casting sparks whenever they were in the same room. A silent exchange, and Sebak moved on to his father-in-law, General Horemheb.
The groom knelt before Anippe’s abbi, and the room fell silent. “I am honored to guard your greatest treasure. Know that I will cherish her and protect her with my life, General.”
Sebak bowed his head, and Horemheb placed a hand on his head. “May the mighty Isis, goddess of magic, marriage, and motherhood, bless your marriage and visit your chamber this night.” He winked at his wife, Amenia. “So that many grandchildren provide for my future.”
The guests exploded in celebration, and the young bride tucked her chin, appropriately shy. Musicians resumed their melody, and the dancers whirled and spun at the edges of the room. Queen Senpa nudged Anippe to her feet, and the bride’s handmaid seemed moved to tears—not overly sentimental, but rather unsettled. The girl stepped into the shadows, removing herself from the celebration, and watched with a granite expression.
Sebak approached the women’s tables, hand extended. “Come, my love. It’s finally time to live as husband and wife.” As Anippe reached for his hand, he swept her into his arms, and carried her from the main hall.
Her mother, Amenia, reached for her Hathor-shaped sistrum—a percussion instrument of two oxen horns with bronze discs strung between them—and struck it on beat, jingling in rhythm behind them. One of the guests commented that her training as a chantress in the temple of Amun-Re granted her the right to accompany the newlyweds to their chamber and offer her blessing.
Mered didn’t understand Egyptian gods and symbols and legends, but neither did most Egyptians. Only the pharaoh and temple priests made sacrifices, and most noblemen added their own color to the legends. Egyptian peasants endured ever-changing stories of the gods, depending on which version best served the current political powers.
At least El-Shaddai was unchanging—though many Hebrews had given up hope of His ancient promises. Abraham’s God hadn’t spoken to a child of Israel since the days of Joseph.
But Mered knew He existed. The stories of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were too vivid, too exact—the people too flawed and God too merciful—to be illusion. Someday El-Shaddai would speak again, and Mered would be ready.
The fading sounds of celebration drew him back to the feast. This night of love made him hungry for his own bride, Puah. While wedding guests lingered, Mered slipped through the north garden gate, snagged a torch, and picked up a stray stick before walking into the night. Jackals and hyenas couldn’t keep him from his wife tonight.
Anippe watched Ummi Amenia over Sebak’s shoulder. Amenia rejoiced in her chanting, seeming lost in the rhythm of her jingling sistrum. Sebak’s stride matched her tempo, gently rocking Anippe in what should have been a calming sway. But her heart pounded as the sounds of celebration dwindled in this distant hallway. It seemed they’d walked forever. How big was the villa? Anippe shivered, her nerves getting the better of her.
“Are you cold?” Torchlight reflected in Sebak’s eyes—and concern, always concern for her.
“A little.”
“I have extra robes in my chamber for you.” He kissed her forehead. “You won’t be cold long.” His eyes were hungry, promising more than robes to keep her warm.
At the end of the long hallway, he turned right, where a suite of four doorways were clustered and Ramessids guarded each one. Dressed in bronze-studded leather breastplates and kilts with leather girdles, these soldiers stood at strict attention as Sebak halted before the first door. “You may open for my bride.”
Ummi Amenia’s chanting ceased as did her sistrum’s beat, and the Ramessid opened the chamber door without comment or a glance at his commander.
Sebak placed Anippe’s gold-and-jeweled sandals on the tile. She wasn’t sure her shaky legs would hold her, but Amenia cupped her elbows and held her gaze.
“You are daughter of Horemheb, sister of King Tut, and now wife of Sebak.” Amenia placed a hand on the big man’s forearm, drawing him into their circle. “Love each other well. Trust each other only. Give to each other always.”
She turned and hurried away before Anippe could cling to her.
Anippe began to tremble.
Sebak laid his hands on her shoulders, and she jumped as if he’d stabbed her. Sliding his hands down her arms, he pressed a whisper against her ear. “Shh, habiba. I won’t hurt you.”
She looked through the open door to the waiting chamber. Dimly lit with only two small lamps, the darkness meant to swallow her. Paralyzed with fear, she commanded her body to move, but she could think only of what tonight could mean. Pregnancy. Childbirth. Death. She’d barely tasted love, and now she must die?
Still measuring her fate, she was again swept into her husband’s arms and carried to the future she both longed for and mourned. Beyond the dimly lit chamber was an attached private courtyard, revealing the clear night sky. Sebak shoved the heavy cedar door closed with his foot.
Anippe’s heart hammered. “I should go back and check on my sisters. Ankhe was crying, and I saw Queen Senpa wince when she reclined at the table. Truly, she grabbed her belly. If something happened to the baby while she was here, I couldn’t forgive myse—”
He covered her mouth with a kiss, hungry at first, but then he gently pulled away. “I will never hurt you, Anippe. No need for tears.”
His words both reassured and startled her. She hadn’t realized she was crying.
She nodded, still shaking, and then closed her eyes, sending a river down her cheeks. He curled his arms, drawing her into his chest. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on to the one who was ripping her away from all she held dear. This man she didn’t know but who promised safety—the man who was about to place her life in grave danger.
“I’m frightened.”
He buried his face in the bend of her neck and whispered, “I know.” He carried her up two steps and past a curtained partition, laid her on his feathery-soft mattress, and knelt beside her on the floor. “I will cherish you.” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. “Tonight.” And kissed her wrist. “And tomorrow.”
Fire shot through her veins, and a single oil lamp illumined the lazy grin she loved.
“May I join you on the bed now?” he asked.
Suddenly finding it hard to breathe, hard to think, and impossible to speak, Anippe simply nodded. She would check on Ankhe and Senpa in the morning. She would even meet the underworld gods in childbirth. Nothing could smother the ecstasy of this night as Sebak’s wife.
8
The king of Egypt said to the Hebrew midwives, whose names were Shiphrah and Puah, “When you are helping the Hebrew women during childbirth on the delivery stool, if you see the baby is a boy, kill him; but if it is a girl, let her live.”
—EXODUS 1:15–16
Frantic knocking at the door awoke Anippe. Before consciousness fully dawned, a rough hand slammed over her mouth, pinning her to the bed.
Sebak hovered over her and slipped the hilt of a dagger into her hand. “Stay in bed and
be silent until I find out who’s at our door. My Ramessids and Hebrews would never disturb my wedding night.” His voice was a whispered growl, sending a chill up her spine.
Anippe had never held a dagger, but her husband seemed to think a dagger should accompany his simple question at the door.
“Who’s there?” In the waning moonlight, he donned his robe and drew another short sword from a belt hanging by the door.
“I need to speak to my sister.” Ankhe’s strangled whisper beckoned Anippe, but Sebak’s glare stifled Anippe.
“My wife is not to be disturbed in our chamber, and you will answer to me in the morning.” Sebak jabbed the short sword at the door, and it stuck there, rocking in the wake of his fury. Was this the Seth reborn that Abbi Horem described? Silence lingered, and Anippe’s breaths came in short quick bursts.
“Senpa is losing her baby.” Ankhe’s voice was flat. “We should send for the midwives.”
Sebak’s shoulders slumped. He yanked the door open and pulled Ankhe inside. “Who else knows?”
Anippe dropped her dagger and ran to embrace Ankhe, who explained through tears. “Senpa told Amenia she wasn’t feeling well during the feast, but she started cramping after she and Tut were alone in their chamber. Tut summoned Amenia to attend her until the midwives arrive, and then he told me to go and get them.” She released her sister and turned to her new master. “Please, Sebak. I don’t know how to find the midwives.”
“You will address me as Master Sebak, and you have lost valuable time coming to our chamber to find midwives. Why not ask a Hebrew serving maid in your sleeping chamber or any of the Ramessid guards along the way?” He stepped forward, backing Ankhe toward the door. “You are a servant, Ankhe-Senpaaten-tasherit. You will do as you’re told, or you’ll feel the foreman’s strap.” He stormed out of the chamber, slamming the door behind him.
Ankhe turned misty eyes toward her sister. “None of the Hebrews will speak to me because I’m your sister, and I’m afraid of the guards.” Anippe tried to embrace her again, but Ankhe shoved her away. “I don’t want your pity.” A single tear leapt over Ankhe’s bottom lash, her chin lifted in defiance.
Anippe’s frustration soared. What did Ankhe want from her?
She grabbed her little sister’s hand and started toward the door. “Come. We’ll find a housemaid to summon the midwives. You and I will help Amenia make Senpa comfortable until they arrive.”
“No!” Ankhe ripped her hand away. “I can’t go near Senpa.”
“What? Why not?”
“I’m Ankhe-Senpaaten-tasherit—the decoy for Senpa. If Anubis comes to claim Senpa for the underworld during her miscarriage, that jackal-faced god might take me instead.”
Anippe wiped weary hands down her face. “Ankhe, I understand your fear, but think about our sister. Senpa is alone in this strange place, and she needs us.” She reached for Ankhe’s hand, pleading.
“Think about me. No one ever thinks about me.” Pulling away, Ankhe reached for the door latch. “If these chamber guards will order a house slave to take me to the midwives, then you and Amenia can help Senpa.” Without waiting for Anippe’s approval, Ankhe flung open the door. “Your amira has instructions for you.”
The four large Ramessids standing outside the suite of chambers mirrored Anippe’s surprise. Gathering her courage, the new amira tried to sound imposing. “Find a Hebrew that can lead my sister to the midwives.”
“As you wish, Amira.” One of the guards turned without further prompting, and Ankhe hurried from the chamber to follow.
Anippe realized she had no idea where to send messages of Senpa’s condition. “Ankhe, where is King Tut?”
On her way down the long hallway, Ankhe shouted over her shoulder. “Ay and Horemheb are consoling him in the main hall. Tut blames himself for Senpa’s miscarriage, making her sail on that wretched barque during unlucky days this month.”
Anippe noted the chamber guards’ raised eyebrows and cringed at her sister’s indiscretion. Not only had Ankhe used familiar names for all of Egypt’s top leaders, but by dawn the whole villa would lay blame for Senpa’s miscarriage at Tut’s feet. Would Ankhe ever learn to hold her tongue?
Avaris’s new amira stood at her chamber door, feeling almost as ridiculous as her tactless sister. She had no idea where guests slept at Avaris. Where was Senpa’s chamber?
“May I escort you to the queen’s chamber?” The chamber guard beside her door nodded slightly, respectful and kind. “This way, Amira.”
He extended his hand toward a side hallway leading to a pillared portico that appeared to connect more rooms on another wing. She’d barely walked ten steps when she heard Senpa’s heart-rending cries.
“I can find the chamber from here. Thank you.”
“As you wish, Amira.” He bowed and turned to go.
“Wait, what’s your name, Ramessid?”
“I am Nassor, Amira.”
“Thank you, Nassor. I will mention your kindness to Master Sebak.”
He offered his thanks with another nod and a slight smile before turning to go. Anippe followed the groans to the last chamber on her left. She pushed open the door and found Amenia leaning over Senpa’s coiled form.
“You must try to relax, dear one. Your baby wants to enter this world before crossing over to the next, and we must help it make the transition.” Amenia dabbed Senpa’s sweaty brow with a wet cloth.
“May I help?” Anippe took the cloth, and Senpa immediately clutched Anippe’s hand to her cheek.
“Thank you for being here.” Before Senpa’s words ended, another pain seized her, drawing her knees to her chest.
Amenia placed a cloth between Senpa’s teeth and coaxed her to bite down when the pain grew unbearable. “Better the cloth than your bottom lip.” She smoothed the expectant mother’s fine hair, made sparse from years of royal wigs. At twenty-seven, Senpa was still young enough to bear children but considerably older than Tut’s fifteen years. If she didn’t produce an heir soon, the king would likely take another wife.
The cycles of Senpa’s pain seemed endless. Anippe dabbed her brow with each new wave, and Amenia chanted the sacred songs of Amun through the relentless struggle.
Finally a soft knock, and two women entered, both dressed in sand-colored, rough-spun linen. One carried baskets filled with clay jars and bundles of herbs, while the other carried a birthing stool.
“Good evening, my queen,” said the older of the two. Her tone and manner were fluid and gentle, like the Nile during Peret—when the water returned to its banks and sowing began. “I’m Shiphrah, and this is Puah, my assistant. We’ve come to ease your pain and deliver your baby.”
Ummi Amenia helped Senpa to the birthing stool, giving the midwife room to examine her patient. When another pain gripped the queen, Shiphrah grimaced and then whispered instructions to her assistant.
Puah was younger, beautiful, and capable. Her hands worked feverishly, pouring a drop of this, adding a sprinkle of that, crushing leaves of something else. Without a word, she handed the potion to Shiphrah, who lifted Senpa’s head and helped her drink.
“I’m sorry we meet again under these circumstances, my queen. This is the same blend as last time. Your cramping will increase for a time to ensure a complete delivery and help prevent infection.” She cradled Senpa’s shoulders even after she’d finished drinking, her affection for the queen seeming genuine.
“I understand … I remember.” Senpa buried her face in the woman’s chest.
Anippe covered a sob, aching for her sister’s loss. How could she bear losing two babies?
When the contractions increased, Anippe huddled in the corner and watched in horror as her sister’s body expelled the living treasure the king and queen yearned for most. With a final push, Senpa’s body went limp, and the room grew deathly still.
“Senpa?” Ummi Amenia, seated behind her on the stool, shook her shoulders.
No response.
Anippe whimpered, unable to
stifle her panic. “Not Senpa! Not Senpa too.”
“Lay her on the mat. Over here. Puah, grind more giant fennel—now.” Amenia and Puah jumped to obey Shiphrah’s commands. “Amira Anippe, please help get her on the mat.”
Shaken by her new title, Anippe lunged to help Amenia drag Senpa’s body to the reed mat, while Puah ground the fennel into powder and mixed it with sweet wine.
“Here,” Puah said, handing the cup to Shiphrah.
The chief midwife cradled the queen’s shoulders again, lifting the potion to her lips. “Queen Senpa, you must wake up and drink this wonderful wine. Come, now. Come on.”
Senpa sputtered and then gulped, dribbling the wine concoction down her chin, while the other women cried with relief.
Anippe returned to her place in the corner, watching the others tend to Senpa. Childbirth, the cruelest deception of the gods. The priests had said it was a beautiful offering to the goddess Tawaret, but it was vile and bloody and torturous, and Anippe would never bear a child—if she could avoid it. Her wedding night with Sebak had been near rapture, but if it led to this, she’d shave her body and serve in the temple of Amun. Could she serve as priestess though she’d been spoiled by a husband? Priests would allow anything if offered enough gold.
“Amira? Amira?” Puah’s voice shook Anippe from her reverie. “You should tell the king.”
Anippe stood, realizing that Shiphrah and Amenia were frantically working over Senpa again. She looked ashen, eyes closed, body still. A pool of blood lay around her.
“Is she dead?”
“No, but …” Puah bowed her head.
“But?”
Seeming reluctant to speak, the assistant midwife fixed her eyes on her dusty sandals. “The next few hours will determine her fate. We will pray.”
Pray? Why pray? If Tut was a god, why couldn’t he save his babies? “You can pray all you want. I’ll report my sister’s condition to Pharaoh.”