by Mesu Andrews
Anippe extended her hand, calling Mehy closer, and tried to assuage Sitre’s discomfort. “I’m glad you brought your maid’s son. Mehy will enjoy a playma—”
“This is my son, and his name is Sety.”
Speechless, Anippe gripped Mehy’s hand tighter. How could Sitre have a son so young, when their Ramessid husbands had been at war for nearly four years?
Miriam dislodged Mehy’s hand from her grasp and took the boys and the handmaid to a shaded corner of the garden.
Mouth suddenly desert-dry, Anippe croaked, “Would you like a glass of wine, Sitre?”
As Anippe returned to the table and cushions, she nodded at Ankhe, hoping her sister would simply pour the wine and not choose to display her independence. Ankhe poured three goblets full.
Sitre lifted her cup as if to toast. “Vizier Ay’s henchmen should be glad they stopped at Avaris and not Qantir. I would have let Ramessid soldiers do the talking.” She sipped slowly, watching Anippe over the rim of her cup.
“I’m sure others would have handled the situation better than I.” Anippe picked up her goblet, sipped the nectar politely, and returned it to rest.
“Well, I have been a Ramessid a bit longer than you, so I suppose I’ve grown accustomed to their military minds.” Sitre appeared to be the same age as Anippe—perhaps a few months older. How much longer could she have been a Ramessid? By all accounts Pirameses had stayed in Qantir after their wedding less time than Sebak had remained in Avaris.
Growing tired of the game, Anippe asked the question she couldn’t get out of her head. “How old is your new little Ramessid? Sety, is it?”
Sitre set aside her wine and gazed at the handmaids and boys at the opposite end of the garden. “He’s over a year old, and I’ve only recently gotten my figure back.” She picked up the wine again and sighed, returning her attention to Anippe. “Babies are tiresome, aren’t they? Crying, vomiting, messy little creatures. Aren’t you grateful for nursemaids and tutors?” She chuckled, assuming they were bonded in maternal understanding.
But Anippe sat utterly stunned. “What will Pirameses do when he finds out?” Sebak had hinted at his uncle’s ruthlessness in battle. What would he do when he returned to find his wife had born another man’s child?
“Pirameses knows the nursemaid cares for Sety and expects the child to have tutors—at least until he goes to the Memphis School of the Kap.” She studied Anippe’s expression, and understanding dawned. Sitre’s eyes widened, and she cackled so loud, the doves scattered from the acacias. “Oh, you thought Sety was the son of another lover?”
Anippe felt her cheeks grow warm. “Our husbands haven’t been home in almost four years. How can he be—”
“Your husband hasn’t been home in four years, Anippe.” No more laughter—only Sitre’s stone-cold stare.
Anippe felt as if the ground shifted beneath her feet. “What do you mean?” She hated herself for asking, but she had to know. “Pirameses came home to you? When?”
Sitre downed the last of her wine. The triumph so evident moments ago drained away with the dregs. “Sety’s a year old. You figure it out.”
Pain, greater than any Anippe had known, twisted inside her chest. Why had Pirameses found a way to visit his wife but Sebak hadn’t? He doesn’t love me. It was the only answer that made sense. Was anyone left on earth to love her? Abbi Horem, perhaps—but would he return in time?
Sitre stared at Anippe while Ankhe refilled her cup. “The last merchant I slept with said the Egyptian army had advanced to Kadesh and ruined his business in Palestine. Lucky for me. He gave me a lovely Persian vase.”
Anippe schooled her features and felt a pang of pity. Had Sitre expected shock? Horror? Anippe had grown up with hundreds of bored and lonely noblemen’s wives at Gurob, and their stories were the same. “If you sleep with so many merchants, how are you sure Sety is the son of Pirameses?”
“Look at that heavy brow, Anippe. All Ramessid men have it. Haven’t you noticed?”
Anippe thought of Mehy’s light brown eyes and thin brows. The sun was suddenly too warm—the company too cold. “Thank you for coming, Sitre, but I’m not feeling well. Please excuse me. I must go lie down.”
25
The valiant lie plundered,
they sleep their last sleep;
not one of the warriors
can lift his hands.
—PSALM 76:5
EAST OF BYBLOS, NEAR KADESH
Mered had never been so miserable in his life.
He and Mandai had traveled for sixteen days. Skiffs, camels, and then a trader’s ship on rough waves in the Great Sea that made Mered wish for Sheol. They’d purchased supplies with the goods they sold in Byblos and begun their trek across the mountains. The gash in Mandai’s side had healed adequately, enough that Mered could barely keep up. They’d both purchased heavier robes to brave the colder nights in the mountains since they didn’t dare light a fire and draw attention to themselves.
“Please, Mandai.” Breathless and aching, Mered eyed the steep rise above him and leaned against a rock face. “I can’t go any farther. I need to stop for the night.”
The Medjay continued climbing as if he hadn’t heard. Mered knew him well enough by now—he’d come back when Mered didn’t follow.
From this vantage in the mountains of Amurru, Mered gazed south into Canaan—the very ground El-Shaddai had promised to Abraham with an oath. Mered’s grandfather had described it during family mealtimes. El-Shaddai will one day deliver us from Egypt, and we’ll walk on the rich, fertile soil of God’s promise. Soon. Soon.
His grandfather had died twenty years ago and had never walked anywhere but the dusty paths of Avaris. Hadn’t El-Shaddai said four hundred years of slavery? How many years had it been? Hadn’t anyone counted?
Mered checked the shepherd’s trail ahead. Mandai hadn’t returned for him yet, but he would. The Medjay was stubborn but resourceful. He knew to follow mountain trails, avoiding trade routes in the Jezreel and Hula valleys, since the heaviest fighting occurred on open plains. The Egyptian army had been fighting toward Kadesh for months, pushing back the Hittite rebels, gaining back hard-fought ground.
“How much farther tonight, Mandai?” Mered shouted, but he heard no answer. The Medjay had been in a foul humor since Mered insisted on using the warrior’s linen robe to wrap his blistered feet. He still had his leopard-skin loincloth. Wasn’t that what Medjays were supposed to wear?
Prodded by his friend’s stubborn silence, Mered pushed back to his feet and set his hand on a secure outcrop, ready to climb the small rise. “Wait for me, I’m—”
“I assure you”—a large, dirty soldier extended his hand from a boulder higher up—“your Medjay is waiting for you with my men.”
Both terrified and thrilled to see an Egyptian soldier, Mered accepted the proffered hand. “I notice the emblem of Seth on your armor and assume you’re a Ramessid.” Polite conversation while being rescued seemed appropriate.
The hulking officer hauled him up the rise effortlessly and then wrenched Mered’s arm behind his back. “And I see by the linen under that woolen cloak that you’re pretending to be Egyptian—but your Hebrew accent says you and your Medjay are slaves on the run.”
Trying to think beyond the pain in his twisted arm, Mered gasped, “Good guess, but wrong.”
The soldier pressed harder.
“We have a message for General Horemheb.”
“Prove it.”
“The Medjay and I came from Avaris and Qantir—we also carry messages for Sebak and Pirameses from their wives. Surely if you’re a Ramessid, you know my Master Sebak. I am Mered, his chief linen keeper.”
The officer released Mered’s arm and examined him face to face. “Why would anyone send a linen keeper with a message?”
Mered glanced beyond the officer’s shoulder and saw Mandai lying face down. “What did you do to him?” Without waiting for an answer, Mered hurried to help his friend. Rolling him over, he notin
g a bleeding gash on his head.
“He wasn’t as cooperative. He’ll awaken shortly—with a headache.” The officer motioned two of his five soldiers to close ranks around Mered, their odor as imposing as their spears. “Why should we believe your story, linen keeper?”
Mered squared his shoulders and set his jaw, giving his best impression of bravery, then assumed by their smirks that he had failed. “Because if you don’t take me to General Horemheb, the Egypt you once knew will be gone when you return.”
Their smirks faded. After only a moment’s pause, the Ramessid jerked his head toward his new prisoners. “Bring them both. If the Hebrew is lying, Commander Sebak will do worse than I could ever stomach.”
One of the guards secured Mandai’s wrists with leather straps, while another emptied his waterskin on his head, rousing him. The Medjay sprang to his feet and leveled a guard with a kick to his throat before the others could pin him back to the ground.
“Please, wait.” Mered moved between the guards and his friend. “This Medjay was King Tut’s personal bodyguard. If you harm him further, the general will send you to the copper mines before dawn.”
Anippe had effectively used that punishment with the overseer on the Avaris plateau. Mered had no idea if General Horemheb would defend the man who’d served King Tut, saved his daughter, and tried to rescue his wife, but Mandai deserved better than a gang killing by desert lackeys.
The Ramessid officer shoved his men to get them marching and helped the Medjay stand. “No more kicking.”
Mandai scowled but didn’t argue.
Relieved, Mered felt a sense of anticipation stir. They’d actually completed their mission. He, a linen keeper, a successful military messenger. “How far to your camp?”
“A half day’s walk.”
Mered grimaced. “But it’s nearly dusk.”
No one answered.
He wasn’t sure his feet could stand the journey. “Perhaps we should stop for the night.”
Silence.
“Will we encounter Hittites on the way?”
The officer heaved a sigh. “Doubtful. We’ve retaken the fortress at Kadesh on the Orontes River. It’s clear from here to there.” He glared at Mered as if daring him to speak again and then turned his back. Evidently not much for conversation.
They walked another few paces, and Mered’s stomach growled. Surely someone else was hungry too. “We brought food.”
Everyone kept marching.
“We have enough for everyone. Don’t you think, Mandai? I think our rations are—”
The guard shoved his dagger hilt into Mered’s gut, doubling the linen keeper over, and then asked Mandai, “Did he talk this much all the way from Egypt?”
The Medjay offered a slow, single nod.
“I would have killed him,” the guard grumbled.
Mered refrained from more comments.
Their journey passed in a blur, the pain in Mered’s feet forcing him to lean heavily on Mandai. At some point the terrain changed from mountainous to a lush river valley, shrouded in darkness.
Mered noted small fires in front of primitive tents and a watchtower in the distance. “Is that where we’re headed?”
The officer ignored him, seeming intent on their destination.
They passed a mound of smoking, foul-smelling ash. Mered covered his nose and mouth with his head covering.
“Turn away.” Mandai marched, eyes forward, nothing covering his nose to abate the stench. “Don’t stare at the dead.”
Only then did Mered glimpse human bones at the edge of the pile, and he realized they were walking through what had been a battlefield days before.
A full moon illuminated their gruesome surroundings. The ground beneath their feet was saturated with blood—as was the linen wrapped around Mered’s feet. Wounded men and horses lay near their tents, exhausted, while filthy women hurried from one demanding patient to the next. Closer to the watchtower, men celebrated with full wineskins and bloodied swords.
“How long ago did General Horemheb take Kadesh?” Mered spoke in a whisper.
The Ramessid officer slowed, coming alongside Mered and Mandai. “I only tell you this because you are surely trustworthy if you are who you claim to be—and if you are lying, you will be dead.”
Mered found no comfort in his reasoning but was happy to get some answers.
“We took the Kadesh fortress last week, and—as you can see—we’re still cleaning up. But the general sent Commanders Sebak and Pirameses on another mission a few days ago.” He sighed, taking inventory of their surroundings. “It appears they’ve returned victorious—but with considerable losses. If you have a god, you should pray your master receives you in good temper.” Mered exchanged a wary glance with Mandai, feeling at once elated and sickened by their surroundings. He’d never been on a battlefield before, never realized that even victors endured significant losses. He’d never conceived it possible that human bodies could be a pile of refuse needing disposal. Life in Avaris flowed with the waters of the Nile, as colorless as the natron-bleached linen he produced in his shop. Respect for his master grew as they approached the three-story, hive-shaped tower. How does Sebak live in both worlds so seamlessly?
The Ramessid officer halted and pounded on the wooden door of the tower with the hilt of his dagger. “Squad four, returning with prisoners.”
A metal latch clanked, and a small peep door opened. A set of dark eyes squinted beneath a bushy black brow. “Why take prisoners? If they’re Hittites, kill them. If they’re escaping slaves, kill them. If they’re—”
Mered’s captor bashed his dagger against the door. “They say they have a message for the general and commanders Sebak and Pirameses. Do you want to withhold a message from any of the three?”
The peep door slammed shut, the cedar door opened, and the bushy-browed fellow sneered. “General Horemheb is at the top with Sebak and Pirameses, but the commanders returned only moments ago. Careful, they’re still in battle frenzy.”
Mered saw only two windows in the rough-cut limestone structure and no other entry. The watchtower had three stories, a simple design, with each upper level smaller than the one below. The Ramessid officer led them to the central ladder on the first floor to access the next story. Mered followed him, then the Medjay, and then a second guard. As the officer mounted the ladder for the third story, the sound of raised voices grew louder—and one angry voice was terrifyingly familiar.
“Yes, we regained Amurru, but at what cost?” Sebak shouted. “If we press the Hittites toward Ugarit, they could flee by ship or farther north, taking us farther from our already exhausted supply lines!” Something pounded a wooden table above them.
The Ramessid officer leaned down to whisper before lifting his head above the third-story floor. “You’d better be who you say you are, or we’re both dead men.” He grabbed Mered’s collar and dragged him up the ladder’s last two rungs. “Excuse me, sirs, but we’re reporting two prisoners who say they have a message.” His words tumbled out, and he held Mered in front of him like a shield.
Mered had only a moment to see fury turn to fear on Master Sebak’s face before he charged Mered like a bull. Two giant paces, and he’d grasped Mered’s cloak, snatching him from the Ramessid’s grasp.
Mandai leapt from the ladder, taking everyone by surprise.
The Medjay grabbed Sebak and his dagger in one swift motion, somehow pinning his arms back and holding the blade at Sebak’s jugular. “Commander, I mean you no harm, but you will regret hurting your linen keeper if someone doesn’t stop you.”
Sebak panted, his eyes wild. Mered barely had time to think before Pirameses seized him from behind and held a dagger at his throat. “It seems we should negotiate, Medjay.”
General Horemheb approached Mered, calm as the Nile’s lowest tide. “You’re that linen keeper from Avaris, aren’t you?”
Mered couldn’t answer, couldn’t blink. He felt the flint blade biting into his neck.
&n
bsp; The general paced in front of the wooden table, hands clasped behind his back. “Well, I know Sebak as well as I could know a son. He fears you’ve come with bad news about Anippe or his son. Simply tell him his wife and son are safe, linen keeper.”
Warm blood trickled down Mered’s neck. “Anippe and Mehy are well … but King Tut is dead.”
Horemheb’s control faltered slightly. He nodded at Pirameses, who released Mered, and then turned to Sebak. “Are you satisfied?”
Something frightening still danced in Sebak’s eyes, but he whispered, “Yes.”
The general ordered the Medjay to release him. Mandai withdrew his blade and jumped clear of the commander’s reach. Mered thought it odd—until he saw Sebak’s reaction. His master’s fury turned on the fortress wall, Sebak screamed and pounded until his fists were bloody. Then he fell against it, resting his head against his arm, exhausted.
The general cleared his throat, nudging Mered to gain his attention. “Tell me everything.”
Mered stood frozen, unable to focus. He kept glancing back at Sebak to be sure he wouldn’t attack again. For the first time, he was afraid of his master—his size, his fury, his violence.
Mandai stepped forward and bowed to the general. “Vizier Ay sabotaged Pharaoh’s chariot during the Fayum hunt, and King Tut died from his injuries. General Horemheb, I’m deeply sorry to inform you that the vizier publicly accused your wife of planning the treachery and …”
The Medjay stumbled over the awful truth, and Mered knew he must intercede. “Mandai attempted to save your wife from Ay’s traitorous Medjays, but he arrived too late. He was severely injured in the fight but rescued Anippe and Ankhe before they were harmed.”
Horemheb’s shock was quickly displaced by sorrow. He sniffed back emotion, staring at the ceiling. “I will destroy Ay. How long before Tut’s burial, before Ay steals the incarnation and the throne? Could we make it back to the Valley of the Kings if we—”