The Pharaoh's Daughter

by Mesu Andrews

  She slammed the door and whirled on Mered, Miriam, Ankhe, and Mehy, who waited inside her chamber, transfixed. “What are you staring at?” she demanded.

  Ankhe lifted a brow. “Tell me again why Horemheb chooses your estate foreman when Avaris isn’t even his estate. Oh yes, I remember—because neither he nor his daughter respect what belongs to others.”

  The jealousy of Cain. There it was. Mered didn’t need to know why Ankhe felt cheated to recognize the relevance of Miriam’s dream.

  “I didn’t take anything from you, Ankhe.”

  “You’ve taken everything, and now you’re sending me to Memphis to be rid of me.” Ankhe reached for Mehy’s hand. “Have you gathered your treasures from your ummi’s chamber?”

  Mehy nodded, clutching a small linen sack over his shoulder. The boy’s sadness engulfed Mered like a fog, drawing him into the gloom. How would Mehy survive Ankhe’s foul humor alone? They’d always been carefully supervised during their lessons at the villa. Would Ankhe’s bitter influence be tempered at the Kap as well? Or would she be free to taint the boy’s tender soul?

  Anippe reached for Mehy and knelt before him. “I’ll meet you on the barque. We’ll sail to Thebes for your Jad Horem’s coronation, and then it’s another long sail before you leave Ummi and Miriam at Gurob. We have many days together before you go with Jad Horem and Ankhe to the Memphis Palace.” She kissed three dots on the back of his hand. “Remember, you, me, and Amun-Re—always together.” Gathering Mehy close, she struggled for composure, and then released him to her sister. “I’m doing what I think is best for every—”

  “You’re doing what’s best for you, Anippe,” Ankhe interrupted.

  “No. I know you wish to marry—” Anippe’s breath caught, and both sisters shot a glance at Mered. Neither seemed willing to speak of Ankhe’s personal desires in the presence of a linen keeper—and he was grateful.

  Ankhe grabbed Mehy’s hand. “Come, we’ll gather a few things from my chamber and go to the barque. Perhaps the pilot will teach you how to command the oarsmen.”

  Mehy looked over his shoulder, waving at Mered as his aunt rushed him out the door.

  El-Shaddai, protect him.

  Anippe sighed and stared at the closed door. “It’s been a difficult morning.” She turned then and tried to smile, trudging toward her embroidered couch. “What did you wish to talk about, Mered?”

  He exchanged a glance with Miriam, whose confidence had dimmed since entering the amira’s chamber. “I wanted to say good-bye, of course, but there is another matter Miriam and I need to address.”

  Mered waited, hoping the girl would begin recounting her dream. She didn’t.

  “Why does Ankhe blame me for every wrong in her life?” The amira propped her elbow on the armrest and cupped her chin in hand. “I’m sending her to Memphis partly as Mehy’s guardian, it’s true. But it’s the only place she has any hope of finding a worthy husband.” She looked at Mered, pleading. “I’m not her enemy.”

  Mered’s stomach knotted. “Amira, may I tell you a story?” Miriam stepped closer to him. He sensed she needed this introduction to her dream tale.

  Anippe sat up, a wary grin replacing her furrowed brow. “What kind of story?

  “A true story—about when God created the world.”

  “You mean Re? When Amun-Re created all things—”

  “No, Amira. I speak of El-Shaddai. He alone is God, and He created the first man, called Adam. From Adam, God formed the woman, Eve.” Her frown said he was losing her, so he skipped to the relevant part. “Adam and Eve had two sons, the older named Cain, the younger, Abel. Both sons brought sacrifices to God—Cain from his fields and Abel from his flocks. El-Shaddai was pleased with Abel’s offering but not pleased with Cain’s.”

  She crossed her arms and sighed. “Mered, I have much to accomplish before the ship sails. Why are you telling me this story?”

  “Because Cain was jealous of Abel, just as Ankhe is jealous of you.”

  The amira’s eyes narrowed, examining her linen keeper for many heartbeats. “Why?” she finally asked. “Why was your god displeased with Cain’s offering? Why do the gods play favorites?”

  Encouraged by her thoughtful question, Mered took a step closer. “El-Shaddai was displeased with Cain’s heart, the way he chose and offered his sacrifice, but Cain refused to see his own fault. He blamed Abel for his woes and was jealous of the favor God showed his brother.”

  “As Ankhe is jealous and blames me for her troubles.” The amira picked at a snag on the armrest. “Is that the end of the story?”

  Miriam stepped toward the couch and knelt before her amira, pressing her forehead to Anippe’s hand. “May I tell you the rest, Amira?”

  Startled, Anippe placed her other hand on the girl’s head. “Of course, Miriam. Tell me.”

  Mered saw Miriam’s hands tremble as she raised her eyes to meet Anippe’s. “I had a dream last night—a nightmare, really—in which I witnessed Cain and Abel’s story in my mind. Cain lured Abel to a beautiful meadow, where he struck him in the head with a rock. Cain stood over his brother’s dead body, laughing, and then I saw Cain transformed into …” Miriam turned to Mered, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. “Cain became Ankhe and Abel, the brother of favor, was you, Amira.”

  Anippe jerked her hands away from the girl. “That’s ridiculous. Ankhe would never harm me.” She stood, challenging Mered. “Where did Miriam conjure such nonsense? Did you help her concoct this story to frighten me? I know the slaves hate Ankhe.”

  Mered kept his tone level. “No one coaxed Miriam, and we aren’t trying to frighten you. This is a message for you from El-Shaddai. Please, Amira—listen.”

  Anippe’s olive skin turned to milk, and she slowly faced Miriam as if meeting death. “Why would El-Shaddai speak to me?”

  “I believe it’s a warning, Amira, not a prediction. He spoke to me in a song.” Miriam opened her mouth and the haunting tune escaped, somehow wrapping the danger in comfort. “If hope is gone, the brother becomes the sister. If hope is gone, the brother becomes the sister. If hope is gone, the brother becomes the sister.” When Miriam ceased, the words echoed in the silence.

  The amira’s eyes were closed. She stood utterly still. Mered dared not speak.

  Moments passed in unearthly peace. Did the amira feel it too? Her countenance seemed settled, far more relaxed than when they arrived. The anxiety he’d felt about Miriam sharing God’s message had drained away when the girl opened her mouth. Miriam, too, stood with eyes closed, face uplifted. Mered wondered if he should leave. Perhaps he was intruding on El-Shaddai’s holy ground.

  With his first step toward the door, Anippe reached for his hand. “Is it real?” Fear mingled with wonder on her features. “Was I simply moved by a girl’s beautiful voice, or did a god just visit this chamber?”

  He cradled her hand in his. “He’s real, Amira. The one true God spoke to you, and you must trust His words. If Ankhe becomes hopeless, she becomes dangerous.”

  Miriam’s warning song replayed in Anippe’s mind as she waited inside her cabin on the king’s barque. Abbi Horem and the rest of the royal party paraded down the long hill from the villa to the quay amid music and rejoicing. Ankhe was on deck with Mehy. The ship’s pilot had taken an interest in the king’s grandson, and Ankhe had taken an interest in the pilot. Miriam had also asked to remain on deck to wave good-bye to her family and friends as the barque set sail.

  But Anippe couldn’t bear to watch Avaris disappear in the distance. It was home.

  Avaris was all she had left of Sebak. Sometimes she wondered if she’d imagined her strong and generous husband. Their time together had been so short, but in her heart, she believed Mered when he said Sebak loved her. She might never understand why he stayed away, but he was an honorable man. Anippe had seen enough dishonorable ones now to know the difference.

  If hope is gone, the brother becomes the sister. Miriam’s warning—or rather, El-Shaddai’s warni
ng—drowned out the approaching royal musicians. Ankhe had never been loved by an honorable man—by any man. Did she still hope? As long as she still yearned for marriage and a family, hope was alive.

  But Anippe couldn’t let her settle for just any man. What if Ankhe had married Nassor? She shivered at the thought. At least they’d seen his cruelty before he’d unleashed it on Ankhe. Whether her sister believed it or not, the Kap was the best place for her. Perhaps she’d find a kindhearted teacher or an honorable soldier. Until Abbi Horem softened toward her or a man met with Anippe’s approval, Ankhe would have to wait to be matched.

  The doorway curtain stirred, and a shadow loomed outside.

  “Hello?” Anippe called.

  The figure turned as if to go and then came back. A trembling hand pushed the curtain aside. Mutno stood in the doorway, her clothing radiant, her countenance shattered.

  “Mutno …” Anippe was at a loss.

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course.” Anippe reached for her hand to guide her, but the new queen flinched.

  “Please, don’t touch me. I’m not sure there’s anywhere I’m not bruised.”

  Anippe watched as she walked—hunched—grabbing the door frame for support, lunging for the bed to avoid putting weight on her left ankle.

  Sickened, Anippe tried not to think of all this woman had endured. “Did Nassor do this to you?”

  “Which time?” Mutno’s voice was barely a croak, choked by emotion—or pain. Was there a difference for this woman?

  Mutno sat on the stuffed mattress across from Anippe, their knees almost touching in the ship’s small cabin. The new queen’s handmaid had decorated her well, disguising her sorrow for the royal parade. Dressed in Avaris’s finest byssus, she wore a pleated robe with an enchanting sheath that shimmered in the sun. She was bathed in scented oils, and her face was festively painted with malachite, kohl, and red ochre.

  From a distance, the cuts and bruises appeared to be part of the design.

  Anippe leaned close, not sure who might be listening outside their door. “I can have my maid get healing herbs from the midwives before we sail.”

  Mutno glanced at the doorway, terrorized. “No. Someone might see.”

  Her heart breaking, Anippe offered her hand to a woman she barely knew—a woman in despair she could barely imagine. “How can I help you?”

  Mutno drew back her hands, refusing comfort. “I think we can help each other. I’m well-connected at Gurob Harem since Abbi Ay ruled the south, and after Horemheb’s victory feast …” She glanced at the doorway and lowered her voice. “The women at Gurob hate you. You’ll find improving their outdated linen production an uphill climb.”

  Anippe sat a little straighter, realizing that though Mutno was a wounded soldier, she still had fight left in her. “And you have a suggestion to help me win favor among my peers at Gurob?”

  “They are not your peers, and no one ever wins favor in the harem, but I have influence, and I’m willing to use it on your behalf. I know very little about spinning and weaving, but I know much about who hates who and who is sleeping with whose husband. Organizing noblemen’s wives is like herding Egyptian cats. They’re not like your pitiable Hebrews, who bend and bow and grovel at your slightest whim.”

  Anippe tamped down her rising revulsion at the life of manipulation she must abide to be successful at Gurob. “And what do you expect from me in return for your valuable influence?”

  “A weekly correspondence with your abbi Horem, singing my praises. Tell him how we’ve become close friends, partners in the linen workshop, confidantes.” She bowed her head, fidgeting with her hands, but couldn’t hide the quiver in her voice. “I long ago gave up hope that any man would love me, but I cannot abide a life of hatred and abuse.”

  She gently dabbed bruised cheeks before lifting her gaze. “Don’t ever let Horemheb give you to another husband. Marriage will destroy you—inside and out.”

  31

  But when [Jochebed] could hide him no longer, she got a papyrus basket for him and coated it with tar and pitch. Then she placed the child in it and put it among the reeds along the bank of the Nile.

  —EXODUS 2:3

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  In less than five years, King Horemheb and Vizier Pirameses had transformed the Feast of Lotus at Avaris and Qantir into the most coveted royal festival in Egypt. Stretching the traditional day into a full month of celebration, Egypt’s wealthiest noblemen brought their whole families during the last month of inundation to enjoy some relaxation before sowing season began.

  The king’s barque delivered the men to Qantir, where they engaged in military drills and sport until the evening feasts. A short sail around the bend took them to neighboring Avaris, where they rejoined their wives, who had enjoyed a day of gossip and shopping in the peasants’ markets and the famed linen workshop.

  Mered and his family stood shoulder to shoulder with Hebrew slaves and Egyptian peasants, all awaiting the arrival of the Gurob Harem ship. He scanned the sea of faces on the hillside above and below, to the north toward the craftsmen’s camp, and even south toward the new peasants’ village. He didn’t see Shiphrah and Hur—or their children, Uri and Yael. The Lord had opened the chief midwife’s womb, and she hadn’t been on time since.

  “They’ll be here.” Puah elbowed him in the gut. “Hur promised he’d pick up the boys for ratting here at the quay so you could go straight to the shop. He’ll be here.”

  Mered kept looking. They’d told the midwife and her husband where to look for them in the crowd—beside the palm tree outside the linen shop—but Avaris’s bulging population made connections difficult.

  “Here comes the ship.” Jochebed pointed to the Gurob Harem barque rounding the corner. “We get to see our Miriam.” She hugged Amram, and his eyes misted with happy tears. Even Aaron, with his wife and baby, stood on tiptoe to see the barque with its oarsmen gliding into the quay.

  “Let’s get closer to the dock.” Ednah jumped and clapped, taking a step into the roiling crowd.

  Mered snagged her hand and pulled her back. His ten-year-old daughter was fearless, having grown up in her mother and Jochebed’s protective shadow. “You’re staying here to help with your little brother until Hur and Shiphrah join us.” Their son Heber had arrived nine months after Mered’s return from military duty.

  Ednah pouted, but Puah grabbed her hand and placed it on her belly. “Feel this. Your brother is kicking me again.”

  Ednah’s pouting fled, and Mered rested his arm around his pregnant wife’s shoulders. “How do you know it’s a boy?”

  She stretched up on her toes and whispered in his ear, “This one is more active than all three of the others combined. I’m sure he’s a boy.” She kissed his cheek and wiped the sweat from her brow.

  Mered squeezed her tighter. His wife looked tired today. He watched her prance and giggle with Ednah, anticipating the ship’s arrival. Should she be jumping like that when the baby was due any day?

  “Father, please let me go back to the shop.” Jered, in contrast, was completely bored. He’d known Anippe only as a summer master for almost half of his twelve years, and Mehy had ignored him since becoming close friends with Sety at the School of the Kap in Memphis. His grumpy eldest son hated crowds. “I haven’t finished beading the queen’s byssus gown for tomorrow night’s feast.”

  “Take your little brother along, but don’t let him play in the beads.” The last time four-year-old Heber visited the workshop, he brought home an emerald and buried it.

  “Here they come!” Puah squeezed Mered’s arm as if she were kneading bread.

  They watched the oarsmen ease skillfully up to the dock and cast papyrus ropes ashore to waiting servants, who hurriedly tied the ship to the pier. The gangplank thumped in the sand, and Nubian slaves with cubit-long staves cleared the path in front of the first gilded palanquin.

  Mered covered his eyes, shading them against the midday sun. Queen Mutno sat en
throned above six Medjays’ shoulders, her gaze focused uphill. The once-quaint villa had been expanded in both size and grandeur by Pharaoh Horemheb’s orders. The new king had also required a row of new guesthouses built on the hills overlooking his villa. It was said even the Avaris guesthouses outshone Qantir’s luxury.

  Anippe followed in the only other elevated chair. Ever the gracious amira, she reached down to accept lilies and mandrakes from those who welcomed her home.

  Puah buried her face in Mered’s chest, tears flowing. “I’m glad she’s home.”

  Mered noticed his wife’s arm cupped beneath her round belly and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, bracing her against him. “Are you all right?” He peered beneath her bowed head to see her expression. “Puah, look at me.” Tilting her chin up, he saw the pain on her face and glanced around the crowd again. “Where is Shiphrah?”

  “I’m fine.” Puah blew a slow breath through puffed cheeks. “I’ve been having slight pains all morning but nothing regular. Believe me, I know when it’s time to call the midwife.” She swatted Mered’s shoulder, lightening the mood.

  Ednah’s round brown eyes mirrored Mered’s fear, and for the sake of his daughter, he smiled and chuckled. El-Shaddai, protect my wife and baby.

  The procession continued toward the main entrance of the villa, much closer now to their favorite palm tree. Finally, the amira’s palanquin marched by, and Miriam followed, fragranced and jeweled like all other Gurob handmaids.

  Mered clapped Amram’s shoulder. “Your daughter becomes more beautiful each year. Perhaps Anippe will make a match for her while she’s home this month.”

  Amram tried to smile, his cheeks quaking as he watched his daughter disappear into the villa. “Miriam is in El-Shaddai’s hands, my friend—much like Moses after we placed him in that basket over twelve years ago. We must let God shape our children’s futures.”

  Moses? Mered hadn’t realized they’d named their baby boy drowned in the Nile. How ironic that they’d named him drawn out. Moses. The name sounded familiar, but perhaps it was merely similar to Pharaoh Ahmose.