The Pharaoh's Daughter

by Mesu Andrews

  Her struggling eased, then ceased. Her eyes opened slowly and studied him. Fear—no, terror—was in their depths. “I don’t want a baby. I’ll die. Like Ummi Kiya. Like Puah. They died.”

  He lifted her to her feet, tucked her safely beneath his arm, and guided her into their rooms—giving Amram, Jochebed, and Miriam silent permission to leave them. When they were alone, he sat her on their reed sleeping mat.

  “Elisheba was insensitive and will apologize to you personally—I’ll make sure of it—but you’ll come to realize she’s an ox with sharp horns and a soft heart.”

  He moved to sit beside her, and she skittered away like a shy lamb. Frustrated, he stood and lifted her into his arms, marching toward the only chair they owned.

  “What are you doing?” She kicked her legs. “Put me down.”

  He plopped down on the chair and held her securely in his lap. “Is this position sufficient proof that I intend to talk with you tonight—only talk?”

  Her cheeks pinked instantly, and her neck turned splotchy. She crossed her arms in a huff. “Then talk.”

  He rested his forehead on her shoulder. El-Shaddai, thank You for this infuriating woman who knew and loved my Puah as I did. Tears threatened to undo him. Puah wasn’t what he planned to talk about, but he was exhausted—physically and emotionally. Both his and Bithiah’s hearts had been ground like grain. Could they ever sift out enough flour to make a real life together?

  “Mered, I’m sorry.” She brushed his hair with her fingers. “I’ve been afraid my whole life.”

  A deep breath, a nod, and then he wiped his nose on her shoulder.

  “Oh, stop that!”

  He chuckled. “Do you know how to grind grain?”

  The look on her face was priceless, appalled. She’d probably never touched a sieve either.

  “I didn’t think so. Do you know how to collect water with Heber—like you promised?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest again. “No, but I knew it had to be done.”

  “Bake bread, cook lentils, dry fruit?”

  “No, no, and no.” She stared at the sleeping mat for a moment, her gaze distant. “How will we convince anyone that I’m Hebrew, Mered? Elisheba will know within a single heartbeat, and she’ll tell all those disappointed women in the village who are lining up to take my place.”

  “The king has declared a three-day mourning period for Anippe and closed the linen shop. While you were sleeping this morning, I asked Nassor to place Miriam under my supervision since she’s no longer needed as the amira’s handmaid.”

  Bithiah’s gaze grew distant again. He assumed she was thinking of Mehy and Ankhe.

  Drawing her chin toward him, he searched her eyes and issued the challenge. “That means Miriam and I have three days to make you Hebrew.”

  “My son will grow up without his ummi or abbi.”

  “My children will never hear their mother’s sweet voice again.” Mered let the tears come and watched realization dawn on Anippe’s features. “I will trust you to love my children, and you must trust me to keep close watch on Mehy’s progress—as an Egyptian soldier, yes, but more importantly as a man of integrity.”

  Tears pooled on her thick, black lashes. “You’ll see him in the summer at the linen shop, but I’ll never see him again.”

  He brushed her cheek. “Never is a long time. Only El-Shaddai lives in eternity. We live today.” He stood abruptly, catching her before she toppled to the floor.

  She squealed and clutched at his robe. “Don’t drop me.”

  He righted her and held her a moment longer than needed. “I won’t let you go.” Her cheeks flushed the color of roses. Thank You, El-Shaddai, for providing a friend to share my grief. He cleared the emotion from his throat. “I’ll get Miriam. We can start your lessons tonight.”

  36

  All my longings lie open before you, Lord;

  my sighing is not hidden from you.

  —PSALM 38:9

  THREE YEARS LATER

  Bithiah pressed the grinding stone around the grooved wheel, crushing and conquering the last kernels from her second basket of grain. Three-year-old Jekuthiel knelt beside her, poking at the bread dough Miriam was trying to knead.

  They’d turned it into a game. Miriam leaned into the dough, shoving her hands deep into its middle. Jeki poked his finger into the squishy glob, trying to pull it back before Miriam caught him. His giggles and squeals made for more enjoyable chores but kept Miriam from the linen workshop too long.

  “Shouldn’t you be helping Mered by now, Miriam?” Bithiah asked.

  The Gurob Harem ship and king’s barque would arrive any day for the annual royal visit, and Mered had worked late every night for a week to prepare extra byssus robes.

  With a casual smile, Miriam continued her kneading. “Your husband said I should help you this morning instead.”

  Bithiah felt her cheeks warm. Mered sent her to help because I’ll never be capable of caring for his family as Puah did. She swallowed back tears, keeping her head bowed to the task. In the early days after Puah’s death, they’d all grieved her openly. Stories of her warmed their hearts as they sat by the cook fire late at night. But no one grieved Ankhe. Anippe alone felt the hole in the world left by the girl no one had loved. Mered had heard Anippe crying on her sleeping mat a few times and tried to comfort her, but there was little time for sentiment in the Hebrew camp. If she’d learned anything in the last three years, it was that.

  Once Mered and Miriam had started her training on their wedding night, Bithiah’s hands had burned as if with hornet stings for a month. Blistered and bleeding, she’d worked through it, determined to learn, firm in her commitment to raise Mered’s children. Jered and Ednah had been helpful but missed their mother terribly and resented Bithiah’s intrusion. She’d begged Mered to let them work at the linen shop, finding it preferable to deal with blisters rather than the children’s bitterness.

  She inspected the hard, yellow calluses at the base of each finger, her dry and cracked knuckles, and remembered the feel of olive oil massages and salt scrubs.

  “Are you all right?” Miriam had stopped kneading and sat back on her heels. “I don’t mind helping, you know.” She tousled Jeki’s hair, leaving his black curls coated with flour dust.

  The floodgate of Bithiah’s tears burst then, and she tried to wipe them away before they dripped into her grain.

  Miriam reached over and stopped her hands on the wheel. “Talk to me, Bithiah.”

  “I’m Anippe.” The name came out like a curse. Slowly she raised her eyes to the handmaid she’d known long ago. “Some days are easier than others to pretend I’m Bithiah. Today I’m Anippe.” She wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve. Disgusting, but who had time for a dainty cloth? “We still have clothes to wash, water to gather, grain to parch, and beer-mash to sieve. Let’s not talk about things that don’t matter.”

  “You matter.” Miriam returned to her tasks. She worked at twice the pace and accomplished three times as much.

  Bithiah poured finely ground grain into a bowl, but as quickly as she ground it, Miriam added a splash of water, stirred, and kneaded another batch of bread. She had several rounds of bread cooking on the hot stones and still had time to entertain Jekuthiel.

  “Will Amram find a husband for you … since I never did?” Guilt still clawed at Bithiah for taking Miriam to Gurob during her marriageable years. She could have been baking bread for her own husband and children by now.

  “Since father’s falling sickness started last year, I care for him while mother makes baskets for the villa. Add in my work at the linen shop, and I have no time for a husband.” Miriam’s rhythm never slowed. Stirring. Kneading. Baking. She sounded so brave, so sure.

  “Don’t you ever want to be held, Miriam? Yearn for a man’s touch?”

  “Don’t you?” Miriam leveled her gaze at Bithiah, a spark in her eye. “You’ve been married three years, and Mered’s never touched you.” She pointed t
o the separate mats in their small room. “Ednah told me she sleeps with Heber on that one, Mered and Jered sleep on the roof, and you and Jeki sleep over there.” She went back to kneading. “Why does your husband sleep on the roof? Mered is the best man I know, Bithiah. You’re blessed to have him.”

  Was Miriam jealous? Did she want Mered? His family? “Miriam, I … we … Mered and I have an arrangement. I needed a place to live, and he needed someone to care for his children. He loves Puah—”

  “Mered loves you, my friend. Can’t you see it?”

  “No. No, he can’t. He doesn’t.” Bithiah jumped to her feet, distancing herself from Miriam and her wild imagination. “Perhaps you love Mered and are simply jealous.”

  Miriam leaned back on her heels, a slow, sweet grin on her lips. “I do love Mered.”

  The words stole Bithiah’s breath.

  “I love him like a brother, but there’s another who holds my heart.”

  Relief swept over Bithiah like the Nile’s cool waves. She returned to kneel beside her friend. “Who, Miriam? Is it the man you spoke of when we returned from Gurob? The one I hoped to match for your marriage?”

  “El-Shaddai holds my heart, Bithiah. He’s the One I adore. I feel His presence when I sing.”

  “Oh, Miriam.” Disheartened, Bithiah ached at the girl’s loneliness. “A god could never fill the longing for your one true love.”

  “No, Bithiah. A man can never fill the longing for my one true God.”

  Mered sat at his workshop desk, head buried in his hands. The rhythmic hum of his Hebrew brethren couldn’t dull the pounding in his head. Nassor’s threats had increased as the arrival of their royal guests drew near. The estate foreman had always been brutal toward the Hebrews, but whatever monster dwelt within him was unleashed after Ankhe’s and Anippe’s deaths. Violence alone no longer sated his amoral cravings.

  Nassor now demanded a percentage of all linen production—his private wages to supplement a foreman’s woefully insufficient pay. He also took percentages from the bakery, brewery, and every other workshop at Avaris. The bread and beer Nassor shared as bribes with his underling guards, but the other goods he stockpiled—waiting to use the Egyptian peasants as salesmen when the royals came to visit each year.

  Nassor’s coffers had grown fat on the villa’s free production, so his greed had turned to human fare. He offered Hebrew women to his guards as incentives, payments, and rewards, and Nassor had his eye on Miriam.

  Mered was running out of excuses to keep her away from the shop.

  Jered and Heber had noticed Mered’s caution. That morning, seven-year-old Heber had asked why Miriam didn’t walk to the workshop with them anymore. Jered, the ever-sage older brother, had explained that she cared for Amram now that his falling sickness kept him in bed, his fits of shaking making him unable to work. Mered was thankful he didn’t have to answer. He’d told Miriam he needed her to help Bithiah with little Jeki and the chores. All excuses, but effective in keeping her away from Nassor’s hungry eyes.

  “What are you doing, Father?” Jered’s deep voice startled him. The boy grinned and plopped down on a pile of uncut flax stalks. “Do you need help?” He pointed to the unfurled scroll Mered had been pretending to read.

  “No, no. I’m just going over some figures.”

  “Really? Because I was sitting with the bead workers—making sure Heber learned the craft without pocketing the beads—and you haven’t looked at that papyrus scroll since you sat down.”

  Mered sighed and rolled up the scroll. His son was growing up too fast. “I’m thinking about Bithiah.” It was partially true. He always thought about Bithiah.

  “Do you ever think about Mama anymore?” Jered’s tone had an edge as he examined his sandals.

  Mered jostled his son’s shoulder, trying to draw his gaze. “Of course. I think of your mother every time I hear a baby cry. She loved assisting Shiphrah at births.” He forced his son’s chin up and met his sad eyes with a grin. “And I remember what a fine cook your mother was every time poor Bithiah tries a new recipe.”

  Finally a chuckle from his firstborn—quickly gone. “Do you love her? Bithiah, I mean.”

  Mered’s heart hammered in his chest. He’d been wondering that himself lately. “I think so.”

  “I need to know because—” Jered raised his chin, almost defiant. “I think I may love someone.”

  “Well.” Mered nodded, stalling for time. He wasn’t prepared for this conversation. When had his son grown dark whiskers on his chin? “Well.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Yes, well.”

  Jered lifted an eyebrow and glared. “Father, don’t you want to know her name or why I love her or when we plan to marry?”

  “Plan to marry? You’re not ready to marry, Jered. I don’t even know who she is.”

  “I’m fifteen years old. Aaron was married and had a child by fifteen.”

  Mered scrubbed his face, frustration mounting. “Aaron moved in with the girl’s parents and became apprentice to his father at the metals-and-gem shop—only two years before Amram’s illness.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Both Aaron’s and Elisheba’s parents sought El-Shaddai’s counsel, and Aaron began preparing to take Amram’s place in the shop. Everyone watched for God’s active confirmation during the process, Jered. You’ve decided to marry, but have you considered El-Shaddai? Have you asked His opinion?”

  “Not everyone hears from God like you do, Father.”

  Another male voice stammered an intrusion. “Am I interrupting an imp-p-p-ortant conversation?” Master Mehy offered a sheepish grin from the workshop doorway. “Hello, Mered.” He gave Jered an awkward nod.

  Nassor stood beside the master, glaring at Mered, but the linen keeper ignored him.

  “Master Mehy, welcome home.”

  “Yes, welcome, Master Mehy.” Crimson rose on Jered’s neck. “Father, I’ll keep an eye on Heber at the beads.” He fairly ran down the long center aisle. Jered and Mehy, while so close growing up, now seemed like a pigeon and a dove—not natural enemies, but certainly belonging in different nests.

  Without subtlety, Mehy turned to his estate foreman. “Thank you for the escort, Nassor. You may leave us now.”

  “But Master Mehy, I—”

  “Thank you, Commander. Leave.” Mehy’s three years of military training had honed his authority and lessened his stutter.

  Nassor shot Mered another warning glance before marching away.

  Mehy stood with his feet apart and hands clasped behind his back, accenting his well-muscled shoulders. “Let’s talk beneath our palm tree.”

  Mered directed Mehy out the door into the noisy world of Avaris’s bustling Egyptian peasants. Their market stalls lined the pathway to the quay, tainting the view from their favorite tree. But it was still the most private place to talk. Their conversation would be lost in the commotion.

  Each year since Mehy’s military training had begun, he’d returned home with Pirameses and the other Ramessids from the Sile fortress. Mered noticed Pirameses’s troop ship conspicuously missing from the dock and realized Master Mehy had come home early this year.

  Mered leaned back against the rough trunk and waited for his young master to bare his heart, but silence stretched into awkwardness until Mered could stand it no longer. “Has something in particular brought you home from Sile earlier than expected?”

  More silence. Concern laced with dread tightened Mered’s chest, but he wouldn’t ask again. This young soldier must open his heart when he was ready.

  They watched geese fly overhead and skate across the Nile. A bennu heron waited on the shoreline for its prey to swim past. Mered’s left arm was in the sun, so he scooted over to find shade.

  When he glanced at the master, Mehy was grinning. “Comfortable now?”

  Laughing, Mered pointed to the small space between them. “Well, if your shoulders hadn’t grown a cubit since last summe
r, I’d have more shade.”

  Mehy’s laughter faded as he pulled a braided leather cord from beneath his brass-studded breastplate. He wrapped it around Mered’s wrist and then lifted the linen keeper’s hand to his forehead—a sign of respect. “I win this award for you each year, Mered. You’re the only family I have left.”

  Mered choked out his thanks, wishing he could embrace Mehy—but no slave would be so bold. Though aching to tell him Bithiah kept the previous two years’ awards beneath her sleeping mat, Mered kept silent. The deception gnawed at him, but lives depended on it. “I’ll keep it safely hidden with the other two.”

  “I won’t be winning any more training honors, Mered.” His tone was cryptic, haunted.

  “Of course you will. You’re Sebak’s son. Master of Avaris.”

  “When the king’s barque arrives for the Lotus Feast next week, Jad Horem, Pirameses, and the royal advisors will plan a new offensive against the Hittites.” The news landed like a rock in Mered’s belly. “Pirameses can’t send you to war yet. You’re fifteen years old with barely three years of training.”

  “He’s sending Sety with me—without any Sile training.” Mehy turned his head slowly. “He said he’d train his son on the b-b-battlefield.” His tongue tripped over the final word, evidence of his fear.

  Anger, fear, and disbelief combined to steal Mered’s words. What could he say to a terrified boy? Every instinct as a father wanted to protect him—as Amram would if he could. But Mered couldn’t protect himself—or Bithiah or Miriam or anyone else he loved. As Amram had once told him, they were all in God’s hands.

  Steadied by the reminder, Mered asked, “Why now, Master Mehy? Why launch an attack on the Hittites during sowing season?”

  With a wry grin, Mehy seemed to ponder Mered’s question. “Ah, yes. Strategy. Pirameses says Egypt’s sowing is the Levant’s harvest—something about we’ll live off the fruit of their land and not run low on supplies like they did when Jad Horem led the attack years ago.”