The Pharaoh's Daughter

by Mesu Andrews

  “Wait, I—” She reached for the boys, but the guards had already herded them in the opposite direction.

  Mehy grabbed Bithiah’s arm, nearly lifting her off the tiles. Hurrying toward his chamber, he kept his voice low. “You look terrified. I think you convinced them.”

  “What do you mean convinced them? I am terrified. What if they hurt my children?”

  He lifted an eyebrow and lowered his voice. “Would you protect every Hebrew child as your own, Ummi?”

  Startled, she wasn’t sure if he meant to tease or condemn her. Bithiah glanced over her shoulder at Mandai, who still followed closely. As they approached the master’s chamber, she saw Nassor ahead. “Mehy, no. He’ll recognize me.”

  “Keep your head bowed. Mandai will lead you in.” Mandai grabbed her other arm as Mehy quickened his pace toward his estate foreman. “Did Pirameses find you, Nassor? He was looking for you this morning.”

  Bithiah ducked her head as Mandai lead her toward the door, opened the latch, and—

  “Wait. Who is—” Nassor gripped Bithiah’s arm, and her heart leapt to her throat.

  “I asked you a question, soldier. Have you spoken to Vizier Pirameses?” Mehy’s tone allowed no argument or delay. “Why do you care about a slave woman cleaning up the construction mess in my chamber?”

  “I’m sorry, Master Mehy, I … uh … no. I haven’t spoken with the vizier this morning.”

  “Find him. I won’t suffer Pirameses’s temper because you can’t follow orders.” Mehy stormed past him.

  Mandai had already pushed Bithiah through the open door when Mehy entered and calmly closed it behind him. The young master motioned them toward the courtyard but directed his comments at the door so the chamber guards would hear. “Clean the bathhouse first, and then you can begin on my chamber.”

  He joined Mandai and Bithiah at the bathhouse, hands braced on his knees, chuckling. “That was too close.”

  Mandai congratulated him, but Bithiah stood in awe of the enchanting place where she and Mehy had once confided fears and laughed at bullfrogs. The bathhouse’s three-sided structure was covered with newly placed palm fronds, which fluttered in the breeze. Brightly colored pillows decorated a long, built-in couch.

  “Just as it was when Ankhe and I played with you here.” Tears clouded her vision as she whispered the words to her son. Memories—good memories—of Ankhe flooded her heart.

  “He did it for you, Amira.” Mandai nodded toward Mehy, whose jaw was set like a flint stone. “He finds words hard sometimes, but he’s a good man—like his abbi Sebak.”

  The Medjay turned to walk away, but Bithiah caught his arm. “Thank you, Mandai. Thank you for saving my life.”

  His arms came around her in a hug, hiding her in ebony muscle. “You make a lovely Hebrew, Amira.”

  She squeezed him tighter but felt him let go. He stepped back, and she turned to find Mehy just a handbreadth away.

  “Sebak was not my abbi.” His eyes glistened. “I’m sorry I—” He hid his face, his shoulders shaking, and Bithiah gathered her strong son into her arms.

  “My life could be full of regrets, Mehy, but making you my son will never be one of them.” She held him tightly, suddenly aware of his scented lotions and her unkempt body. Would he be repulsed by her? He hadn’t seemed to notice or care. So much about her had changed—nothing more drastic than her faith. She’d prayed for a moment to tell him of El-Shaddai …

  “Sebak wasn’t your abbi, Mehy, and he wasn’t Seth reborn. In fact, Mered told me that during Sebak’s last days, he may even have believed in the Hebrew God, El-Shaddai.”

  Mehy quieted in her arms and slowly pulled away. “Mered told you that they’ve trained me to take Sebak’s place, didn’t he? He told you what I’ve become.” His countenance was stricken, shame hanging on him like filthy rags.

  “I don’t know everything—about you or Sebak. But I knew Sebak’s heart, and I know my son. Neither of you is a god, and neither of you is darkness and chaos. You were created by El-Shaddai, who loves deeply. He created you to love deeply too. I’ve seen this love in you—and I saw it in Sebak. You feel compassion, and you protect the weak. Sebak was that man, and you are that man.” She looked at Mandai. “Tell him. Tell him about the Sebak you knew.”

  The Medjay nodded with a knowing grin. “I’ve already told him these things—many of the exact words, Amira.”

  “But I must obey Jad Horem and Pirameses. They’re my commanders.” Mehy spoke like the little boy she remembered.

  “You are a man first, a soldier second,” Mandai said. “Remember what we discussed. I will defend you with my life, but you must make your life worth defending.”

  Bithiah’s heart beat faster. “Mandai is your personal guard now?”

  Mehy nodded. “Jad Horem made his best Medjay my protector. I’m Pharaoh’s only living seed, the only one to provide for him and Amenia in the afterlife.”

  She held her son’s face between her hands, peering into his confusion. “You are not Horemheb’s seed, and there is no afterlife with Egypt’s gods. They are myths and legends, my son, meant to keep you in chains. El-Shaddai is your only hope for freedom in this world and the next.”

  He pulled away. “Why do you people always talk about your god?”

  She grinned—almost giggled. “We people?” Had he really just called her a Hebrew?

  His cheeks turned pink, like her sweet, gentle, Hebrew boy.

  Bithiah’s gaze wandered beyond the bathhouse to the river, to a spot now overgrown with reeds. “That’s where I found you,” she said, pointing.

  Mehy’s expression was a strange mix of emotion. What was he thinking? How was he feeling? “Miriam said she stood in the bulrushes, watching me float in a basket until you drew me out. That’s why you used to call me Moses.”

  Bithiah nodded, and they watched the spot together—as if another basket might float by.

  “Is Miriam all right?” he asked. “Recovering from her injuries?”

  “She’s healing well. She spends most of her time with her ailing father—” Bithiah covered her mouth, watching the realization dawn on Mehy’s face.

  “Our father is ill?”

  She reached for his hand, and he didn’t pull away. “Amram started with a falling sickness last year. Jochebed cares for him at home. She still weaves baskets, and Amram does some jewelry work, but he’s seen over seventy inundations, Mehy. If you ever hope to see your true abbi again, you should come soon.”

  He squeezed her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I’ll think about it.”

  Every fiber of her being wanted to press him to see Amram today. To make him believe in El-Shaddai. Suggest he marry. And she hadn’t yet told him what to tell Pirameses about this Seth reborn nonsense. But in the quiet corners of her heart, she felt the gentle reins of El-Shaddai.

  “Would you like me to clean your bathhouse or your chamber first, Master Mehy?” She kissed his hand and winked, hoping she saw love with the sadness in his eyes.

  “I want you to go home and enjoy a quiet afternoon.” When she started to protest, he added, “I’ll have Mandai escort you.”

  41

  Because [his brothers] were jealous of Joseph, they sold him as a slave into Egypt. But God was with him and rescued him from all his troubles. He gave Joseph wisdom and enabled him to gain the goodwill of Pharaoh king of Egypt.

  —ACTS 7:9–10

  THREE YEARS LATER

  Bithiah tossed and turned, vaguely aware of a raucous commotion in her dreams. And who had lit a torch? Why was it so bright?

  She shaded her eyes against daylight—and then sat up with a start. How could she have slept past dawn? Mered’s place beside her was empty, and Avaris buzzed with activity. She could have slept through a war—

  War. Mehy was returning today on the medical barque. Avaris had buzzed yesterday with the news from a royal messenger that both Master Mehy and Master Sety were injured in the Hittite battle to regain Kadesh and they wer
e returning home. There was no report on the severity of their injuries. Please, El-Shaddai, let them live.

  She grabbed her robe and hurried toward the ladder, but had to hang on to the canopy pole when she felt lightheaded. Why hadn’t Mered woken her? She wanted to be at the quay when the barque arrived to catch a glimpse of her son. Would he be walking or carried on a palanquin?

  Steadier now, she started climbing down the ladder in bare feet to the comforting sound of her husband’s voice.

  “Go back to the roof. I was about to bring your gruel.”

  Bithiah peeked down into their one-room home. Jochebed winked at her while stirring the pot over the cook fire. Miriam sat at the table with Amram, Heber, and Jeki. Bithiah still missed seeing Jered and Ednah there. Would she ever grow accustomed to her chicks leaving the nest? It helped when Jered’s wife, Sela, brought their new little one over to visit. Who would have imagined Bithiah a grandma?

  “Up, up, up,” Mered coaxed, her clay bowl in hand. “We need to talk before I go to the shop.”

  She hurried back up the acacia rungs, Mered close behind, wondering at her husband’s impromptu breakfast chat. “Will you meet the medical barque at the quay and find out about Mehy’s injury?”

  Please, El-Shaddai, give Mered a chance to speak with Mehy about You.

  “I’m afraid to be seen at the quay, my love. You know Nassor resents my relationship with Mehy. I can’t seem overbearing, or life gets hard for me and my linen workers.” Mered placed the bowl of gruel between them, and the smell made her nauseous.

  She nudged it away. “I certainly don’t want you to put yourself or your workers in danger, but if Mehy’s been injured, he might be frightened and more willing to hear the truth about El-Shaddai. Promise me if you get the chance you’ll talk with him, you’ll tell him about your final talk with Sebak. Make Mehy believe so he’ll be in paradise if—” The words caught in her throat, the thought of what her son had been through too frightening, too dreadful to bear.

  “Bithiah, I can’t make Mehy believe. I can’t even talk about El-Shaddai unless he’s willing to listen. Sebak was open to my prayers.” He brushed her cheek, a smile on his face. “I will speak to him about El-Shaddai if he’ll listen.”

  Tears came unbidden. Why was she crying? “I’m sorry. I guess I’m more upset about Mehy’s injury than I realized.”

  “Remember what we talked about last night. They wouldn’t have sent him on the medical barque if he hadn’t been well enough to sail.”

  She nodded, but the tears wouldn’t stop. She shrugged and pointed at her wet cheeks. “What is wrong with me?”

  Mered chuckled, picked up the bowl of gruel, and waved it under her nose. Bithiah gagged, almost retched, and her husband started laughing—laughing!

  Humiliation turned to anger. “It’s not funny. Why are you …” Realization dawned, and her heart nearly leapt from her chest.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He kissed her gently, a grin still on his lips. “Your stomach has been upset, and you’ve been extra sensitive to smells recently.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “And you’ve been sleeping longer than usual in the mornings. Have you been extra tired or simply lazy?” His eyes danced with mischief.

  “If you want me up at dawn, you should jostle me when you rise.”

  He chuckled. “Bithiah, how long since your last red flow?”

  “I can’t be pregnant, Mered. We’re grandparents.”

  “It doesn’t matter. If God grants it, we’ll have a child.”

  She began figuring the courses of the moon and realized she had skipped last month’s flow.

  Mered scooted closer, slid the bowl aside, and pulled her close. She curled into him, letting his warmth repel the returning chill of fear. “The child that grows within your womb is our child, wife. You and El-Shaddai will protect him until he greets the world. In this single act—the creation and sustaining of life—a woman and El-Shaddai share a special bond, one that a man can never know.” He kissed her forehead. “Treasure these months, and I will cherish you and our child forever.”

  “What will we tell the children?”

  He laughed again, and she giggled. “Since Ednah told us last week that she and Ephraim are expecting, we can tell them our grandson will have an uncle to play with.”

  “Or our granddaughter an aunt to play with.” Bithiah snuggled closer into his chest, the weight of the truth growing heavier by the moment. “What if Shiphrah and Miriam are busy at Ednah’s birth and can’t help me? What if my body’s too old to deliver a child? What if—”

  “What if we have ten more happy, healthy babies before we age to one hundred and ten and die at perfection?”

  She shoved him away. “I haven’t even had this one, and you want ten more?”

  With a roar, he rolled her onto their sleeping mat, laughing, playing, loving, wanting, adoring. She saw it in his eyes. All she’d ever hoped for.

  “If I am to bear your child, Mered, I must ask one thing.” She grew serious and combed her fingers through the gray hairs at his temples.

  “Anything, my love. Name it.”

  “Heber and Jeki sleep on the roof, and we get the main room.”

  He smiled wryly and glanced down at the bustling quay. “All right, but I’m going to be late for the workshop this morning.” He buried kisses in her neck, and the bowl of gruel was forgotten.

  EIGHT MONTHS LATER

  Mered walked the aisles of vertical looms, inspecting the fibers, the weave, the designs. Forty men now stood or sat at their craft, deftly working the warp and weft. Someday Jered would manage this alone. How would Mered know his son was ready?

  Bithiah was due to have their first child any day, and he’d readily trusted her pregnancy and delivery to El-Shaddai—even after losing Puah in childbirth. Why then was he so hesitant to entrust the linen shop to his firstborn son? The question plagued him. Maybe he loved his work too much and trusted his son too little. Or was it deeper?

  El-Shaddai, could I trust You if You asked me to give up everything—as Anippe did?

  The thought was staggering and made him yearn for his wife. Her transformation had been remarkable. She was remarkable, because she’d learned to trust in El-Shaddai completely. Mered realized it was time to give Jered more responsibility at the shop—because he must trust El-Shaddai completely.

  Feeling God’s pleasure, he wiped away tears and raised his head. Nassor stood before him.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt.” Disdain tinged Nassor’s voice. “Since you were weeping like a jilted maiden.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “Master Mehy will see you in his chamber.” Nassor spoke the words like a curse and shoved Mered toward the door. “Your linen sales are down. Perhaps he’ll finally send you to the mud pits where you belong.”

  Mered kept walking—past the garden and down the corridor—using every drop of restraint to stay silent. Linen sales were down because Nassor had stolen more linen this year, selling it in the peasant market to line his own pockets. He settled on a bland reply. “I’m thankful we have a gracious master. Aren’t you, Nassor?”

  A sudden blow, and Mered found himself on the floor. A kick to his side, and he rolled into a ball, covering his head for protection.

  “You will never address me as an equal, Hebrew. Is that understood? We helped the amira long ago, but don’t imagine we’re friends.” Nassor kicked him again. This time Mered heard his fingers pop, and he cried out. “Get up, linen keeper, and straighten your robe.” He grabbed one of Mered’s arms and jerked him to his feet.

  Mered stood on wobbly legs, walking and blinking away black spots in his vision. Hand throbbing, he paused at the masters door while the estate foreman knocked with his spear and ground out a threat.

  “If you breathe a word of our scuffle, your sons will be in the mud pits by dusk.”

  Trying to straighten to full height, Mered smiled when Mandai answer
ed the door. The Medjay took one look at his stooped form and opened the door wider. “Master Mehy, perhaps you should see how efficiently your estate foreman obeys your commands.”

  Nassor’s grip on Mered’s arm tightened, and the linen keeper tried to stand taller, but his ribs were almost certainly broken.

  Mehy sat on his couch, expression unchanged. “Nassor, I could use a man like you at my new post. When I’m finished meeting with Mered, you and I will talk about your future.”

  The estate foreman shoved Mered through the door and puffed out his chest. “Thank you, Master Mehy. I’m honored. You won’t be sorry.”

  Mandai supported Mered with one arm and closed the heavy door with the other. “Don’t speak until we get to the bathhouse.” He kept his voice low and supported Mered’s left side.

  Mehy led the way and quickly cleared pillows off the bathhouse couch. Mered noticed the large scar across the boy’s left shoulder, well healed but evidence of a serious gash. He’d only seen the master once since the injury, soon after his return to the estate.

  “Your shoulder wound has healed well, Master Mehy.” Mered’s voice was breathy. Each word pained him.

  “I’m in better shape than you are at the moment.” Mehy lowered him to the couch. “I’m sorry, Mered. I thought assigning Nassor to escort you directly here would keep him from touching you.”

  Mered waved off his concern with his good hand, and Mandai eyed his broken fingers.

  “These don’t look so bad.” Mandai yanked them into place, and Mered screamed. “You see? They’re straight again.”

  Mehy pulled some reeds from the river and handed them to the Medjay. “Here, use these to wrap them.” Mandai went to work, and the master clapped a hand on Mered’s shoulder. “Wrap some linen around your chest when you return to the shop to support your ribs. Nassor is a brute. He’ll leave with me and Mandai in the morning on the troop ship to Nubia.”