Counted With the Stars

by Connilyn Cossette

  She talked over him. “As he should not.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do you doubt Pharaoh?” Her voice dropped so low I almost missed her words.

  “I don’t know, Wife, I don’t know. But I fear this may only be the beginning.”

  They must have walked into another chamber, for I heard no more of their conversation. When Tekurah exited a few minutes later, she did not see me. Soft-footed, I followed and slipped into her room behind her, hoping she would think I had been waiting there all the time.

  To my surprise, she was so deep in thought that when she turned and saw me she startled.

  “What are you doing skulking there?” she snapped.

  “Just waiting for your direction, mistress.” I dipped my head.

  “Direction. You want my direction?” Her voice smoothed as she stared across the room at the paradise-decorated wall.

  She blinked, slowly, but did not look at me. “Fine. Go get my meal; I will be eating in my quarters. Then go sit in the hall until I’m ready to give you more . . . direction.”

  I fled the room. Tekurah’s many personalities were well known to me. But this one—calm, deep in thought—I had not yet met. This one could be the most dangerous of all.

  Tekurah did not beckon me into her room all evening, so I sat in the hall, studying the intricate blue-and-red mosaic patterns on the floor around me, considering the fruits of my eavesdropping.

  Something truly unprecedented was happening to our country. Shefu had said Pharaoh was angry at Mosheh, but could there be fear underneath the bluster?

  Perhaps Pharaoh feared this Hebrew god.

  Perhaps we all should fear this god.

  I rose well before the dawn. Tekurah had tossed and turned far into the night; she would sleep late. I had thought all the gods were against me, but some divinity must be my ally.

  A hush enveloped the entire city. Usually as I walked to the canal before the sun rose, the sounds of the morning greeted me—the hum of insects in the brush, the racket of birds and animals stirring to life before the first touch of light exploded into the eastern sky.

  But this day there was nothing, only eerie silence. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

  I quickened my pace, heading to my rock by the head of the path, hoping I would not have to wait long for Shira’s brother.

  But he waited there for me today. He must have received the message I sent through Hashma.

  Back turned, he stood as still as the morning, only his disheveled hair ruffling in the cool breeze. He was not tall, but slight did not define him. He built fine instruments, his shoulders solid from hewing wood, and his bare arms, though lean, were well formed.

  “Thank you for coming.” I shrank at the sound of my voice, too loud for this lifeless day.

  He looked over his shoulder. “Why are you doing this?”

  This man refused to return pleasantries. My reticence at raising my voice vanished. “I told you why. She is my friend. I can’t stand to see her imprisoned. Our mistress is hateful. I’m afraid she will hurt Shira.”

  He turned. The haze of predawn light obscured his face, but during the long pause, he seemed to be searching mine. “What is your plan?”

  “Be ready to meet her in the front garden at sunset.”

  “How will I get past the guard at the gate?”

  “Here”—I pulled a parcel out of my empty water jar and handed it to him—“Tekurah is expecting this wig to be delivered today. I did not tell her it arrived yesterday, a fortunate mix-up. Tell the guard you are from the wigmaker and your master insists you deliver it to Tekurah’s maid.”

  “And how will you get her out of the house? Your message said she is being held captive.” Eben raked his dark hair back with one hand.

  “She is. But the guard wants . . .” I stopped.

  “I don’t have any silver, if that’s what you are planning.”

  “No. He wants . . . me.” I looked away. The sky blushed pink as dawn pushed the last of the night away.

  Why was he so silent?

  When I finally gathered the courage to look at him, he shook his head, rubbing a hand down his bearded cheek with a groan. “This is dangerous.”

  “She’s worth it.”

  He stepped closer, looking straight into my eyes. I drew in a sharp breath but forced myself not to step back and to return his gaze. He pressed his lips together and glanced at mine. My pulse rushed in my ears, and my chest squeezed like a vice.

  “Yes . . . yes, she is.” His voice was tender, almost sweet. Then his intense gaze tore away from me suddenly, flicking behind me toward the rushes. Was Latikah spying again? “Don’t. Move.” The urgency in the order froze me.

  He whispered. “There is a cobra on the path behind you.”

  My arms and legs went numb as I imagined the hooded black-and-yellow-banded serpent sinking its fangs into my heel. The deadly creature was aggressive and quick. I had learned early in my servitude to be aware at all times when passing through the fields, especially on unseasonably warm days like today.

  Eben’s hand went to his belt, and he pulled an ivory-handled dagger from a leather sheath. With one deft motion, the knife hissed through the air and past my shoulder, taking my breath with it.

  “There.” He blew out a sigh.

  I peeked over my shoulder and then whirled, stunned and panting at the release of my fear. The snake lay dead, the dagger protruding from its twisted body, ten paces from where I stood.

  My pulse still raced as I turned on Eben in surprise. “How did you hit it from so far away?”

  He shrugged, but his lips quirked. Pride? Or amusement at my disbelief? “Years of practice.”

  “But . . . y-you are a musician,” I stammered.

  The storm gathered in his eyes again. “I am also the son of a murdered father. Justice demands blood for blood, and I will not let my family go unprotected.”

  The sun came up at his back as I studied his face. Why was he still standing so close? My heart fluttered a strange rhythm, and a temptation to close the gap between us pulled at me.

  He swayed closer, his eyes dark, and then he hesitated, as though he had something more to say, but instead he brushed past me to retrieve his dagger and then walked away. I watched until he disappeared around a bend in the trail.

  As I neared Tekurah’s chamber, the head steward flew around a corner. He knocked me against the wall, sloshing water out of my jug, and was gone before I could react. Where was he rushing off to?

  I entered the room, dripping wet and equipped with excuses for arriving late and with only half of her bath water. Tekurah was pacing the floor.

  “I don’t have time for a bath today. Dress me immediately.”

  Setting the jar by the door and relieved that she seemed not to notice my late arrival, I chanced a question. “May I ask, what is the commotion with the steward?”

  “The animals are dead.”

  “Dead? Which animals?”

  “All of them. Every single cow, pig, ram, and goat is lying in the fields, rotting.” Her tone was even and deadly.

  Mosheh.

  “The steward ran all the way in from Shefu’s fields south of town. All of our livestock is destroyed.” She spun her hand in the air, motioning for me to dress her quickly. “I have things I need to do. Get on with it.”

  When I’d finished dressing her and applying her cosmetics, she ordered me to go to the marketplace alone to buy a handful of items.

  Shefu’s house was not the only one in upheaval. Iunu boiled with chaos. Crowds pressed all around the temple. The courtyards overflowed again, everyone shouting at once.

  “I’ve lost everything!”

  “Why are the gods cursing us?”

  “Where is Pharaoh? Why isn’t he protecting us?”

  “Why is this happening?”

  Jostled by the swarm at the temple gates, I pressed through the river of people rushing to join the chaotic scene.

  A
nearly deserted market greeted me. Only a few brave customers and vendors spoke in hushed tones around their stalls.

  Liat and Sefora’s new sandals were ready, and I dropped off an usekh that needed mending with a Syrian craftsman known for his excellent handiwork. Next I had to find beeswax, almond oil, and kohl. Since the marketplace was so barren, I could visit my mother’s stall without being spotted by anyone who might report back to Tekurah. In spite of the strange and ominous cloud darkening this day, rays of hope broke through the gloom at the thought of seeing my mother and brother.

  Wooden stalls shaded by linen canopies lined the streets, laden with a colorful array of fruits and vegetables, platters of spices that burned my eyes as I passed, and stacks of linen, wool, and flax.

  When I found her, my mother was deep in conversation with an idol merchant in the adjacent stall.

  “. . . and the Hebrews are to blame.” The man waved a tiny soapstone figure of Osiris in rhythm with his sharp words. “None of their animals died. Not an ox, a lamb, or a goat. Only our livestock decay in the fields today.”

  The Hebrews’ fault. None of their animals died? How was it possible that our livestock would be singled out? And what would be the consequences of such a pointed and mystical distinction between Hebrews and Egyptians?

  My stomach dropped like a stone. Shira. I have to get to Shira.

  My mother called my name, but I was already running. I pushed through the crowd, screamed at people in my way. My toe jammed against a wayward stone, but I didn’t stop. No wonder Tekurah had sent me out on an errand alone. The memory of her strange behavior this morning urged me to move faster. What was she planning?

  The guard at the entry gate beckoned me, holding up a parcel that looked like the undelivered wig I had given Eben the day before. I ignored him and ran into the house, the heavy reed basket bumping along, bruising my hip. I cut across the kitchen courtyard, turned the corner, and ran down the hallway to the cellar stairs.

  No guard.

  I was too late. What had Tekurah done? Had Shira flogged? Oh, please not that. She is so fragile. The door to the cellar stood open.

  “Shira? Are you here?” I called into the blackness.

  No answer.

  “Shira?”

  “Well, hello there. Come back to see me?” a voice said behind me.

  Shocked, I nearly dropped the basket. The guard, key in hand, had returned to lock the door.

  “I am looking for Shira. Where has she been taken?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  He shrugged. “The mistress came and told her to go. Even gave her a written release from service.”

  My head spun. I blinked my eyes and leaned against the wall. “Tekurah?”

  “She told her to go back to her home and never come back.”

  “But why?” None of this made sense. If Tekurah blamed the Hebrews, and therefore Shira, for the plagues, why would she tell her to go instead of punishing her?

  “I do not know.” He lowered his voice. “But between the two of us, she sounded afraid. No . . . terrified. She wouldn’t even come close to the girl.”

  13

  Magic terrified my mistress. Twice daily she prayed in the household sanctuary—not out of religious fervor or devotion, but as protection from curses. And, like many Egyptians, if her desires went unheeded, she threatened her gods with desecration of likenesses or withdrawal of sacrifices. A fickle lot, the gods at times ignored even the most fervent of pleas. When offerings did not suffice, occasionally threats were offered instead.

  And never were more threats heard by Bastet than when Tekurah was covered in boils.

  “Bring the statue of my goddess.” Blisters ravaged her throat, so the command was only a rough whisper.

  Crossing the floor with tender lumps on the soles of my feet was like walking across fire. Each slow, deliberate step aggravated the boils in my armpits, my groin, even under my eyelids.

  Thankfully, Tekurah kept a figure of Bastet on her cosmetics table only a few paces from my bedroll. Wincing with every step, I brought it to her, and then, loath to return to my mat, I sat on the floor next to her bed, trying to hold my body still, measuring torture with each chafing movement.

  “Twenty years of allegiance, Bastet,” Tekurah rasped. “Daily homage. My house filled with your likeness. I treat your children, my cats, with respect. Don’t you hear? Heal me!”

  I studied the figure she addressed, the body of a woman with a desert-cat head. Was this goddess listening? Was she ignoring Tekurah? Were any of the gods listening? All the healing gods—Isis, Imhotep, Thoth—how could they allow everyone in this country to suffer these agonizing boils?

  Everyone, from the lowest slave to the Pharaoh himself, Shefu said, was beleaguered with horrible boils, some more afflicted than others. The priests suffered the most, with painful, oozing sores enveloping them.

  Tekurah commanded that I escort her daily to the temple to beg, plead, and bargain with the gods. We hobbled there, out of sheer necessity leaning on one another, relying on each other for warmth against the chill, and grateful the temple stood only two blocks away. Abscessing boils covered the worshippers lying prostrate in the outer courtyards. The incense-laden air lifted their moaned supplications into the heavens, where the gods resided among the stars. Or did their pleas simply vanish into nothing?

  Herbal remedies helped little. The priests offered incantations day and night to Isis and all the healing gods. But for days, everyone suffered horrific agony.

  Everyone but the Hebrews.

  When they proved untouched by the boils, it confirmed the rumors. Mosheh the sorcerer was at the heart of these plagues.

  Any Hebrews brave enough to venture out of their quarter were accosted in the streets. Some Egyptians threatened the gods in desperation, but most saved their more malicious warnings for the foreign slaves.

  My first instinct was to beg the gods for mercy. Intimidation of the deities seemed futile. Then I remembered that during the lice and fly infestations, those who relied upon the divinities, who wore amulets and burned incense in every corner of their homes, seemed most afflicted. I avoided the sanctuary, ignored the statuary, and the boils on my body were smaller and less numerous than most others in the household.

  Tekurah noticed too.

  “Did that Hebrew slave give you a spell? An incantation? Tell me what it is!” She pulled at my tunic, her grasp sending shattering pain radiating down my arm.

  “No, mistress. I have not spoken to Shira for many months.”

  “Liar! I had you watched. I know you were”—she ground her teeth—“friends with that slave.”

  I looked her in the eye, something I never did.

  “We were friends. But she is gone, and I have no contact with her. She gave me no incantation.”

  Or did she? Was I less affected because of my friendship with her? Had some sort of bewitchment rubbed off on me? I doubted it. The one thing Shira had shared with me were the stories of her people. She had entertained me with stories of foreign slaves with a faceless god who forbade them to deal in magic, curses, or dealings with the spirit world, or even associate with those who did so.

  Now all Egyptians lay on their beds, moaning and crying out to deaf gods. And the Hebrews had escaped unscathed.

  Thunder shook the house and the ground beneath our feet. Pottery tipped off shelves and shattered as crashing booms layered one behind another.

  Hail began to fall, pattering soft on the cedar roof between each enormous rumble of thunder. Soon the tap of ice on wood gave way to a steady thunk, thunk, thunk. I balanced on a stool to peek out one of the high windows in Tekurah’s bathing chamber. Dark clouds roiled. Chunks of frozen rain the size of my fist—jagged, spiked, and fierce—fell from the sky. One flew through the window and slammed into the wall next to me. I tumbled off the stool and fell hard onto the tile.

  Tekurah watched me, wide-eyed, naked and shivering on her bathing slab. />
  Lightning coupled with the thunder. An explosion ripped through the heavens, brilliant and constant, illuminating the room like a thousand candles. Another flash split the sky, and before I could cover my eyes, the lightning struck nearby, the jolt vibrating the ground.

  Shouts drew me into the hallway, which reeked of smoke. I grabbed the empty water jar by the door and ran toward the commotion.

  Shefu stood, stricken, in the open doorway at the back of the villa, his fists at his temples. Furious flames licked the sky. The treasury was on fire.

  The shed, which stood apart from this villa, housed the master’s greatest valuables and was guarded by four of Shefu’s most trusted men—men rewarded well enough to ensure they would not lust after the gold housed inside.

  “Master, what can I do?” Would he even hear me in the uproar?

  He looked over his shoulder, hollow-eyed. “Nothing can be done. The fire is too wild.” He turned back to watch the flames.

  “Will it threaten the house?”

  He shook his head.

  “I will get more water.” I ran to fetch some from the garden pool.

  When I opened the front door, my knees went weak. The storm had torn through the city with unparalleled speed and fury; astounding devastation lay in its wake.

  Shefu’s beautiful gardens were destroyed. Enormous chunks of ice had crushed the flower beds, stripped the palm branches, and ripped the climbing vines from the walls of the house. Ice covered the ground ankle-high.

  A scream of agony jolted me from my surprised paralysis, and I ran, undeterred by the misery of my still-tender feet, toward the sound.

  Tekurah knelt on the ground near Shefu, hands in the air, moaning and sobbing. All her jewels, her many collars, her bracelets, her earrings—everything was gone. The fire burned so hot that her riches would be reduced to fine puddles of gold and silver.

  Bites from flies, the burning itch of lice, and the misery of boils—all these my proud mistress could endure, but the loss of her finery broke her.

  Shefu was shrewd. He doubtless retained other places in which he spread out his store of gold. But this storm-of-all-storms would strike a great blow.