Zipporah, Wife of Moses

by Marek Halter

  IN the middle of the afternoon, while Moses was asleep, children came running. “One of Pharaoh’s spies!” they cried. “They’ve caught one of Pharaoh’s spies!”

  The square filled with people. A short, middle-aged man with thick eyebrows was dragged before Aaron. He was dressed in the tunic common to the Hebrews, but his hair, his mouth, and, above all, his cheeks, with the merest shadow of a beard, clearly indicated that he was an Egyptian. Zipporah, who had approached with Yokeved, saw a touch of fear in his deep, dark eyes. Those who held him were handling him roughly. Then Aaron asked him who he was, and he rose to his full height and looked straight at Aaron. It was clear to everyone that this was a man who had once been accustomed to being obeyed.

  “Senemiah, guardian of the corridor to the mighty Hatshepsut,” he replied without any attempt at evasion, and with the barest trace of an accent.

  These words, and the composure with which they were uttered, silenced those who had been shouting a moment earlier. Even Aaron seemed impressed. He sought the support of Miriam, who was just then approaching. She was taller than the Egyptian. She looked him up and down, and coolly lifted her hair to reveal her scar, as if she wanted the man to get a good, hard look at her. She gave a brief laugh, a laugh that mixed indignation with contempt. “You seem to have lost your way, then, spy. Your queen is no more.”

  “No, she lives!” Senemiah protested. “Her death is only a rumor spread by Thutmose. She lives, I swear it, by Amon!”

  “Don’t swear on the name of your filthy god here!” Aaron thundered.

  Senemiah waved his hands as if to erase the words. “Forgive me! Hatshepsut wishes you no harm.”

  Miriam laughed again. “I know Hatshepsut, and I know what she wishes for us—if she still lives, as you claim.”

  Senemiah looked at her in surprise—as did Zipporah and some of the others present. “I’m not here to spy on you,” he said, turning to Aaron. “I’ve come to see Moses.”

  A murmur of astonishment went through the square. Zipporah felt Yokeved’s hand grip her arm. She turned to the old woman and saw that her face was distorted with fear. But before she could react, Moses’ voice rang out, full of gaiety and warmth: “Senemiah! Senemiah! My friend!”

  Eyes still puffy from his interrupted sleep, Moses came hurrying out of the house and, heedless of the others, ran to the newcomer. Everyone stood rooted to the spot, watching the unthinkable: Moses greeting the Egyptian, taking him in his arms, kissing him, clasping him to his chest with cries of joy and affection.

  Moses became aware of the heavy silence around him. He looked at the faces, the mouths wide with astonishment, and smiled, hesitantly at first, then with more open amusement. “Have no fear,” he said. “Have no fear; Senemiah is a friend. He was my master when I was a child. He taught me many things. He scolded and chastised me, as a good teacher should.” Moses laughed again and squeezed Senemiah’s shoulder. “Most important of all,” he said, in a more serious voice, “Senemiah risked his own life to help me flee from Thutmose.”

  His words did nothing to lessen the general embarrassment. His eyes sought Zipporah’s. Gently, she removed her arm from Yokeved’s grip and approached him.

  “Moses,” Miriam said, “we have no friends among the Egyptians. They pretend to help us one day and betray us the next.”

  “And why is he wearing Hebrew garments?” Aaron asked, with a grimace of mistrust.

  “Because I’m fleeing Thutmose and his spies,” Senemiah replied curtly, all his fear gone now. “And because it was the only way I could get to see Moses.”

  “And what do you want with Moses?” Miriam asked. “Why should Moses make you brave enough to slip in among us like an eel?”

  There were laughs and jeers in support of Miriam’s sarcasm.

  Moses raised his hand, his face set hard. “I have said that Senemiah is my friend! Show him some respect and let him speak.”

  Miriam closed her eyes, as if Moses had slapped her. Zipporah, fascinated, could not take her eyes off that terrible, severe, inscrutable face, on which the scar seemed to grow darker, seemed to become a living, menacing thing.

  The elders had moved to surround Aaron, forming a majestic halo of white beards around his severe figure.

  “Hatshepsut is alive,” Senemiah said to Moses, his urgent voice insistent. “She’s waiting for you. She wants to see you.”

  Moses stifled a cry.

  “It’s a trap set by Pharaoh,” Miriam said, pointing at Senemiah. “How do you know he isn’t lying?”

  Moses did not appear to hear her, any more than he felt Zipporah slip her hand into his. “So it’s true!” he murmured. “She’s alive?”

  “Thutmose is keeping her prisoner in her palace. But she’s alive. At least for a few more days. She wants to see you before she dies, Moses.”

  The silence was now heavier than ever. Zipporah, still holding Moses’ hand, felt his body shaking. He seemed indifferent to the mood of the crowd. He gave a start when Miriam said, “You can’t go there; it’s impossible.”

  The elders nodded and murmured their approval of Miriam’s words.

  “Now is not the time,” Aaron said. “It’s over, Moses; you’re not an Egyptian anymore.”

  Zipporah saw horror and incomprehension on the faces of the elders, of Aaron and Miriam, and of the villagers. How could Moses hesitate? How could Moses pay any attention to what the Egyptian said?

  But Moses looked at Senemiah. “So she knows I came back?”

  Senemiah nodded. “She’s known for more than a moon,” he said, in an urgent voice. “It’s what’s keeping her alive. But we must leave without delay. Arrangements have been made for you to get into the villa tonight. Tomorrow, it’ll be too late.”

  “Moses! Moses!” Miriam cried. “Why should you care about the woman who stole you from your mother? The woman who stole your life and will be punished by Yahweh tomorrow?”

  Moses recoiled from the violence of her words. He became aware of Zipporah’s hand in his and gripped it hard.

  Aaron stepped forward, his arm raised. “Miriam is right, Moses! Are you forgetting your duty? What does the woman who was Pharaoh matter to you? It’s over. Your place is no longer there.”

  Around Aaron the old men muttered their agreement. “It would be an insult to all of us,” one of them declared.

  “An insult?” Moses retorted, his voice as heavy as stone. “An insult for me to see the woman who rescued me and kept me alive when I was a baby?” He raised his hand, with Zipporah’s hand still in it, and shook it angrily. “Didn’t my mother, Yokeved, reject the death foreseen by Pharaoh so that I could live? And didn’t it take the love of another mother to save me? Where is the insult in so much love, venerable elders?”

  The only answer was an icy silence. Miriam, her eyes aflame, put her fists together as if about to bring them down like a hammer. Yokeved placed her hand over Miriam’s, then turned to Aaron and the elders.

  “Listen to the word of Moses. What he says is right. I entrusted my firstborn to the river and prayed for a woman to find him. I prayed for her to love him as I loved him. Remember, Miriam! Calm your anger, my child; you prayed just as I did. Listen to Moses. Hatshepsut is going to meet her god, and she wants to have Moses’ face in her eyes when she goes. There is nothing wrong in that. It is only fair.”

  “Nothing wrong?” one of the elders thundered. “What are you thinking of, woman? The Egyptian woman is going to meet her god, you say? But her god is nothing but lies and darkness, and an insult to Yahweh!”

  Moses was about to fly into another rage, but it was Zipporah’s anger, so long held back, that now exploded.

  “Are you all incapable of trust? You roll the names of Moses and the Lord Yahweh around in your mouths, but you might as well be drinking milk diluted with stagnant water! For days and days, you’ve been getting drunk on Moses’ words and the words Yahweh spoke to him. Oh yes! You’re all drunk, but you’re all deaf, too! Do you think there is now
one gesture Moses makes, one word he speaks, that hasn’t been willed by the Lord Yahweh? The Everlasting said to Moses: ‘Go, I am sending you to Pharaoh. You will not be alone. I shall be your mouth. . . .’ Do you think those are idle words, mere chatter on which you can endlessly give your opinions? For days, Moses has been telling you the Lord Yahweh’s will. But you continue to act as if his words were merely words! Don’t you understand that what must take place started a long time ago, even before Moses reached the land of Midian? And that nothing, nothing can prevent it? You must have trust! If the Everlasting did not want Moses to go to Hatshepsut, would she still be alive? Or don’t you believe your God has that power?”

  These last words were greeted with astonishment, exasperation, and anger.

  “How dare you speak to us like that, you who are not of our people?” cried Miriam, with unrestrained fury. “Do you think you can teach us anything, stranger? Don’t you know that the people of your race bow down to Pharaoh and bear arms for him when he orders it?”

  “Miriam!” Moses roared. “Be careful what you say.”

  “For too long, you have let yourself be swayed by the dreams of Midian, brother,” Miriam retorted, clearly with no intention of keeping silent. “They may indeed have been sweet dreams. But now you are back among your people, and it is your people you must hear. Open your eyes, Moses, listen to the elders, free yourself of the errors you have been taught. The people of Midian weren’t Joseph’s people, and they are not yours now.”

  Zipporah could see how easily Moses might be swayed by his sister’s sophistry and stepped in. “Don’t let yourself be blinded, Moses. They always trot out these old stories. Do you really think the man who is to be a god to his brother Aaron could have taken a wife the Lord Yahweh did not want him to take? When the Lord Yahweh turns his eyes on me, does he look right through me, like the breeze blowing through a leafless tree? Am I, the wife of Moses, the mother of his sons, the woman who circumcised Eliezer, merely a shadow ignored by the Everlasting?”

  They all lowered their eyes. Only Miriam sustained her gaze, but this time she said nothing.

  Moses turned to Senemiah. “Take me to Hatshepsut. I’ll follow you.”

  He was still holding Zipporah’s hand in his.

  ZIPPORAH smelled the strange smell while they were still on the river, huddled in the bottom of the boat. It was a peppery, carnal, animal smell, which aroused in her a strange mixture of attraction and repulsion.

  It was dark. The reflections of hundreds of torches and bowls of burning pitch undulated on the surface of the river. By their light, the walls and roofs of huge palaces could be seen, with gates and landing stages and, at regular intervals, sculptures with painted faces and wide-open eyes that seemed to withstand the night.

  Senemiah murmured a few words in the Egyptian language. The two oarsmen responded in unison and pointed the stem of the boat toward an area where no light shone.

  “We’re nearly there,” Moses whispered in Zipporah’s ear. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”

  In the darkness, Zipporah replied with a smile in which there was no anxiety.

  “Watch out!” Senemiah suddenly whispered. “A sail!”

  Moses and Zipporah moved further down into the bottom of the boat. The two oarsmen did not slow down as a felucca glided past along the other bank, going toward the southern part of the city. Peering over the rail of the boat, Zipporah saw figures dancing on the deck of the felucca in the light of torches. Laughter, the sound of flutes, and the beating of drums echoed on the water.

  A moment later, their own boat entered the dark area and the oarsmen rowed faster. Like a shadow within a shadow, the boat glided alongside a landing. An animal yelped somewhere. Two figures loomed up and brought the boat to a standstill. Senemiah jumped out. “Quick, quick.”

  Moses lifted Zipporah and set her down on the landing. By the time he joined her, the boat was already moving away. Zipporah felt Moses’ hands on the small of her back. They broke into a run, their sandals echoing on the flagstones. She looked back to see the boat enter the blurred halo of the torches. The strange smell, more intense and pungent than ever, caught her by the throat. A door closed soundlessly behind them.

  “Wait,” Senemiah whispered. “I’m going to make sure everything’s all right.”

  He vanished into the blackness. Her eyes accustomed now to the dark, Zipporah realized that they were in a vast garden. The murmuring of a fountain could be heard, and the rustling of foliage in the light breeze. Zipporah had to stop herself from coughing. Her throat was inflamed by the smell, which here left a taste of dust in the mouth.

  “Frankincense!” Moses whispered. He guessed that Zipporah was looking up at him. “What you smell is frankincense,” he said, softly, with amused tenderness. “My mother Hatshepsut has always sworn by it! It’s obtained from trees in this garden—thirty of them. Apparently, Thutmose hasn’t had the courage to remove them.”

  Zipporah had no time to ask him the question that came to her lips. Footsteps approached, and a small lantern swayed before them.

  “Come!” Senemiah whispered. “All is well.”

  The garden was so large, they could easily have got lost in it if Senemiah had not been guiding them. They went through a door into an antechamber. It was a dark room, lit only by lanterns held by two young handmaids, who bowed low to Moses and whispered words that Zipporah did not understand. Ahead, Senemiah was already opening another door, which was twice as high and had gold corners. They went through it into another antechamber, better lit this time, full of draperies and low columns supporting painted wooden sculptures of men and women wearing transparent tunics and necklaces of blue stones, their raised arms reaching up to the dark ceiling.

  The smell here was stronger than ever, and the air was thick with blue smoke, but neither Senemiah nor the handmaids seemed to mind. He stepped across the purple rugs, went behind the columns, and pulled on a drape. Light flooded across the floor. Senemiah bowed low and remained in that position.

  Moses, his arm now shaking, led Zipporah into the next room. Once there, Zipporah had to press her hands to her mouth to stop herself from crying out.

  IN the middle of a huge, bare room, Hatshepsut lay on a half-raised slab of green granite. She was naked, except for a gold plate over her pubis. Her body glistened with a thick film of frankincense oil the color of amber, which covered every inch of her flesh.

  In the harsh glow of the torches, she looked as if she were made of bronze. Her body showed all the ravages of old age, while her face, which she was straining to turn toward Moses and Zipporah, was surprisingly young. Her almond-shaped eyes, each with a thick black line under it, were so perfect, her brow—beneath a headdress of blue and red tufts and an ostrich tassel—so smooth, her chin so round and soft, that Zipporah thought at first it was only a mask. But the eyelids lowered, the mouth opened, and a sigh emerged from her throat, to indicate that there was still a little life left there.

  Opposite the woman who had been Pharaoh, as if in a mirror, on a slab identical to the one beneath her, lay a sculpture of painted wood, as naked as she was, but with a youthful body and, on its head, a leather cap adorned with the long, twisting horns of a ram and two ostrich feathers. Around Hatshepsut, a few paces behind her, between the bowls of burning frankincense, a dozen handmaids stood with their heads bowed, motionless despite the overpowering smell.

  Hatshepsut sighed again, then made a soft sound that vibrated in the air like a cry. Moses nodded and stepped forward. Zipporah, overwhelmed by everything around her, remained rooted to the spot.

  Moses stopped a few paces from the old woman’s glistening body. “Yes, it’s me, Mother Hatshepsut,” he said. “It’s Moses.”

  Hatshepsut’s mouth fell open. Zipporah thought she was going to cry out. But no sound emerged, and her mouth slowly closed. Zipporah realized, aghast, that Hatshepsut had just laughed.

  For a time, with her eyes fixed on Moses, the old woman’s face ag
ain became a mask, although her chest continued to rise and fall violently, shimmering in the light of the torches, and her curiously short fingers moved against her hips. Zipporah wondered what she was feeling at that moment: pain or pleasure. Then the queen’s throat quivered, and words emerged from between her half-open lips. “Amon is great, my son. He has given me your light so that I can join him.”

  Moses gave a forced smile in agreement.

  Hatshepsut regained her breath. “Did you meet her?” she asked, her voice clearer now.

  “Yes,” Moses replied, without hesitation.

  “How lucky she is.”

  Zipporah realized that they were talking about Yokeved.

  Moses inclined his body a little. “I’m happy to see you, Mother Hatshepsut.”

  Her face, which seemed not to belong to her body, briefly quivered with denial. “I would have liked to be beautiful for you, son of my heart. But even frankincense cannot help Hatshepsut now.” She paused for breath. “You, too, are different.”

  Moses nodded, with a little smile. “I am Moses the Hebrew.”

  Again, Hatshepsut made one of the grimaces that served as her smiles. Zipporah was suddenly aware of the extraordinary complicity between Moses and the old queen, so evident in the way they looked at each other.

  “Thutmose is cruel and cunning,” Hatshepsut whispered.

  “I know.”

  “More than you know. He won’t yield.”

  “He’ll have to.”

  “He hates you.”

  “He’ll be weak.”

  “May your God hear you.” Again she had to stop for breath. The only sound in the room was the sputtering of the incense. Suddenly, Hatshepsut fluttered her eyelids and looked at Zipporah. “Approach, daughter of Cush,” she said, in a clear voice.

  Moses was as startled as Zipporah. He turned to her and held out his hand. Hesitantly, Zipporah stepped forward. She avoided looking at the queen’s body, but it was her eyes and mouth she feared.