by Angela Hunt
Dan stepped forward and held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Let us answer whatever questions he might ask. If we please him, we will soon be on our way from these loathsome, painted people.”
“We will answer all his questions truthfully.” Yehuda folded his arms as his gaze crossed Shim’on’s. “Look at the wealth of this place, of this man. See the guards at the doors, and remember the strong company of men who brought us here. Strength and power are on the side of this vizier, and we will not risk his anger.”
“I’ve looked around,” Shim’on snapped. “I’ve seen, I’ve heard, and it should all be cursed. The people here clothe themselves like their forefather Ham, who spied upon his father’s nakedness without remorse. They wear garments as thin as a spider’s web, covering their bodies without hiding them. Their women are clothed indecently, yet they walk with their heads held high as if they are proud of their shame. One merchant offered to sell me a kilt and bragged that it was as light as woven air.”
“Their habits are not our concern,” Levi inserted. “Let us satisfy this man and be gone.”
Shim’on opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when a trumpet blast ripped through the hall like the alarm of war. A dozen hulking lance bearers, each clothed in a snowy-white linen kilt and a leopard-skin belt, marched in double columns toward the front of the room. Only when they had parted and stepped aside could Shim’on see the trim, imposing figure who marched in the midst of them: the Egyptian, the vizier of the Two Kingdoms, the Father to Pharaoh and acting ruler of the Black Land.
The one called Zaphenath-paneah.
A whirlwind of emotions ripped through Yosef’s soul as he stared into the faces of the Canaanites. His network of spies had been alerted to watch for men from Hebron, and this time they had actually snagged his brothers. Ani reported there were ten—who was missing? Binyamin, without a doubt. The others had either thrust him out, killed him or left him at home with Yaakov. Why? Did they still hate the sons of Rahel, the true and beloved wife? Or had their hate been reserved for him alone?
Ceaseless questions hammered at him, but he could not speak. He stared at his brothers, his eyes narrowing. Joy, be still! Dread, contain yourself! Laughter, tears, be gone! This is not the time to voice emotion; it is a time to be wary and carefully take the measure of men capable and guilty of murder, malice and monumental jealousy.
Twenty-two years had passed since he had last seen these who were his own flesh and blood—more than half his lifetime—yet the memory of their treachery rose before him as fresh as the morning breeze off the Nile. He would never forget a single detail of that day and night at Dotan: the pit, the pain of his broken arm, his brothers’ taunting jests and their expressions, which ranged from indifference to smirks of delight. His gaze darted to Levi’s hand, which had clutched his many-colored robe, then shifted to Shim’on’s fist, which had gripped a hungry dagger. As the images focused in his memory, the old anguish of knowing that his father mourned seared Yosef’s heart again.
Though his mind burned with memories, he fixed his face into stern lines, determined that they should not see beyond the painted shadows of his eyes or the thick texture of his wig. Thinking of the multicolored garment they had torn from his back, he fingered the pleated linen of his spotless vizier’s robe. A flicker of irrational fear licked at his heart, then resolve overrode all emotions.
What could they do to him now, these sons of Yisrael? They had stared at him for a full five minutes, and not one had recognized him as their long-lost half brother. Apprehension glimmered on their faces; drops of sweat glistened above Re’uven’s lined lip. Yehuda kept his eyes to the ground as if shame held him on a leash; Yissakhar, Zevulun and Dan leaned heavily upon their staves, their eyes hooded. Shim’on and Levi stood with defiant fists clenched; Gad, Asher and Naftali cowered like children about to be punished.
Almighty God, how am I supposed to address them?
A dim ripple ran across his mind; a long-forgotten dream materialized and focused. He and his brothers had been binding sheaves of wheat in the field, and their sheaves had animated themselves and bowed down to his.
Yosef uttered an abrupt order to the captain of his guard: “Tell them to bow.”
Tarik heard the undercurrent of emotion in his master’s voice and barked out the command: “Bow before the royal majesty of Zaphenath-paneah, Father to the divine Pharaoh, Sustainer of Breath, the Bread of Life!”
He was not certain how much the Canaanites understood, but they could not mistake the tone of his voice. They fell to their knees on the tiled floor, one or two moving more slowly than the others. Tarik thought he spied an expression of resentment upon the face of the largest, most muscular man, but it vanished when one of the guards lifted his lance and stepped forward.
“We will need a skilled interpreter,” the vizier said, keeping his voice so low only Tarik could hear. “These men speak the Canaanite tongue. Though you have managed well thus far, Tarik, I would not miss a single shade of meaning in their words.”
“The woman who serves your wife speaks Canaanite,” Tarik volunteered.
“Good. Send someone to fetch Mandisa.” As Tarik gave the order and jerked his head toward one of the guards at the door, his master completed his appraisal of the men before him with a cool look, then turned with regal grace toward the gilded chair in the center of the room.
The guard fled with the speed of a gazelle and returned a moment later with Lady Asenath’s handmaid. Tarik noticed that Mandisa flushed as she entered the room, her gaze darting from her master to the prostrate men on the floor.
At a careful distance from the Canaanites, Mandisa bowed before the vizier. “May I serve you, my lord?”
“Stand, Mandisa, and interpret whatever these men say.” Zaphenath-paneah sank into his chair as his dark eyes moved over the group. “Do not spare a word for their sakes, but speak truthfully and honestly.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Mandisa stood and turned so she faced both the Canaanites and her master. After a moment’s hesitation, the vizier spoke in a deep tone Tarik had never heard. “From where have you come?” he demanded in the Egyptian tongue. Mandisa interpreted and waited for a response.
For a moment no one answered, then a gray-haired man in the midst of the men lifted his head. He did not speak as rapidly as Mandisa, and Tarik had no trouble understanding the Canaanite’s halting words. “Tell your master that we are from Hebron, in the land of Canaan. Like so many others presently in your city, we have come to buy grain.”
After hearing the interpretation, Zaphenath-paneah shifted his weight as if to establish perspective, then folded his arms and shook his head. “No. You are spies. You have come to look at the undefended parts of our land.”
“No!” another man cried after hearing Mandisa’s reply. He lifted his shaggy head, but remained on the floor, cringing like a scolded puppy. “Assure him, we have come only to buy food. We are not spies. We are honest brothers, all the sons of one man.”
Mandisa repeated their assurances. The master’s eyes flashed with some indefinable feeling, then he wrapped his hands around the arms of his gilded chair. “Tell them,” he said, his body tensing, “that I am certain they have come to spy out the nakedness of the land. We are in the midst of famine. They want to take advantage of our weakness.”
Tarik put his hand to his sword as Mandisa spoke the interpretation.
“This is crazy!” The muscled man with angry eyes lifted his head and shoulders as if he would rise to challenge the master. Tarik was about to step forward and answer with a blow, but another brother silenced the loud one with a reproachful glance.
“Tell your master,” the more reasonable man continued, “that we are his servants. We are twelve brothers in all, the sons of one man who lives in Hebron.”
The captain caught his breath. Already they had lied.
“You are ten!” he shouted, stepping forward.
“Tell your master,” the careful m
an went on, bowing his head, “that we are not twelve today because our youngest brother is with his wife and children, at home with our father in Hebron. And our other brother…is no more.”
Mandisa began to interpret the man’s words, but something in Zaphenath-paneah’s expression worried Tarik. A suspicious line had etched itself into the corners of the master’s mouth, and the vizier’s eyes gleamed strangely—Were they wet, or was the sunlight from the high windows playing tricks upon Tarik’s eyes?
“They are not twelve today,” Mandisa said, as Tarik observed an unusual ripple of passion beneath the polished exterior of the master’s handsome countenance, “because their younger brother is home with their father—”
“You say your father lives, but you are old men,” the vizier interrupted in a harsh, raw voice. “How can I know you speak the truth?”
After Mandisa interpreted, the silver-haired one lifted his head. “As I live, my father was alive when we left him. I am Re’uven, my lord, the firstborn. If I am lying, you may take my life.”
“I will hear no more,” Zaphenath-paneah said, interrupting the translation. As the Canaanite men lay with their foreheads pressed to the ground, the vizier closed his eyes, his jaw clenching.
Something tightened in Tarik’s chest. There was more to this encounter than he knew, something awesome and mysterious and hidden. A warning voice whispered in the captain’s head as Zaphenath-paneah’s chiseled face distorted with anger.
“No!” he shouted, his voice ringing in the great hall as he leaped to his feet. “It is as I said, you are spies, and by your own speech you will be tested. As Pharaoh lives, you shall not leave this place unless your youngest brother comes here to prove your words!”
Zaphenath-paneah slapped his hands together in an explosive sound; the unexpected gesture startled an aproned page who waved an ostrich-feathered fan at the vizier’s side. “I will release one of you that he may bring your brother to me, but the rest of you shall remain confined,” the vizier pronounced, an artery throbbing in his neck as he surveyed the men before him. “We will see whether there is truth in you. If you are lying, even in this, then by the life of Pharaoh you are spies. ”
The vizier did not wait for the interpretation, but swept out of the reception hall. Tarik hesitated, then hurried after his master. Behind him, he could hear Mandisa quavering through the translation of the master’s last words.
Zaphenath-paneah stopped in the hallway. “Tarik?” he asked, not turning.
“My lord, I am here.”
The vizier squared his shoulders as if an invisible enemy stood before him. “Take them to Pharaoh’s prison in the house of the captain of the royal guard. They shall spend this night in the prison pits.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Tarik nodded in a quick bow, then hurried back to the hall. Upon entering, he motioned for the lance-bearers to ready their spears.
“By the command of the Lord Zaphenath-paneah, Vizier of the Two Kingdoms,” he called, his voice crisp and clear in the Canaanite language, “you shall be confined in Pharaoh’s prison.” To reinforce his meaning, he pulled his sword from its sheath.
“Confined?” One of the brothers rose to his knees, his face clouding with fear. “For how long must we remain? Our families are starving, our father will worry.”
A half smile tugged at Tarik’s lips. “You will remain in Pharaoh’s prison until Zaphenath-paneah is inclined to show mercy.”
Chapter Three
“T ell me, Mandisa,” Asenath urged, her lovely eyes filled with dark trepidation, “what is it about these Canaanites that disturbs my husband so? He came into my chamber after seeing them, and his countenance was much troubled.”
Mandisa turned away to lift her mistress’s full wig from its stand, hoping the younger woman wouldn’t see the anxiety in her own eyes. The afternoon had been totally unnerving. First she had embarrassed herself by spying on the visiting herdsmen; then the master had asked her to interpret their words. Standing before them, feeling their eyes upon her, she had relived her humiliation all over again.
“I’m not certain why these men are troublesome, but they are,” Mandisa answered, taking pains to keep her voice steady. “Perhaps the master has heard rumors of Canaanites who plan to attack Egypt. But these are things we need not concern ourselves with, my lady.”
“My husband has dealt with rumors of war before,” Asenath answered, studying her reflection in a bronze looking brass as Mandisa pulled the wig over her lady’s close-cropped hair. “And he has never held such worries close to his heart. Something happened today, Mandisa, that shook my dear one to the core. Though he pretended nothing was amiss, his hands trembled when he came to see me, and his eyes were as remote as the stars.” She pressed her lips together as she lowered the looking brass. “Tarik would know what troubles my beloved.”
“I dare say the captain of the guard does not know more of my lord’s heart than you,” Mandisa replied. “My master shares with Tarik all things concerning the governance of Pharaoh’s house, city and country, but matters of the heart he reserves for you alone.”
Asenath turned and lifted a questioning brow. “Were these men so unusual? Were they disfigured or sick? Did they display some sorcery that upset my husband?”
“They were ordinary herdsmen, my lady.” Mandisa lowered her hand to her mistress’s soft shoulder. “When I lived in Canaan, I saw hundreds of men like them, rough as the wind and as steady as the sun. No, there was nothing in their appearance or manner to disturb the master.”
At the sound of leather slapping against tile, Mandisa pulled away, prostrating herself on the floor as Zaphenath-paneah entered the room. Asenath bowed her head, but when Mandisa looked up, she saw her mistress peeking through the fringe of her bangs, keeping a wary gaze on her pacing husband.
“I said I would keep nine and send one back to Canaan,” the master muttered, thrusting his hands behind his back. He spoke in the Canaanite tongue, amazing Mandisa with his fluency. If he spoke it so well, why had he needed her to interpret? And whom was he addressing now? His wife did not understand the language of Canaan.
“Something in me demands that they suffer the darkness of the prison pits for as long as I did,” he went on, speaking to the air. “I wonder if they are tasting the fear that filled my mouth, even my heart, when they turned their backs on me. But they are grown men, and I was only a boy—”
“My husband?” Asenath interrupted, her voice a mere squeak in the room.
The vizier stopped pacing and looked at the women as if seeing them for the first time. “I am sorry, my dear,” he said, speaking in careful Egyptian. “And, Mandisa, you may rise. I forgot to thank you for your help this morning.”
“It is an honor to serve you, my lord,” Mandisa said, standing. Her heart yearned to ask for an explanation, but though the vizier ran a remarkably easygoing household, a well-trained servant did not inquire after her master’s business.
Asenath rose from the low stool and crossed to her husband’s side. “My lord, your skin is cold,” she said, pulling his hands into hers. “And you are trembling! Shall you not tell me what has upset you?”
He looked at her. For a moment Mandisa thought he would speak, but he only gave her a slow, sad smile. “You are so young,” he whispered, brushing the back of his hand across her curved cheek. “Why should I burden you with sorrows of the past? Bring my boys to me, Asenath, let me play an hour with Efrayim and Menashe. They always lighten my heart…they help me forget.”
Asenath pulled away to fetch her sons from their schoolroom. Mandisa was about to follow when the master stopped her with a question. “Mandisa, know you of El Shaddai?”
A terrible tenseness seized her. The master was speaking again in the Canaanite language, and he spoke the name of a God she had never expected to hear in this Black Land.
“My lord?” she stammered, her tongue thick and unwilling.
“I know you were not born in Mizraim,” Zaphena
th-paneah answered, using the Canaanite word for Egypt. He lowered himself to his wife’s stool. “But, like me, you have adopted this land as your own.”
“My husband was Egyptian,” she said. “And my son is thus an Egyptian, so I never thought to go anywhere else.”
“There will come a time,” the master went on, still speaking the foreign tongue, “when my sons will not think of themselves as Egyptian, for I am not of this place. Like you, I was brought into this country as a stranger. I was born Yosef, the son of Yaakov, the son of Yitzhak. When last I saw my father, he had settled in Hebron.”
Mandisa’s breath caught in her lungs. “I have heard of this Yaakov. He was a prince in the land of Canaan. My father said Yaakov was rich in possessions, servants, cattle and flocks. The elders of my village called him a wise man filled with the knowledge of God.”
The beginning of a smile tipped the corners of the vizier’s mouth. “So you knew Yaakov as a prince?”
“And as a distant kinsman, my lord. My father’s uncle was Uz of Aram, and his father, Laban, the father of Lea and Rahel.”
“My father’s wives.” To her surprise, the vizier showed little reaction to her announcement that they shared a common heritage. Though he smiled, the weight of apprehension did not lift from his strong face. “And so the Almighty works again in ways I cannot fathom. But you have not yet answered my question, Mandisa. What do you know of El Shaddai, the God worshipped by Yaakov of Canaan?”
She shook her head. “My family knew of him, my lord, but my father and my father’s father worshipped other gods.” She lowered her gaze. “I often heard stories of how Yaakov’s God increased his flocks and brought his wives to bear many sons, but my family did not make sacrifices to El Shaddai.”
The vizier tipped his face to a stream of sunlight pouring through one of the high windows. “I have not ceased to pray to God Shaddai since I came to the Black Land,” he said, a spark of some indefinable feeling in his eyes. “He lifted me out of prison and slavery and made me sit at Pharaoh’s right hand. More than that, He saved Egypt, perhaps even the entire world, from this famine that shall continue for another five years. Until today I thought God’s plans for me had been fulfilled. But an hour ago I looked out upon the faces of Yaakov’s sons—my treacherous brothers.”