by Angela Hunt
Slender and poised, the woman stood in the slanting sunbeams from the high windows. The dark curls of her wig twisted and crinkled above glowing eyes that pierced the shadows of the room. A leather belt defined the smallness of her waist, and the apricot tones of her skin blended into the sheer material of a gown that did little to disguise the womanly curves beneath. She paused, her gaze flitting around the room before it locked with Shim’on’s. He caught his breath, but she dropped her eyes before his steady stare.
“What shall we do, my lord?” Re’uven’s voice jerked Shim’on back to reality.
The vizier’s voice rose in a commanding tone. “If you are honest men, let one of your brothers be confined in prison. But as for the rest of you, go, carry grain for the famine of your households. And when your food-rations are depleted, bring your youngest brother to me, so your words may be verified. If you are willing to do this, and you have not lied, you shall live.”
“Bring Binyamin?” Zevulun gasped. “It is impossible. Our father will never agree to let his youngest son go.”
The vizier listened to the translation, then managed a short laugh and a reply.
“Zaphenath-paneah says your brother is a grown man and married. He is no longer a child,” the woman interpreted. “You must bring your younger brother before the vizier of all Egypt.”
A flicker of apprehension coursed through Shim’on at the words your younger brother. Once the sons of Yisrael had known two younger brothers, but though Yosef still haunted Shim’on’s dreams, he was forever gone. Only Binyamin remained.
Re’uven responded to the interpreter’s words. “My lord, let me speak to my brothers.”
His request needed no interpretation. Apparently understanding, the stony-faced vizier nodded in assent.
Re’uven stood. Turning his back to the vizier, he looked at the others. “We must do as he says,” he murmured. “We have no choice.”
Yehuda’s brow creased with worry. “Father will never allow it. He would die himself before he would let us take Binyamin from Hebron.”
“Would you rather our father lose ten sons?” Levi snapped. “If we agree to this, we will have time to prepare Father for what must be done to appease this Egyptian.”
“Levi is right,” Dan added. “And the man has made a reasonable request. If we do not consent, we are practically admitting we have lied. The vizier will be convinced we are spies, and he may kill us all—now.” He lowered his gaze. “Perhaps we deserve death. After what happened at Dotan—”
“Dotan was more than twenty years ago,” Shim’on snapped, stiffening as though Dan had struck him. Though their absent brother’s name singed every conscience, if they did not speak of him, they would not have to remember. “Our father has put the past behind him.”
“Our father has not ceased to mourn for Yosef,” Re’uven interrupted. His voice, cold and exact, echoed in the cavernous hall. “You know I speak the truth. Answer me truly, Shim’on. Did I not warn you that we should not sin against the boy? But you would not listen, and now we will pay for what we have done.”
A sudden choking sound disturbed the silence, and Shim’on turned in time to see the vizier, his hands over his face, rise from his chair and flee the room. The captain of the guard followed his master like a pursuing shadow.
“Now we will be meat for the vizier’s dogs,” Levi said, his mouth grim as he turned to the others. “Whatever the Egyptian ate for breakfast does not agree with him, and we shall pay the penalty for his sore stomach. We must agree to his plan, and we must agree quickly.”
“But which one?” Asher looked around the circle. “Which of us will remain here in prison while his family suffers alone?”
No one spoke until Re’uven lifted his chin. “We all have children,” he said, giving Shim’on a compassionate and troubled look. “But we do not all have wives. You, Shim’on, have no wife waiting at home. You should volunteer to remain behind.”
Shim’on glared at his brother. “I may not have a wife, but I am the only one of you who remembers to provide for our sister. With no husband to look after her, Dina has only me for support.”
“I’ll look after Dina,” Yehuda volunteered.
“And my sons?” Shim’on frowned. “Who will see to them? I would sooner die tomorrow than remain here one day longer than necessary.”
“But we have wives!”
“I have six sons!” Shim’on answered, seething with mounting rage. “You, Re’uven, are the eldest, why don’t you volunteer for prison? You’re always quick to speak up when it is to your advantage. Or Yehuda! With all your talk of God and holiness, why don’t you offer to stay?”
“Father listens to Yehuda,” Dan said, “while you howl like the desert winds and our father pays no mind. You bring nothing but trouble.”
“Enough!” Yehuda lifted his hands and stepped into the center of the circle, turning until the bickering stopped.
When the brothers stood silent, Yehuda ran his fingers through his hair in a distracted motion, then looked up to the ceiling as if the answer would be found there. “El Shaddai will make the choice,” he said, his shoulders drooping. “We will listen and accept His will.”
Chapter Six
M andisa tried to follow the rising babble of the brothers’ conversation until she felt the light touch of a hand upon her arm. “The master seeks you,” Tarik whispered, lingering behind a column as the prisoners bickered in the center of the chamber.
Mandisa turned and followed Tarik into a small room off the great hall. The noble Zaphenath-paneah sat motionless on a bed as if his mind and body were benumbed. His eyes were red with weeping, and dark stains of kohl streaked his cheeks.
“Please, Mandisa, freshen my toilette,” he said, offering her a fragile smile. “I must not appear weak before them.”
He offered no reason for his behavior, and from Tarik’s mystified expression Mandisa intuited that the master had not explained his connection to the troublesome men in the hall. She reached into a cosmetics box she carried for such emergencies and reapplied the master’s face paint in swift, sure strokes. Within a moment he had assumed his former regal appearance, but his voice was unsteady when he thanked her.
“Here.” She pulled a scrap of linen from a basket on the floor. “Let them think, if necessary, that the desert winds have elicited a cough.”
He took the square of linen and crumpled it in his hand, then leaned forward as if to stand up. “What are they arguing about?” he asked. “Were you able to hear?”
“They are quarreling over who should remain behind,” she said, folding her hands. “The spokesman, Re’uven, says the one called Shim’on should remain in Egypt, for he has no wife waiting in Canaan. But this Shim’on—” she felt her cheeks color as she said the bold one’s name “—says he has a sister and six sons who need him.”
“Six sons.” A wistful note echoed in Zaphenath-paneah’s voice, and Mandisa felt her heart contract in sympathy. The single sorrow that lay over the vizier’s household resulted from the fact that the royal physicians had warned Lady Asenath that another child would certainly hasten her death. She had borne two healthy sons during the days of plenty, then had suffered three miscarriages, the most recent of which had occurred during the time of the Nile’s last flooding. That unborn child nearly dragged Lady Asenath with it into the Otherworld.
Now the mistress’s womb lay as barren and shallow as the starving Nile. Zaphenath-paneah had consoled his wife with tenderness and compassion, assuring her he loved her even though he would no longer visit her chambers when she might conceive a child. He was content with her and two sons, he often told her, especially since his responsibilities to the kingdom and Pharaoh often drained him of strength.
“But you renew me,” Mandisa had heard him whisper to his whimpering wife one afternoon, “you and Efrayim and Menashe. I am blessed beyond measure, for your smile alone is enough to strengthen my heart, soul and body.”
The master looked as th
ough he needed one of his wife’s smiles now. He remained absolutely motionless for a long moment, then stood and moved toward the hall with long, purposeful strides.
Drawn by curiosity and duty, Mandisa and Tarik followed.
With the full intensity of his brothers’ eyes upon him, Yosef mounted the dais and turned toward them. “Tarik will take the one I chose to prison,” he said, speaking in Egyptian. As Mandisa translated in a breathless voice, Yosef lifted his hand and pointed squarely at Shim’on.
The man was a thorn. Twenty years ago, he had been one of the first to call for Yosef’s death after they dropped him into the pit. Before that, at every family gathering, Shim’on had managed to find a reason to needle the others. As strong as an iron chain and as unyielding as a rock, his opinions inevitably divided the brothers. In Yosef’s day, even the women had learned to avoid him.
Without Shim’on, the others would have a more peaceful journey home—seventeen or eighteen days of relative calm. Yaakov would not have to hear Shim’on’s negative version of their encounter with the Egyptian vizier, and Binyamin would not have to make the long journey to Egypt in the company of a murderous madman. For an instant Yosef wished he’d had enough forethought to order Levi’s detention, too, for he and Shim’on usually united to cause trouble. But of the two hotheads, Shim’on was the most likely to erupt.
At Tarik’s command, a column of guards moved into the knot of Canaanites and separated Shim’on from the others. As a pair of guards advanced to bind the captive’s wrists, the burly shepherd lunged, grabbing and neatly breaking one guard’s arm over his knee.
Two guards grabbed for Shim’on’s right hand and were then launched across the room; another had the misfortune of connecting face-first with Shim’on’s fist. Yosef heard the snap as Shim’on’s punch broke the man’s jawbone. A shoulder throw sent another pair of guards crashing to the floor. One foolish fan-bearer, who thought to enter the fray with only the pole of his fan for a weapon, found himself lying at Shim’on’s feet, the breath snuffed out of him like a winking candle.
A melee broke out, the dignity of the chamber vanishing as full-throated shrieks echoed from the high ceiling and bounced among the pillars. Most of the cries came from Shim’on and the injured guard, for the other brothers cowered against the wall, their expressions ranging from embarrassment to sheer horror. Mandisa, Yosef noticed, covered her eyes, rather than watch the spectacle.
As the wounded retreated, the lance-bearers tightened their circle. Though the captive still crouched in a position of menace, his allies had fled; the fight was over. Tarik waded through the injured guards to catch and bind Shim’on’s flailing fists; another Egyptian shackled and hobbled the shepherd’s feet with a length of rope. He could still run, but he would not get far.
Yosef smothered a grim smile. He should have warned Tarik. A man did not grow up with eleven brothers without learning how to fight. And it was not on mere whim that the others had named Shim’on “the Destroyer.”
With Shim’on bound, Yosef looked out at the brothers with a dispassionate stare. “The rest of you may go. But if you return, you will not see this one again unless you bring your younger brother and thus prove your own words. Then you may come and trade for food in peace.” He paused, concern and contempt warring in his soul, as Mandisa translated in a trembling voice.
“I give you one warning—use the grain of Egypt for bread, not for seed. Nothing will grow for five more years. Now go,” he rushed on, aware of a disturbing quake in his self-control, “and may all be well with you and your father.”
The trumpets blared as he stood. Amid a blizzard of mingled shouts from the brothers, the guards led Shim’on out of the room. Ignoring their farewells, Yosef left the hall through another exit.
Safe from prying eyes in the small adjoining chamber, he turned to Tarik, who had followed. “Listen carefully,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Do not return the man to Pharaoh’s prison, but prepare a secure room in my house. Do not withhold from him any luxury save that of his freedom.”
Tarik blinked. “Is this a wise course, noble vizier? He is an unruly sort.”
“I do not believe he will hurt anyone here. He is a shepherd. He obeys the law of fight or flee. I should have warned you.”
“My men should have been better prepared,” Tarik answered, his face flooding with color. “Their shameful performance—”
“They did well.” Yosef rested a hand on his hip. “Shim’on is strong. And he has always been dangerous.”
If Tarik was relieved by Yosef’s assurances, he didn’t show it. “And what of the others, my lord?”
“Allow them to purchase grain-rations from my own granaries, but have the scribes return each man’s silver to the mouth of his sack.” He clapped a hand on the captain’s bronzed shoulder. “I can’t take silver from my own brothers.”
When surprise blossomed on the guard’s handsome face, Yosef held up a warning finger. “Not a word to anyone. My wife knows the truth, and Mandisa. But no one else.”
“Should Ani be told?”
Yosef gave Tarik a conspiratorial wink. “Ani is a wise man, but his wisdom is forever flowing from his tongue. He will not be harmed by not knowing.”
Tarik bowed. “Is that all, my lord?”
Yosef paused. “They will need fresh donkeys and provisions for their journey. Have Ani make preparation for these things, then send the brothers away as soon as possible.” He grimaced. “The sooner they are home, the sooner they will return and take their troublesome brother with them.”
Tarik’s usually stern mouth spread in a toothy grin. “It shall be done as you say, my master.”
Shim’on stared around the room in wonder. After his outburst, he had expected to be thrust into another prison pit, one even more barbaric than the first, but instead he had been marched through the villa’s courtyard and given a private room within the walls of the vizier’s palace. Why?
Skins, cushions and fresh linens covered the low bed of polished wood and the neck rest had been padded with the softest down. A pitcher and basin stood on a stand near a high window that brought in fresh light and air. Next to the bed, a half dozen lotus blossoms floated in a bowl of water and scented the chamber with a sweet aroma.
Shim’on sank onto the seat of an elaborately carved chair and fingered his beard. He could imagine several explanations for this unusual treatment, but the most obvious answer was that Egypt’s vizier was a lunatic. Alternately hostile and forgiving, this ruler had already demonstrated capricious whims of fancy. Shim’on had heard that the Egyptians were a cheerful and superstitious lot; this Zaphenath-paneah probably hoped to pacify some god by allowing Shim’on to enjoy a few days of luxury before relegating him to some dungeon of torture.
But though the chamber was pleasant and probably better furnished than half the houses of Thebes, Shim’on was no city dweller. He wanted the open spaces of the earth around him, the spiraling stars above. Not for him the sweet scents of lotus blossoms and delicate taste of dainty shat cakes; he longed for the earthy perfumes of goat and cattle dung, the robust flavors of desert-toughened meat and rough breads sweetened with wild honey.
Yes, Shim’on reflected, lifting his eyes to the rectangular window higher than his reach, for a man of the wilderness, in time even a king’s palace could become a prison. Perhaps Zaphenath-paneah was not insane after all.
Tarik summoned Mandisa and Ani, the steward, to the foyer off the vizier’s bedchamber. “Our master is with Pharaoh for the rest of the day,” the captain said, lifting his head in unconscious pride, “and he has instructed me to tell you what we shall do with this captive in our house. We three shall deal with him. None of the others shall have access to the prisoner.”
And two of us, Mandisa thought, watching Tarik with an observant eye, know who and what he is. But though he is the vizier’s own brother, he is dangerous, too powerful to be held here…
The steward bowed his bald head as a sign of respect,
an unnecessary gesture because Ani was at least as important as Tarik in the villa’s social system. An Egyptian steward ran the house, overseeing and orchestrating every action from simple housekeeping and meal preparation to the fields, granaries and livestock. And though Ani looked like a little wet bird, behind his self-deprecating facade lay a dynamic mind, a force born of wisdom and certainty. Of no steward in Thebes was more expected, and none of the others came close to duplicating the elegance and prosperity of Zaphenath-paneah’s estate.
“I was curious about the man,” Ani admitted, his lined mouth cracking in a smile. “I found the circumstances of this morning quite… unusual. ”
“We are not to talk of this man with the children or the other servants,” Tarik went on. “His needs are to be met daily.”
The captain’s eyes turned toward Mandisa. “If you are willing, lady, the master asks if you will consent to take the prisoner his food and tarry if he feels the need for conversation. There are few here who speak the Canaanite tongue as fluently as you do.”
Mandisa paused. She knew her master well enough to know he would not command her to obey his wish, for she carried a full workload attending to the vizier’s wife and sons as well as Adom. She had every right to decline the job of caring for a captive with the temperament of an underfed lion, especially when the smoldering flame in his eyes frightened her.
But no one else spoke his language. And she knew the pain of not understanding or being understood.
“Do not worry. I will get one of my guards to tend to him,” the captain said, waving his hand.
“There is no need, I’ll do it,” she said, avoiding Tarik’s eyes.
“So be it.” The captain tilted his head as if he weighed her motives. “If at any time you wish to surrender this responsibility, you may.”
“I understand.”
“I see.” Tarik pressed his lips together. “The master will periodically ask you for news of this captive. You are to speak freely with Zaphenath-paneah, apprising him of anything that happens with the prisoner while he is with us. Such information may be useful in the future.”