by Angela Hunt
She found Halima in the kitchen, her round face flushed by the heat from the fiery ovens. “Hurry, help me prepare the tray and let us be on our way,” Mandisa said, wiping a trickle of perspiration from her forehead. Her braided wig seemed unusually hot and heavy, and she found herself wishing she could go bareheaded like Halima.
Halima pressed her hands to her ample chest and cast Mandisa a frightened glance. “Must I go with you again into that room?”
“Yes.”
“But he is so loud! You did not hear him, for his room lies far away from the family quarters, but yesterday he screamed for more than an hour. Though I couldn’t understand a word of what he said, I’m sure he cursed us, our master and even Pharaoh himself.”
“Then he shall answer to us, our master and even Pharaoh,” Mandisa said, placing a tray in Halima’s outstretched hands. Rummaging through baskets, bowls and jars, she selected foods she thought the man might like—a hearty helping of ox meat basted with sweet-scented honey, a bowl of brown beans and chickpeas mixed with lotus seeds and flavored with marjoram, coriander and dill. She grabbed a slice of bread that had already been softened with water, and a jug of beer flavored with pomegranates and figs.
“This platter is fit for Pharaoh’s table,” Halima said, eyeing the food with a covetous glance, “but the loathsome toad to whom it is going will not appreciate one bite.”
“He’s not a loathsome toad,” Mandisa said, moving through the doorway ahead of Halima. “A loud one, perhaps, but not loathsome.”
Shim’on stiffened as he heard the wooden bolt slide away from the door. The treble murmur of voices informed him that the two women stood outside; the pretty one who spoke his language and the hefty one with eyes as wide and nervous as a rabbit’s.
He bit back an oath, annoyed that they did not send someone more daunting to deal with him. Did no one know or care that a son of Yaakov was imprisoned in this heathen’s house? Yaakov was Yisrael, the keeper of God Almighty’s covenant promise to bless the entire world! Yaakov was a leader among the people of Canaan, a wealthy man and a respected one. And Shim’on was his second-born son!
The door opened; the timid woman held it while the pretty one walked in and placed the tray on a stand near the bed. She had courage, he had to admit, especially since he had recently decided to do whatever he could to make the Egyptian vizier regret his decision to imprison a son of Yisrael.
The woman swallowed hard, lifted her chin and boldly met his gaze. “Have you need of anything today?” she asked, speaking his language. “Have you any news for my master the vizier?”
“I want proper food.” He made a face as he poked a finger into the mushy bread. “Real meat cooked over charcoal, not boiled to mush in a pot.”
She turned away, ignoring him. How dare she! His mouth tightening with mutiny, he scooped up the hunk of meat and flung it across the room. True to his aim, the congealed glop missed her head by inches and struck the wall. Like a living creature, it clung to the painted plaster, then slid downward, marking the wall with a sticky brown trail.
The timorous woman squeaked and covered her mouth with her hands, but the slender one wheeled toward him, her hands on her hips. “If you continue to waste your food in such a way,” she said in the tight tone she might have used to scold a child, “you will starve. The vizier’s cooks do not feed men who do not appreciate their efforts.”
“I would rather starve with my brothers than eat this rot.”
“Your brothers,” she said, tossing the words at him like stones, “are neither starving nor complaining. The vizier sent them away with bags of Egypt’s best grain and their treasure, as well. They have their silver, their bellies are full and, because you are gone, they are enjoying peaceful quiet—probably for the first time in their lives!”
“Careful, woman.” Rancor sharpened his voice. “She who uses a sharp tongue will cut her own throat.”
“You’d do well to heed your own advice,” she answered, picking up the tray. Without another word, she turned to leave.
“Wait,” he called, putting out a hand to stop her. She jerked away at his touch, revulsion on her face.
“What sort of game is your master playing?” he asked, choosing to overlook her expression. “Why does he accuse my brothers of spying and then fulfill their request to buy grain? And why would he return their silver?” He lowered his voice. “Is he truly mad?”
She paused, a flutter of apprehension shadowing her face. “I do not question my master,” she answered, moving toward the door. “And you should not. His way is not always my way, but he holds my life in his hands—as he holds yours.”
“He holds nothing of mine,” Shim’on retorted. He lay back and crossed his hands under his head. “And yes, I have a message for your master. Tell him I defy him. Tell him I intend to make his life miserable. Indeed, I will make you all miserable until he releases me. Or let him kill me, I care not. But if my brothers return and learn that I am no longer here, your master will have to deal with Yaakov of Hebron.”
The slender woman handed the tray to the fearful slave, then turned and faced Shim’on, every curve of her body speaking defiance. “You will not order me around,” she answered, lifting her chin. “I am not a slave, but a free woman and handmaid to Lady Asenath. I am here because my master cares whether or not you are comfortable. If I were you, I would try to show a bit of gratitude.”
“Your master may rot in Sheol!” Shim’on retorted, rolling to his feet. He clenched a fist, ready to strike something, but she saw the gesture and hurried through the doorway.
“If anger is your meat, you may have it for dinner,” she said, throwing him a bright smile. “We will take ourselves out of your way.”
He picked up a vase and flung it toward her, but the woman slammed the door. Amid the shattering of pottery, Shim’on heard the bolt slide into place.
SHIM’ON
His heart is as firm as a stone; yea, as hard as a piece of the nether millstone.
— Job 41:24
Chapter Ten
L ike a caged animal, Shim’on paced back and forth in the darkness of his chamber. The sun had not yet risen; soft gray shadows still decorated the bed, the chair and the chest against the wall. He hated the gilded luxury; the room was nothing but a pleasure palace for simple, soft Egyptians. But the endless solitary confinement, without the company of his brothers or any who could even speak his language, tortured Shim’on worse than physical pain.
He had considered and abandoned every means of escape within his first two hours of confinement. Only one door led into the room, and his captors kept it barred and bolted. He would not be able to dig through the polished marble floor with his bare hands, and he had no tools. Even if he could chisel a passage through the thick walls, they only led to other hallways in the villa. Two high windows brought in air and light from the outside, but though they were as wide as Shim’on was tall, they were no more than a hand’s length in height. A child might have been able to shimmy through the opening and drop to ground below, but Shim’on could never manage it.
He had never been so alone in his forty-five years, and Shim’on was horrified to realize that solitude terrified him. With no human companionship to distract him, ghosts rose in his memory, and he spent his daylight hours pacing as if he could outrun them. In moments of unendurable frustration he pounded the walls, cracking the shiny plaster, then fell upon his bed, slumped in morose musings. When tides of weariness and despair completely engulfed his body, merciful darkness and sleep finally pressed down upon him.
But he could not find rest even in sleep. Often he dreamed that he stood in the center of a burning lake, unable to escape a dry heat that split his lips and parched his tongue. Other nights he would awaken in a cold sweat, convinced that whole sections of his body had been torn away. Shivering in the dark, Shim’on tasted thoughts as bitter as gall until the night finally grayed into dawn. Instead of relief, however, the sun brought a new resolve to thwart his
captors and a fresh hatred for Zaphenath-paneah and all things Egyptian.
At his moments of greatest loneliness he yearned to see the dark-eyed interpreter, reasoning that hostile discourse with an acid-tongued wench was better than no conversation at all. But she had not appeared since the day she warned him that anger would be his dinner. Now only the pale, plump servant brought his food, and she was always accompanied by the small, tightly muscled man in charge of the vizier’s guard.
Their morning routine did not vary: the guard would slide the bolt and open the door, a strong light of disapproval in his eyes as he stared at Shim’on. As quick as a rat down a rope, the female slave would rush in, leave the tray on its stand, empty the sand-filled drawer under the wooden toilet seat into a refuse container, and hurry out of the room. The guard never spoke, but watched Shim’on with speculative eyes until the slave girl had safely departed. Then the door would close, and the bolt rumble into place.
Shim’on stopped his pacing and slammed his fist against the wall, his breath burning in his throat. Oh, if only Levi were with him! Levi was cunning and clever, he’d think of some way to get the guard into the chamber. While one of them held the sloe-eyed Egyptian in a rear hug-hold, the other would grab the guard’s sword and cut the tendon at the man’s ankle. After a front snap-kick to the Egyptian’s groin, they’d leave him gasping on the floor while they stole horses from the courtyard. The Egyptians would try to catch them, but Shim’on and Levi would be halfway to Hebron before the vizier and his men gathered their wits and launched a pursuit.
But he was alone, without Levi, without Re’uven, without even the younger ones like Yissakhar and Zevulun. They were home with their wives and children, and they might not even think of him.…
Did they think of him? Had any of his brothers made plans for his rescue? If Re’uven or Levi had been taken prisoner, Shim’on would have rallied the others to storm this vizier’s house. Yisrael possessed great wealth, and though the Egyptian vizier was undeniably clever, he was obviously not well-informed. If Zaphenath-paneah had known who Yaakov of Hebron was, he would have asked for compensation and arranged for Shim’on’s return. Yaakov’s second-born son was certainly worth his weight in silver, unless…
Would his father care enough to send a ransom for the Destroyer? His father did not like him for many reasons, but chiefly because he sprang from Lea, not the lovely Rahel. Binyamin was the only fruit remaining from that beloved wife.
Shim’on slid into a crouch and hugged his knees to his chest. With every passing morning he wondered if his father might not be more willing to let Shim’on languish in prison and the rest of the family starve than to send Binyamin, his nearest and best-beloved son, to Egypt.
Shim’on bit his lip until it throbbed in time with his pulse. He had never thought he could miss the babble of his brothers’ bickering or the sound of women complaining. Even the laughter of the children, which had always grated on Shim’on’s nerves, would be welcome in this heathen’s house. Except for a busy hour in the morning and mealtime at noon, this Egyptian palace was altogether too quiet. Though he occasionally heard the lowing of cattle and the distant thunder of drumming horses’ hooves, the sounds of running water from the garden muted the rich sounds of community.
Shim’on let his head fall back to the wall. A faint glow low from the opposite window told him that the sun had crossed her threshold. He tilted his head and listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. Today he would insult the guard again. He might even threaten the slave girl. He’d do anything he could to rouse the man to anger, for if the captain lost his temper, perhaps he would drag Shim’on before the vaunted vizier. He would yet show the great Zaphenath-paneah how fierce a son of Yisrael could be.
His heart thumped against his rib cage at the soft sound of voices and the patter of sandaled feet. The woman and captain stood outside, doubtless eager to get this despised chore out of the way before they began their day. He heard a whisper at the door, then the dull grumble of the beam as it slid from its place.
The door opened, the guard’s blank eyes met his. Shim’on stood, eager to face his jailers.
“Speak to me, you whose breath is fouler than a lizard’s,” he growled, moving forward, but the stalwart Egyptian did not respond. The woman paused and glanced at the guard; he nodded and placed his hand upon his sword. The unspoken message was clear: Move and I will strike.
Shim’on tensed, debating his options. Every fiber of his being screamed for action. The Egyptian captain came only to Shim’on’s shoulder; he was not a great threat, but he was quick. He would draw his blade if Shim’on lunged, and the woman would panic and might be hurt in the struggle.…
Shim’on could not, would not be responsible for hurting a woman. Not after what had happened to Dina.
Reluctantly, he stepped back.
Taking a deep, unsteady breath, the woman advanced into the room, lowered the tray to its stand and scurried to clean the toilet area. Shim’on crossed his arms and would have moved to the bed, but a muscle flicked at the guard’s jaw, and Shim’on understood the unspoken warning. The mighty vizier had probably told the guards that this Canaanite was no great prize and would not be missed if his death proved unavoidable.
As the woman went about her work, the guard stood motionless in the doorway, his painted eyes narrowing into a thoughtful expression. What was the man thinking? Did the idolatrous dog dare mock a son of Yaakov? In a silent fury, Shim’on slammed his arm onto the fragile table next to him, shattering the delicate wood. The slave screamed, nearly dropping the burden in her arms, but the guard only lifted a brow.
“You will not jeer at me, you demon-eyed jackal,” Shim’on roared, fury nearly choking him. “You think I am your captive, but I am only waiting until my brothers return. Then, you devil, you shall know the full fury of Yaakov’s wrath, you shall see the power of Yisrael’s God unleashed upon this land!”
Though the outburst left Shim’on seething, the captain only motioned for the slave girl to hurry about her duties. As she finished her work, the guard folded his arms and stared at Shim’on. His brows flickered as he spoke in the Canaanite language. “My master commands me to wish you peace.” After making that simple declaration, he stepped back and motioned for the slave girl to leave.
Shim’on watched in wordless amazement as the woman hurried past. Like a child who gazes at an animal in mingled wonder and fear, she lifted her eyes and stole a terrified glance at his face.
Shim’on sank onto his bed as his eyes clouded with visions of the past. His bride had worn just such an expression when he had carried her to his tent.…
Chapter Eleven
H is first wife had lived in the city of Shekhem, the prosperous walled town situated in the green valley between Mount Ebal and Mount Gerizim. As the children of Yisrael prepared to move their flocks and tents into the region, Yaakov, who had been strong and confident in those days, reminded his sons that when Avraham set out from Ur of the Chaldeans, he and his people passed through the country as far as Shekhem. “There the Lord appeared to my father’s father and said, ‘To your descendants I will give this land,’” Yaakov announced one night at dinner, his hand falling upon young Yosef’s shoulder as he spoke. “And so to you and your descendants, my sons, this land will one day belong.”
Shim’on had not fully understood why Yaakov chose to reenter Canaan after so long an absence. He had been only twenty-two at the time, and ignorant of the situation that led to the dispute between his father and his uncle, Esav. He only knew that one morning Yaakov woke up determined to lead his people and possessions from the region of Haran to the land God had promised.
Shim’on left his youth and idealism behind forever on the day Esav marched with four hundred men to meet his brother, Yaakov. There, in a visible display for the entire world to see, Yaakov defined the depths and limits of his love, and Shim’on saw his uncle for the first time.
Yaakov had ordered that gifts for Esav be sent to the
front of the procession: she-goats, two hundred, and kids, twenty; ewes, two hundred, and rams, twenty; nursing camels and their young, thirty; cows, forty, and bulls, ten; she-asses, twenty, and colts, ten.
After the generous gifts, Yaakov’s own herds of cattle, sheep and goats followed.
Finally, Yaakov advanced his family. The two female slaves, handmaids to Yaakov’s wives, mounted donkeys. With their four sons, they fell into line behind the flocks and herds. Shim’on remembered the gritty taste of desert sand between his teeth as he stood beside his mother, waiting for his father to lead them to meet the brother he feared. But Yaakov had not even glanced their way. “Lea, you and your children will proceed next,” he called over his shoulder, his dark eyes squinting toward the distant horizon.
“My lord?” Lea cried, stunned to the point of tears. But Yaakov had been too engrossed in what might happen to hear her.
“Go now, and your sons with you,” he said, gesturing toward them as if they were stray cattle. “Have the older boys take care of Dina. Do not fear, for I will go ahead of all of you. But take care that Rahel and Yosef remain at the back of the procession, in case trouble lies ahead.”
In that instant, with fearful clarity Shim’on understood a lifetime of his mother’s tears, his aunt’s victorious smile and his father’s haggard expression. His father did not love his mother. He loved Rahel, Yosef’s mother, the beautiful wife who now struggled with the nausea of another pregnancy.