by Angela Hunt
Crouched with his back against the wall, his hands gripped the sturdy linen of the kilt wrapped around his waist. If the guard came in, he’d lunge forward and kill the man with his own bare hands! Weak from hunger and numb from the monotony of confinement, Shim’on’s strength and patience had completely evaporated. He would not bear another day of this torture.
The bolt fell to the floor outside with a hollow, thumping sound; the latch clicked. Shim’on frowned. The approach was different, the intruder’s movements too carefree and confident. Could it be that the great vizier himself stood behind the door? If so, a hundred guards probably waited outside, as well, each eager to aim a javelin at Shim’on’s throat.
He slid upward along the wall, not even feeling the rough plaster as it scraped his skin. Cold sweat ran from his pores, beaded under his arms and on his upper lip. God above, if this is the moment I must die…
“Grace and peace be unto you.” The words were Canaanite, the voice a woman’s. Shim’on slumped back to the floor, his knees weak as the adrenaline left his body. His head swam as the door swung open. Then his eyes met the invader’s, and he recognized her. The interpreter. The traitor.
“Grace and peace?” he snarled, wishing he had the energy and inclination to send her away. “What would you know of grace or peace? Only someone born in Canaan would speak as fluently as you do, so you have sold your heart and soul to these idolatrous people.”
“I have sold nothing and am not for sale,” she remarked, calmly stepping into the room. She actually turned her back on him as she lowered a water jug from her hip and closed the door.
Surprise siphoned the blood from Shim’on’s head and dragged the power of speech from his tongue. He could think of nothing to say as she entered and pulled a fresh loaf of bread from a bag slung over her shoulder.
She kicked a few pieces of broken pottery out of the way, then knelt before him and extended the bread. “My family sold me to a passing Egyptian who thought to have me as his wife,” she said, her paint-lengthened eyes intent upon his. “He brought me here and disappeared a year later. I am certain he is dead. He left me with a mountain of debts and a son.”
Only half listening, Shim’on focused on the door and the hallway beyond. He could not hear movement of any kind outside the door, so this was not a trick…unless it was a clever one. This foolish woman had apparently come to him unescorted, and though his strength had been depleted by hunger, he knew he could overpower her if he needed to. In this room, at least, he held the upper hand.
But he did not have to strike her now. Carefully, he reached out and took the bread. He sniffed it; the aroma was strong and hearty, without a trace of suspicious odors. And the loaf was crusty, not soft and mushy like that the other woman brought.
“So tell me,” he said, breaking the loaf. “How did you come to live in the house of the mighty vizier?”
The beads in her braided hair clacked softly as she tilted her head. “I was sixteen when my husband disappeared. For three years I did whatever jobs a woman alone could find, but even in the time of plenty my son and I nearly starved. The man who owned the house where I lived threatened to throw my son and me into the streets because we owed him so much, and he finally brought his case before Zaphenath-paneah. Standing before the vizier, I had to admit I had no silver. And Zaphenath-paneah ruled that the landlord was right to collect what I owed him.”
Her delicate features softened as she smiled. “I thought we would be sold into slavery and I would never see my son again, so I begged for mercy. And the one they call the King’s Shadow Dispenser brought shade into my life. He paid my debts and restored my freedom, then he asked if I possessed any skills. When I replied that I would learn any decent trade in order to serve him, he said his wife, Lady Asenath, needed a handmaid. So Adom and I came to this house. We have been here nine years.”
Shim’on ate silently, absorbing her words as his stomach rumbled in appreciation of the bread. She spoke with complete transparency and without hesitation, so she either spoke the truth or was an accomplished liar. But why would she lie? And why was she here? She had probably been ordered to feed him, and she had, but still she remained. What sort of plot was this?
“How many are outside the door?” he growled. “And why do I not hear them? They make me nervous, these plotting, prowling Egyptians—”
“No one is outside the door.” She folded her hands. “One guard watches from down the hallway, but he is neither prowling nor plotting. I have been away with my mistress for many days, and thought you might like to talk with someone who speaks your language. Ani tells me that speech is civilization itself, so if we are to keep you civilized, you must be engaged in conversation.”
Converse? With a woman? Was that why she lingered? Shim’on grinned and looked away, biting back the urge to laugh in her face. He might have missed the company of his brothers, his family, even his sons, but never in his life had he missed the conversation of women!
“Did I say something funny?”
Unable to stop himself, Shim’on threw back his head and let out a great peal of laughter. “By all the gods of this Black Land, yes! Why would I want to talk to a woman? Especially a painted harlot with an adder’s tongue, a creature who serves the demented madman who holds me captive!”
She stood in a regal, powerful gesture. A crimson flood colored her face and belied her calm exterior.
“Ani also says isolation leads a man to depression, paranoia and self-destruction,” she said, moving toward the door. “But if it is only food you want, food is all you shall have.” She paused and crinkled her nose as she looked around. “I had hoped we might clean this room.”
“I am a herdsman. I like living like an animal,” he snapped. Then, as he exploded in bitter laughter, she slipped from the room and slid the bolt back into place.
Shim’on knew she would not return that day, and something within him wondered if she would ever come again. By his harsh words he had probably sentenced himself to weeks of visitation from the captain and the squeaky slave girl, neither of whom cared enough to offer Shim’on a decent or interesting word. For the first time in his life, Shim’on began to regret something he’d done.
No one came the next morning, and Shim’on spent an hour tossing broken pottery chips at the door, certain that the Egyptians had decided to starve him. After a week had passed, perhaps longer, they would haul his emaciated corpse from this ruined chamber and disembowel it in one of their bizarre mummification rituals. Then, when his brothers returned with Binyamin to prove the vizier had imprisoned an innocent man, the deranged Zaphenath-paneah would summon servants who would bring in Shim’on’s desiccated mortal shell. “Take this back to your father the old man,” the vizier would shout. Yehuda would grow pale, unsophisticated Binyamin would faint and Levi would throw himself at the guards, only to be killed by the steely eyed captain.…
Yes, Shim’on decided, sitting on the dusty floor with his hand over his ever-growling belly, he had definitely misspent his last chance for survival. He had almost been enjoying his conversation with the woman, until in one moment he insulted her beauty, her master, even her morality.…
And women didn’t forgive easily. He had only to remember his mother to understand that truth. After Rahel’s death, his father had continued to spend his nights in Rahel’s tent with Yosef and Binyamin, for he found little comfort in Lea’s cold shoulder.
Yet at sunset, when Shim’on had almost given up hope, the woman returned. The bolt slid away as before, the door opened and she stood before him, her slender neck rising above a silken gown like silvery tissue. But this time she kept her eyes averted from his. Though she came into the room as bravely as she had the previous day, the bold and cheeky attitude had disappeared.
“If you are hungry, here is bread.” Her sharp tone stabbed the air. She did not move to extend her hand.
“I am hungry,” he admitted, rising to his knees.
She pulled the loaf and a bit of
cheese from the pouch at her waist. Cautiously, she extended both, and as he stood to take them, her eyes lifted to meet his.
Ah, the pain there was like Lea’s, dark and brooding. For a brief instant her eyes shimmered like pools of appeal, then she lowered her gaze and turned toward the door.
“Don’t go.” The words slipped from his mouth before he had even willed himself to say them.
“Why should I stay?” Her back was to him, yet she lifted her head. “You are hungry, I brought you food. Surely there is nothing else you need. You like living like an animal, remember?”
“I was wrong.” His voice grated in his own ears. “You were right, I would like—I need to talk to someone.” Levi would faint if he could hear me now . “I would like to apologize. Please forgive me.”
She turned, and the heavy lashes that had shadowed her cheeks flew up. “ Forgive you?”
By the sun and moon, would she make him repeat himself? But these were conditions of war, and a man was allowed to do anything necessary to remain alive. “Yes. I must beg your forgiveness.”
She tilted her head like a queen granting favors, and he thought he saw a faint look of amusement on her face. “I accept your apology.”
He sank back onto the floor, attempting to put her more at ease, and unwrapped the square of cheese she’d given him. Cautiously, she knelt in a small cleared space by the door. “I suppose we could start with introductions,” she said, tucking her legs under her. She folded her hands in her lap. “I am Mandisa, handmaid to Lady Asenath.”
Shim’on nodded and swallowed a mouthful of cheese. “I am Shim’on, second-born son of Yaakov.” His realized his tone was as dry as his mouth. “And I suppose you remember why I am here.”
“Of course.”
A long silence followed, and Shim’on cast quickly about for a topic of conversation. He was unused to the social company of women. He had married two, buried two, slept with them, eaten their food and disciplined their children, but he couldn’t ever recalling conversing with a woman. Except Dina.
“How old are you?” he asked.
Caught off guard, she laughed, the most delightful sound he’d heard in weeks. “Why do you ask?” she said, her hand creeping to her brightening cheek. “Do you think me a horse, that you could buy me? Would you like to count my teeth?”
His mouth trembled with the need to laugh with her. “No.” He looked at the bread in his hand, again at a loss for words. “Yesterday you said you were not for sale. I believe you.”
They sat in silence, then Shim’on bit off a huge hunk of bread. As long as he chewed she wouldn’t expect him to talk. And as long as he behaved, she wouldn’t leave.
He didn’t know why it was so important that she stay. She was unlike any other woman he’d ever met. She’d walked boldly into his room when he was at his worst, not flinching at his stench, his words or his threatening aspect. And while most women chattered among themselves like a mob of sparrows, this woman weighed her words. Perhaps it came from working for a high-born lady, or perhaps her quiet spirit was innate, like his own quick temper.…
She leaned forward. “Tell me about your family.”
And so he did. As he ate he told her of his mother, Lea, and his father, Yaakov. He laughed, describing the comical exploits of his children, and sobered as he spoke of Re’uven and Levi, Yehuda and Dan. And as he talked, he found that revisiting his memories somehow brought his loved ones near, kept them close.
He might have talked for an hour or more; he only knew he was disappointed when she stood to leave. “Must you go?” he asked, glad the gathering darkness hid the blush upon his neck.
“My lady will need me to see her to bed,” Mandisa answered, moving toward the door. She paused for a last look at his room before leaving. “I will send a maid to clean this pigsty if you promise not to throw things at her.”
Shim’on flushed. “I will not…throw anything.”
She smiled. “I will return tomorrow, and you can tell me more. Until then, sleep well.”
Chapter Seventeen
A ni watched the growing friendship between Mandisa and the Canaanite captive with growing approval. The entire household had benefited from the relationship. Mandisa endured what she called her “daily trial” with good grace. The prisoner himself threw fewer tantrums and his rages of temper were generally less violent than before. Tarik, visibly relieved that he wouldn’t be forced to kill Zaphenath-paneah’s pampered prisoner, never ceased to praise Mandisa’s gentle work with the captive, and Halima sang in simple gladness because she no longer had to venture near the room where the caged animal roared.
The proper duty of a steward was to act as the eyes and ears of the house, so Ani habitually crept along the hallways, listening at windows and eavesdropping with an ear to the walls. Zaphenath-paneah seemed strangely distant these days, and Ani assumed the vizier was preoccupied with the famine and the distribution of grain to the far-flung cities of the kingdom. But though the vizier rarely followed up on a prisoner after a sentence had been rendered, Zaphenath-paneah made a point of being in his wife’s chamber every night as Mandisa readied her mistress for bed. During his nocturnal rounds Ani discovered that the master never failed to question Mandisa about the Canaanite captive.
One night Ani pressed his ear against the outer wall of his mistress’s chamber and strained to hear the low murmur of Mandisa’s voice. “I was wondering, my lord, whether or not it might be good for my son Adom to spend time with this Canaanite,” he heard her ask. “Adom is half-Canaanite, and I have asked your Almighty God to bring a strong man into his life. The captive is not as gruff as he would have us believe. I believe that under his rough exterior beats a vulnerable heart.”
Ani clung to the wall in a paralysis of astonishment. Mandisa would trust her son to the caged beast?
Zaphenath-paneah must have read Ani’s thoughts. “You trust him?” he asked. “I know he has calmed considerably, but he is unpredictable—”
“It if please you, my lord, I have heard him speak tenderly of his sister and his children,” Mandisa answered. “I do not believe he would hurt Adom. But of course, I will be nearby.”
“If you trust Shim’on, far be it from me to interfere,” the vizier answered, a trace of humor in his voice. “But proceed carefully, Mandisa. The man has a vicious temper.”
“By the horns of Khnum, don’t we all know it,” Ani murmured, leaning away from the wall. He rubbed his chin with his wrist and stared at the empty hall ahead. Zaphenath-paneah would never have agreed to allow Adom, of whom he was genuinely fond, to spend time with a spy. So if the vizier believed this Shim’on was innocent of the charges against him, why did he still hold him?
Ani walked away, carefully lifting his feet so his papyrus sandals made no sound across the marble floor. Something unusual bubbled beneath the surface of life in the vizier’s house, but Ani had never stumbled over a mystery he had not been able to eventually unearth.
TIZARA
For thou shalt worship no other god: for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God:
Lest thou make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land, and they go a whoring after their gods, and do sacrifice unto their gods, and one call thee, and thou eat of his sacrifice;
And thou take of their daughters unto thy sons, and their daughters go a whoring after their gods, and make thy sons go a whoring after their gods.
— Exodus 34:14–16
Chapter Eighteen
M andisa licked the tip of her finger and dabbed at a smudge on her son’s cheek.
“Mother!” Adom complained, ducking.
“There. At least you look presentable.” She turned back to the table in her small chamber and idly fingered her comb, wondering why Shim’on’s opinion of the boy should matter. Adom was her son and she loved him; Shim’on was a prisoner who would soon leave the vizier’s house and return to his home in Canaan. But in recent days she had entertained the niggling idea that God Shaddai might int
end the Canaanite prisoner to teach her son. She had spoken to the vizier; she had prepared Adom. But she hadn’t dared to ask Shim’on if he’d be willing to spend time with the boy.
Better to urge him gently, to let him volunteer. In her short time of marriage, she had learned that men responded better to diplomatic hints than forthright suggestions.
“Do you understand that you must not make him angry?” Mandisa asked, turning to her son.
“You’ve asked me that ten times already.”
“Well, if you are to visit the captive with me, you must be on your best behavior.”
“I understand, Mother,” Adom answered, self-consciously tugging on his kilt. With a flash of understanding, she realized he was nervous. And why wouldn’t he be? He had heard the screams and curses from Shim’on’s chamber during those early weeks.
“Adom,” she said, running her fingers over the silken lock of his hair, “you need not fear Shim’on. He has a sharp tongue, but the best way to take the wind out of an angry man’s sails is to stay calm.”
“I know.” Adom squirmed under her touch. “Can we go? Efrayim and Menashe want me to tell them what he looks like and how he talks. Menashe has heard that the captive growls even in his sleep.”
Her smile faded a little. “Surely you don’t believe that?”
“No,” Adom admitted. “I told them my mother wouldn’t go near a man who growled.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t.” Mandisa gave his cheek a playful pinch. “But our friend Shim’on is tired of being confined. He likes open spaces, and he misses his freedom.”
“Then why doesn’t the vizier let him out?”
Mandisa tilted her head. “I don’t know, son. If Shim’on can be trusted to control himself, perhaps Tarik will allow him to walk in the gardens or the courtyard. We shall have to ask our master.”