by Angela Hunt
“Of course,” Mandisa answered, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Are you upset because Pharaoh did not invite you to the palace? Or perhaps the star of the new year should not have risen without your permission.”
“What month is it?” he repeated, giving her a black look. “How long have I been here? It has not been a full year.”
“The vizier’s house, as much as you would like to disbelieve me, does not revolve around your coming and going. Our year begins with the rising of the star Sirius, and the inundation of the river in the season of Akhet. You and your brothers came here during the season of Shemu, the drought. So you have been here five months.”
“If the river is rising now, the flood will come and the famine will end,” Shim’on remarked with a helpless wave of his hands. “My brothers will not come for me.”
“Of course they will. Your father will send them.”
“No, he cares more for the son at home than for me. Rahel bore Binyamin, you see. My mother was Lea. My father bears little love for anyone not born of Rahel.”
Mandisa regarded him with somber curiosity, not knowing how to answer. She had sensed Shim’on’s deep feelings of animosity toward his father, but she had never heard the state of affairs so baldly stated. Was this the unhappiness that fueled Shim’on’s deep-seated anger?
“I am certain your father cares for you,” she said finally. “All fathers love their sons. You need only to ask him, Shim’on. Confront him with your feelings, so he can tell you how much he loves you.”
Shim’on’s eyelids slipped down over his eyes. “It doesn’t matter, I stopped caring long ago.”
“Of course you care,” she whispered, moving toward him. Her senses reached into his loneliness, struggling to understand the forces that had hardened his heart. In a sudden flash of insight, she wondered if God Shaddai might have placed her beside Shim’on not to serve Zaphenath-paneah or win a father’s influence for her son, but to bring light to a tormented and dark soul.
She knelt to look into his face. “Your brothers will come for you. God has told Zaphenath-paneah that the river will not flood this year, nor the next, not until five more years of famine have passed.”
Her words seemed to amuse him. “You are an intelligent woman, Mandisa. Yet you would believe the prophet of an Egyptian god.”
Lowering her voice, Mandisa pressed her hand upon the fist he clenched at his knees. “Zaphenath-paneah listens to the Almighty God, El Shaddai. You will find no idols in his temple, no other god in his heart.”
For an instant his eyes held hers, seeming to clutch at the hope her words offered like a drowning man reaches for the shore. But then the light in his eyes dimmed and he drew his lips into a tight smile. “El Shaddai is the God of Avraham, Yitzhak and Yaakov, not of the Egyptians,” he said, his voice flat and final. “The Almighty would not speak to your vizier. Your master has tricked you, Mandisa.”
She closed her eyes, resisting the impulse to tell Shim’on that Zaphenath-paneah was his own long-lost brother. Surely then he would understand and have faith in the future! But the master had charged her to keep his secret, and she would not disobey, not even for this desperate and lonely man.
“You must believe me.” She moved her hand to his forearm. “Your brothers will return, and you will be freed.”
“They must. I cannot live long like this.” His hand caught hers as his voice quavered with honest, long-suppressed emotion. “I feel like a bear in a pit. Sometimes I think my heart will burst.”
“This time of waiting will be over soon,” she said, calming him. Gently, she reached out and nudged an unruly lock of dark hair from his forehead. Underneath his angry bluster he was as much a boy as Adom, and Mandisa had always known how to soothe her son.
But Shim’on was not her son. Abruptly, he dropped her hand and pulled his head away from her ministering fingertips. “If they do not come, I will escape this room and flee, even if it costs me my life.” He crossed his arms and nodded at her. “If you hear that I have escaped, lock yourself in your chamber, for I will kill anyone who crosses my path or tries to stop me.”
“Surely you don’t mean a word you’re saying.” She reached for him, trying to recapture the tender emotion they had shared a moment before, but he leaped to his feet and retreated from her touch. Standing against the wall, tall, rawboned, and bearded, he looked like a giant, and she knew his strength of will matched the power of his arms and back. He meant every word of his warning. Did he also intend for her to pass his threat on to the vizier?
He could threaten all day and she could carry a million messages to the vizier, but not one of them would affect his situation. Shim’on might think the vizier controlled his destiny, but Mandisa knew Zaphenath-paneah waited upon God Shaddai.
How could Shim’on have grown up in the vizier’s family, under the same father, without coming to know and serve the same God?
“I wonder,” she said, rising, “do your strong arms never tire of resisting the Almighty God of your fathers? How blind are your eyes, Shim’on, that you cannot see Him?”
Stiffening in response, he closed his eyes, clenched his fists. And as she slipped from the room, she heard him bellow in despair.
Chapter Twenty
S him’on’s head ached when he awoke the next morning and sat up in bed. He’d passed a nearly sleepless night, bothered by dreams and images of people long dead and not quite forgotten. His wives, young Yosef and the thousand men of Shekhem had all filed past his bed, pointing at him with glowing fingertips while blame and accusation burned in their eyes. “You, Shim’on, stole our lives while we were young and entitled to many more days,” they all whispered, their hoarse voices mocking his fear. “For as long as you live we will steal your nights.”
Clapping his hand to his head, he groaned and wished for Mandisa. But she would not come until later, especially after the scene last night. She had been an angel, kneeling at his feet as if to comfort him, but no one could comfort away the hurts of forty-five years.
How like a child she was, how naive! She talked as if she had endured much in her past, but what could she have experienced in twenty-odd years of life? She lived in a magnificent estate, worked for a woman who adored and trusted her, and had been blessed with an intelligent, beautiful son.
Shim’on could even admit that she was charming. In a way she was more desirable than the vizier’s coolly beautiful wife, whom Shim’on had glimpsed when he and his brothers first entered the vizier’s palace. Like the esteemed Lady Asenath, Mandisa was small of form and features, but unlike the vizier’s wife, she moved with the air of a woman who is at home in many worlds. He could imagine her drawing water from the wells outside his father’s tents, and he had already seen that she was even at home in the throne room of a king’s regent.
He had to stop this; why was he torturing himself? Mandisa had already made her home in a prince’s villa. She had established a wholesome and prosperous life in Thebes. She no longer belonged to Canaan; he could not imagine her agreeing to return to a world of sandstorms and camels, of dung-fires, tents and work-worn women.
Grunting, he turned and rested his elbow on the ridiculous padded support the Egyptians used to pillow their heads. A stentorian voice rumbled through the hall—the voice of the esteemed Zaphenath-paneah—and a slight chill passed over Shim’on as he listened.
How hauntingly familiar the vizier’s voice was! Even though Shim’on understood only a few of the words, the man’s tone rankled something in Shim’on’s memory, jarred some fragment of recollection from its proper lodging place. But everyone in this house, from Ani the steward to the lowliest kitchen maid, revered and respected the great vizier. Unconsciously they copied his manners and morals, their voices imitated his. It was not surprising that the vizier’s voice now seemed as familiar as the sun and moon.
Shim’on lifted his head, wondering if the great and mighty vizier would open the door to this room. Come on, he thought, not moving on his bed. I
won’t stand up for you, I won’t adjust my kilt, I won’t even push the hair out of my eyes. You will take me as you find me, great vizier, and I won’t care if you don’t like what you see.
But the door did not open. Strangely disappointed, Shim’on lowered his head and listened to the soft tramping of passing footsteps, undoubtedly the vizier’s entourage of guards, scribes and servants.
He turned onto his back and wearily considered the ceiling. Time, which he had once thought precious and fleeting, stretched before him like an endless and barren plateau more desolate than the deserts surrounding Egypt. The day would offer nothing new. Mandisa would come at some point to bring his meal and clean his room. Perhaps, if Shim’on was lucky, that little preening captain of the guard would enter, scowl and exchange a threat or two.
In the meantime, he had nothing to do but plot his escape. Despite what Mandisa had said, Shim’on knew his brothers would not come back. Yaakov would sooner die than allow Binyamin to leave the family compound with the brothers who had “lost” Yosef. And if the famine ended, there would be no need for any of Yisrael’s clan to journey to the Black Land. And the famine would end soon, no matter what the vizier had told Mandisa. Never had the earth known famine for seven years. The world could not survive such a disaster.
Zaphenath-paneah listens to the Almighty God, El Shaddai. You will find no idols in his temple, no other god in his heart. The memory of Mandisa’s words brought a twisted smile to Shim’on’s face. The woman was indeed gullible. How had the vizier convinced her that El Shaddai spoke to him? Mandisa was from Canaan, so the name of Yaakov’s God was probably familiar to her. She had undoubtedly heard Zaphenath-paneah speak of the invisible Egyptian god and assumed that he spoke of El Shaddai. Or perhaps the vizier had the brazen boldness to claim that he spoke for the God of Yisrael! But Yaakov’s God wouldn’t—couldn’t—speak to an Egyptian. He had adopted the children of Yisrael for His own; He had no use for the other peoples of the earth. The Almighty certainly would have no reason to speak to the cursed Egyptian who had imprisoned Yaakov’s second-born son.
“When I escape,” Shim’on murmured, locking his hands together behind his head, “I will find Zaphenath-paneah and kill him for his bold effrontery. Then no one will say that this vizier speaks for the God of Yisrael.”
“Mandisa?” The Shim’on who greeted her at midday seemed relaxed and amiable, and she found it difficult not to return his disarming smile.
She lifted a brow as she entered with his meal tray, pleased that the prisoner seemed to be on his best behavior. He sat on the floor, his back supported by the frame of his bed, his bare legs stretched out across the cool marble.
“I am ready to venture out again, and willing to teach your son. But first, in fairness, there are things I should tell you. Can you talk today?”
Mandisa thought of Tizara, who’d soon be lingering in the hallways, waiting to hector her. “I have the time this afternoon,” she answered, grateful for Shim’on’s conversational mood. “My mistress has gone to the palace with Zaphenath-paneah, and there is nothing for me to do.” She lowered his tray to a stand. “What did you want to talk about?”
His lips twisted into a cynical smile and the mask of good humor fell away. “I suppose I could begin by asking a question—what is the worst thing you have ever done?”
He spoke in his casual, jesting way, and she assumed he was teasing.
“I don’t know.” She moved toward the chair against the wall. “Once I ate one of the cook’s shat cakes when he wasn’t looking. Halima was about to be blamed for it, so I confessed.”
His laughter held a sharp edge. “Is that all?”
She sank into the chair and settled back to search his face. “Why do you ask?”
His dark eyes narrowed. “You have asked me to spend time with your son. I want to do it, I want a few hours of liberty, but I’m not sure you know what sort of man I truly am. I have done many things, Mandisa, of which you would not approve.”
“I think I know what sort of man you are, Shim’on, son of Yaakov,” she answered, pretending to pick an imaginary piece of lint from her gown as she fought to control her swirling emotions. “You are strong and loyal. You have often been misunderstood.”
“Would you like to know the worst thing I have ever done?”
“Not really.”
“I once killed nearly a thousand men.” She raised her eyes to find him watching her. Lines of concentration had deepened along his brows and under his eyes. “Of course, my brother Levi helped me. We did it to avenge our sister, Dina, who was taken by force and treated like a harlot.”
Icy fear twisted around her heart. “You don’t have to tell me this.”
“That wasn’t the worst, Mandisa. My sister, Dina, gave birth to a child. My father would have nothing to do the baby, for when the child came he was mourning Rahel’s death. My brothers knew Dina would never be married if she kept another man’s child, and so—”
“Stop.” She cut him off, her heart in her throat.
“At the time I didn’t think it was so terribly evil to rid ourselves of the infant. Many of the other clans in the area would not have hesitated. So, while my sister slept, I took the child away and left it in the wilderness.”
“Exposure.” Mandisa shuddered as the word slipped from her lips.
A congested expression settled on his face. “I have nightmares. The men I have killed march by my bed and promise to terror my sleep for the rest of my life. They do not frighten me with their threats, but if I hear a baby’s cry in the night—” His face darkened with unreadable emotions.
As Mandisa studied him, a cold lump grew in her stomach, spreading tendrils of uneasiness through her limbs. She was sitting alone with a murderer, and even worse—a baby killer. But she had known from the first that he was capable of such things, for Zaphenath-paneah had warned her. And the past was lost in the well of yesterday, and should not be dredged up again.
“Would you do it now?” she asked, dismayed to hear a faint thread of hysteria in her voice.
His mouth dipped into an even deeper frown. “What?”
“If Dina had a baby tomorrow, would you kill it?”
He stared at her for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he said finally, tenting his fingers in front of his face. “I don’t think I would. But I don’t know, Mandisa.”
Pressing her lips together, she rose from her chair. “Your anger has led you to commit grievous acts in the past, Shim’on,” she said. “And just as a reasonable man is seldom angry, an angry man is seldom reasonable. But I think you are becoming a reasonable man.”
Mandisa’s hands trembled as she slid the bolt across Shim’on’s door; the conversation had shaken her more than she cared to admit. Did the loneliness of his solitary confinement lead him to such introspection? She knew dark deeds and even darker thoughts lay in every man’s heart, but she was not accustomed to being invited to hear such secret confessions, especially from a man she had come to admire.
She had changed the subject as rapidly as she dared, hastening to assure Shim’on that the river had not risen to its normal level, therefore the famine would continue and his brothers would be forced to return to Egypt. But he hadn’t responded to her forced good cheer; he had only asked whether she would still allow Adom to visit, and if such a visit might be arranged for the afternoon.
She looked at him with surprise, remembering his initial hostility toward the idea and his reluctant confession. “I don’t know, I suppose so,” she said, nearly dropping his dinner tray in her anxious confusion. “I will find him and ask whether he wants to talk with you again.”
She forced a smile to her lips and lightened her tone. “He actually enjoyed learning from you last time, Shim’on. He has begun to watch the birds fly home at sunset, knowing that they are flying to water holes.”
“Call out your guards, then,” he murmured satirically, reminding her of the other half of their bargain. “I will want to walk in th
e garden. And I promise your son will be safe with me.”
She had nodded and promised to return before long with Adom. And now Shim’on was waiting behind the door, listening for her footsteps, wondering if she still trusted him enough to fetch her son.
She did. But she would feel better knowing there were guards around. She turned, and drew up in surprise when she nearly bumped into Tizara in the hall outside Shim’on’s room.
“Are you all right, Mandisa?” the slave girl asked, a coy smile on her face. “You are flushed.” She peered past Mandisa toward the bolted door. “And what, may I ask, is kept in that room? No one will tell me.”
“Nothing,” Mandisa answered, instantly on guard. She fixed her features in a stern expression and took two quick steps toward the kitchens. “Nothing that concerns you, Tizara.”
“Since the door is bolted on the outside,” the slave answered, moving forward and placing her hand upon the door’s rough wood as if she would caress whatever lay inside, “you are trying to keep someone in.” She quirked her brow. “Does Zaphenath-paneah have an idiot son who must be shielded from the light of day?”
“Our master has only two sons, those in your care,” Mandisa answered, fighting the impulse to physically yank the girl from the doorway. “And if you must know, a captive resides in that room. Tarik supervises him.”
“Tarik…and you.”
“I do not supervise. I am needed because I speak Canaanite, and so does the captive.”
“I speak Canaanite.” Tizara leaned against the door, closing her eyes. “Is he a wild man, Mandisa? I’ve yet to meet a man I cannot tame. I’ve reduced many to sniveling idiocy. If our master needs this Canaanite brought to submission—”
“The master needs nothing,” Mandisa answered, her voice hoarse with frustration. She gritted her teeth, irritated with this girl and herself. Ani expected her to help this harlot? A leopard could not change its spots.