Miriam

by Mesu Andrews

  “What would Egypt do with furs?” Miriam asked Eleazar a bit too loud. Two petitioners in front of her glanced back at her, sneering.

  Her nephew pulled her closer and nodded toward the gallery of twenty young men sitting at Pharaoh’s right hand in high-backed, embroidered chairs. “Those are Pharaoh’s firstborn sons from each of his twenty wives.” A knee-high gold wall etched with war scenes separated them from the nobles and petitioners. Ranging in age from midthirties to early teens, the twenty princes appeared as bored as their father and king. At the right shoulder of each royal stood an armor-bedecked guard—each shoulder but one.

  “Is that your master, there?” Miriam pointed at the oldest of the princes, the one seated closest to the throne.

  Eleazar nodded. “Yes, Prince Ramesses. Firstborn of Isetneferet—the Second Great Wife. I’ll try to gain his attention. Perhaps he can alert Pharaoh we’ve arrived.” A head taller than most men in the room, Eleazar raised his hand slightly, waving in the direction of the princes.

  A little pride warmed Miriam’s heart knowing Prince Ramesses’s personal guard stood at her side. “Does he know you call him Prince Ram?”

  “Yes, Doda. Everyone calls him Ram because it would be heresy to call him by the name of the good god, Pharaoh Ramesses.”

  “I was harem midwife when Queen Sitre delivered Ramesses, and I can tell you he’s not a—”

  Eleazar’s hand clamped over her mouth. Surrounding petitioners glared at her, and again Eleazar nodded and smiled. “I’m sorry if we’ve disturbed you.” When all eyes had returned to Pharaoh and his throne, Eleazar removed his hand and whispered, “Doda, you can’t say Pharaoh Ramesses isn’t a god. That’s treason.”

  Miriam wanted to say, It’s the truth, but she crossed her arms and remained silent.

  Eleazar nudged her forward as the next petitioner left his offering with the king’s steward—two ostriches that squawked like trumpets. Miriam stretched up on her toes to catch a glimpse of Eleazar’s younger brother, Ithamar. Pride swelled at the sight of him, personal slave of Pharaoh’s chief scribe. Eleazar and Ithamar had done well as third- and fourth-born sons. In most Hebrew families, it was the first and second born who rose to the best positions. Not so with her brother Aaron’s sons.

  When Ramesses took Egypt’s throne, his ambitious building projects demanded more Hebrew workmen, so he mandated only first- and second-born Hebrews be trained as skilled craftsmen while all others were put to work in fields, mud pits, the military, or some other harsh labor. Ithamar had begun serving in the military alongside Eleazar, but because of the younger boy’s slight build and high intelligence, the palace scribes soon found better use for Ithamar’s skills.

  Miriam watched her youngest nephew’s reed scribble across the papyrus scroll like a bird skimming the surface of the Nile. Concentration forced his tongue to the corner of his mouth as it had done since he was a small boy. Ithamar seldom visited the slave village of Goshen anymore, but when she’d seen him two years ago, he’d described his duties. “I number the offerings brought by emissaries and tally the executions ordered by the king.” The sums, he’d said, were typically dead even.

  While Eleazar continued to seek Prince Ram’s attention, Miriam noted Pharaoh’s demeanor change as two Egyptian guards brought in the next supplicant. A girl, who’d seen perhaps twenty inundations, stood trembling before the throne. Dressed in a simple white byssus robe, her sheer blue head covering distinguished her as Hebrew. She could have been a servant to any woman in the palace, but when the girl fell to her knees and stretched out her hands before her, Miriam saw the harem brand on her forearm.

  Pharaoh shifted on his throne, his expression suddenly stony. “I will judge the woman who dared harm my ten-year-old son.”

  The throne hall became utterly still.

  The girl pressed her forehead to the floor, her long hair coiled in a single braid beside her. “Please, mighty Pharaoh, Keeper of Harmony and Balance, Elect of Ra, it is with deep affection that I care for the young prince. I would never let harm come to him.”

  “And yet one of my fifty-six sons lies in his bed, leg broken, weeping in pain.” Pharaoh let the silence draw out, repeatedly slapping the flail into his palm and trailing the horsehair through his fingers.

  The girl’s voice finally broke the tension. “My king, it was an accident. He slipped while climbing a palm tree—a tree he’s climbed a hundred times. He’s strong and agile as a gazelle. It was one missed step, and he was on the ground…” Her voice trailed off in a sob.

  Miriam’s feet propelled her forward, past the petitioners ahead of her and beyond Eleazar’s grasp. “I seem to recall the same thing happening to you when you were a small boy, Mighty Pharaoh.” Other noblemen parted as if she had leprosy, leaving Miriam standing in the middle of a starburst pattern of marble tile.

  Pharaoh’s guards advanced to protect the god on the throne from an eighty-six-year-old midwife. Eleazar shoved her behind him before they arrived. Bowing his head, he pleaded, “Forgive her, Son of Horus, Giver of Life, Strong in Right. This woman is my doda Miriam—I mentioned to my master, Prince Ram, that she interprets dreams for the Hebrews.”

  Miriam peered around Eleazar’s right arm and saw only Ramesses’s disdain. “I know your aunt. She tended my cuts and bruises when my divine father Sety ruled Egypt.” He motioned her forward. “Stand before me, Midwife.”

  Miriam straightened, pleased to have Pharaoh’s frustration aimed at her instead of the harem maid. Eleazar’s arm circled her waist and he supported her elbow, leaning close. “Please, Doda, guard your words.” They halted beside the harem maid, who was still sprawled on the floor, weeping quietly. Miriam bent to comfort her, but Eleazar pulled her upright with an iron grip, waiting before Pharaoh.

  Ramesses’s eyes narrowed, reminding Miriam of the haughty child he’d always been. “So you’re the seer my son Ram told me about. I had no idea you were also the midwife from my childhood. Perhaps you are Isis in flesh, healing the Son of Horus as a child, then healing him again by interpreting the nightmares.”

  “I am no goddess, Ramesses. I only interpret that which the One True God allows.” Gasps and whispers filled the room at the use of his familiar name. Eleazar’s grip tightened around her waist, but Miriam felt no fear—only pity for this king lost in childish delusions.

  Pharaoh raised his flail, securing instant quiet in the gallery. “And what sort of payment does your god require to interpret my dreams?”

  “No payment, my king. When He speaks, I obey. When He is silent, I am silent.” Miriam’s heart now pounded like a hammer against her chest. Oh my Shaddai, please don’t be silent.

  Pharaoh slapped the flail into his palm again and tugged at the horsehair. A sinister smile creased his face, and he turned toward the harem maid, who had grown quiet. He motioned to two guards and pointed his flail at the girl. “Stand the girl between you.”

  They lifted her to her feet, and Eleazar breathed a name. “Taliah?”

  Miriam turned to him in silent question, but Eleazar had no time to answer.

  “You know her?” Pharaoh’s delighted laugh sent a chill up Miriam’s spine. He lifted his voice to the gathered crowd. “The midwife says she requires no payment, but every magician has a price. If she correctly interprets my dreams, I’ll spare the girl’s life. If she doesn’t interpret them to my liking, the girl will lose her head right here, right now.”

  Miriam turned to Eleazar and spoke quietly. “How do you know this Taliah?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “She’s Putiel’s youngest daughter. I promised I’d watch over her when he left with the crown prince to oversee the building project at Saqqara four years ago.”

  Miriam returned her attention to the girl, remembering the day Taliah’s ima died birthing a fourth daughter. Taliah and two sisters had been left with a military abba and no ima. Putiel had found a husband for the oldest daughter, a kind man three-times her age. He’d given his second d
aughter to his uncle Ishbah to raise as a skilled weaver. But Taliah…she was third born and couldn’t work as a skilled laborer. At five years old, she had already displayed her ima’s beauty, which would make her prey for the guards in the fields or mud pits—dead before her twentieth inundation or wishing it was so. Putiel begged his master, Crown Prince Amenhirkopshef, to allow Taliah to serve in the harem. Though she was still just a child herself, she could entertain the toddlers and serve the king’s young daughters. In a rare display of mercy, the crown prince agreed. Miriam hadn’t seen the girl since.

  “Doda?” Eleazar shook her and whispered, “Are you all right?”

  She nodded and waved away her protective nephew. What a fuss he made over her. Turning to Ramesses, she noted again his puffy eyes and the dark shadows beneath them. Perhaps he would soften if shown some kindness. “Your eyes betray your sleepless nights, Great Pharaoh. Tell your physicians to combine rose paste with almond oil. Smear it on your lids and below your lashes, and then cover your eyes with cucumber slices while you sleep. Your eye paints will apply more smoothly the next morning.”

  Eleazar rolled his eyes, but Ramesses fought a grin. “I’ll have it noted by the scribes. Now…” His humor disappeared. “My dreams, Midwife.”

  After a slight nod, Miriam met his gaze and spoke without hesitation. “In your first dream, you were trapped in the underground burial chamber of Zaphenath-Paneah—or, as we Hebrews know him, Joseph—the vizier who ushered in the Hyksos dynasty. There were ten wooden dolls standing guard around the tomb, east of the Great Wife’s palace.”

  Ramesses scoffed. “Those wooden dolls, as you call them, are shabtis, and are buried with royalty in order to serve us in the next life. I wouldn’t expect a slave to know our burial customs.” Those in the audience laughed too, mocking Miriam’s ignorance.

  But she continued undaunted. “Then you realize it’s only by God’s revelation that I know Joseph’s tomb is entirely underground.”

  The laughter died, and Pharaoh leaned forward. “Go on, but tread carefully. My dreams will not be soothed with almond oil and cucumbers.”

  Miriam bowed deeply, feeling real compassion for the fear on his features. The dreams replayed as vividly as she’d seen them as she slept the previous night. “Ten wooden shabtis sprang to life and opened Joseph’s tomb. One by one, each succumbed to shocking destruction. The first was drowned in blood, the second eaten by frogs, the third—”

  “Stop! I’ll hear no more.” Ramesses shouted, his face as white as his pleated shenti. “Tell me the second dream.”

  Miriam nodded and without preamble began her recounting. “You’re in your abbi Sety’s tomb, surrounded by the unspeakable wealth provided for his afterlife. He stands before you, arms outstretched, beckoning you to his embrace. But the Ramessid god Seth holds you captive as an invisible force cuts off Sety’s ten toes, one at a time. When Sety’s tenth toe is removed, he topples over like a great statue and shatters into a million pieces.” The crowded throne hall inhaled as one, and Ramesses squeezed his eyes shut.

  Miriam leaned heavily on Eleazar’s arm and knelt before Pharaoh’s throne. “These are the nightmares that have plagued Ramesses. Every detail. Nothing tempered.”

  Head bowed, Miriam felt Shaddai’s warm breath across her heart and knew He had come to give her the meaning. The essence of the dreams filled her understanding, and though their message would incense Ramesses, her spirit rested in the truth.

  On her left and right, magicians, noblemen, and officials averted their eyes from the throne. Had any of them the courage to speak such truth even if they knew the meanings of the dreams? Doubtful. But none of them had Shaddai on their side.

  Miriam heard the king’s unsteady breathing and could only guess what violence he would commit when he heard the rest of her message. El Shaddai, I am Your servant. Be it unto me as You will.

  “Stand, Midwife.”

  Eleazar lifted her, setting her gently on her feet, and then replaced his arm around her. Her big, strong nephew was trembling. Dear boy.

  Pharaoh’s eyes narrowed, as if his stare could bore right through her. “If your god showed you my dreams, surely he can interpret their meaning.”

  Miriam tried to swallow but her mouth felt as dry as harvest season. She spoke in her gentlest voice. “In both dreams the number ten is significant, and both signify that Egypt’s wealth will be ruined. The One God declares that with ten signs of His power He will ruin everything Pharaoh Sety worked to give you. Egypt will crumble before you, Mighty Ramesses.” She sighed, relieved to be finished with the task, and dropped her head, waiting for her death sentence.

  The king chuckled. Then laughed until the audience fell into hysteria with him. Only Miriam, Eleazar, and Taliah stood soberly. Perhaps they could hope for dismissal instead of death.

  “The Hebrew god destroy Egypt?” Pharaoh’s laughter ebbed through tears. “He can’t even help pathetic slaves. How will he conquer the fiercest army in the world?”

  Eleazar stiffened and answered before Miriam could catch her breath. “The Hebrew God is powerless against you, Great Ramesses. The Hebrews are your servants, committed to Egypt’s glory.”

  The kohl-painted Eyes of Horus narrowed as Pharaoh examined Eleazar. “You serve Prince Ram, second heir to Egypt’s throne. He assures me you can be trusted.” Pharaoh then turned to the gallery of princes. “Join me, Prince Ram, on the dais.”

  The well-muscled prince rose from his gilded chair. Only Crown Prince Amenhirkopshef held more power than Prince Ram, but Kopshef—as he was called—was in Saqqara, so Ram commanded Egypt’s army and held his father’s heart. The prince took his place at Pharaoh’s right hand and waited to be addressed.

  Pharaoh focused on Eleazar as he spoke. “We must trust those who serve us, my son. Do you still trust this Hebrew to oversee your military slaves?”

  Miriam’s mouth was as dry as Egypt’s dust. El Shaddai, I’m ready to endure whatever punishment comes to me, but please spare my dear Eleazar.

  “I trust him with my life, but I bow to your wisdom, mighty Pharaoh.” Prince Ram’s voice held no emotion.

  Pharaoh nodded and rubbed his chin. “Very well. The Hebrew commander remains your servant, but I no longer trust the handmaid to care for my son.”

  Taliah whimpered, and Miriam stepped forward. “But you said—”

  The guard on Taliah’s right elbowed Miriam, doubling her over and ceasing her protest. Eleazar pulled Miriam aside, standing between her and the guard. He made no attempt to defend her. Smart boy.

  Pharaoh cleared his throat. “You’re still alive, Midwife, only because I know the gods have favored your family with long life. My son tells me your parents are well over 110—the age of perfection—and you yourself have lived more than eighty inundations. I dare not anger the gods by snuffing out your life, but I will not tolerate your insolence.” Miriam straightened in the looming silence and found him smiling at her. “I will spare the handmaid as I promised, but her negligence must be punished. She must feel the pain my son felt.”

  He motioned Prince Ram closer for a private consult. The prince nodded and addressed Eleazar. “Break her right leg and remove her from the palace. She will live in the Hebrew village at the pleasure of the slave masters.”

  4

  The LORD said to Aaron, “Go into the wilderness to meet Moses.”

  —EXODUS 4:27

  Pharaoh had ordered the next petitioner to approach his throne before Taliah’s agonized scream ebbed. She’d fainted when Eleazar lifted her into his arms, making her journey down the long hallway of the palace underground barracks bearable. Eleazar’s small chamber was the nearest refuge to tend Taliah’s broken leg before carrying her back to the slave village.

  “It’s that room, Doda.” He nodded to a door on the right, halfway down. Miriam lifted the iron latch and entered. The smell of sweat-soaked leather and dirty feet greeted them. If he’d known Doda and an injured harem maid were coming, he would have ask
ed his apprentice of four years, Hoshea, to tidy the room.

  Hoshea’s eyes widened at the intrusion. “Eleazar?”

  Ignoring the question, Doda took charge. “Hoshea, clear off Eleazar’s mat. Eleazar, set Taliah down gently. Easy, now.”

  Eleazar lowered the girl, and her eyes fluttered open. He moved away quickly as Doda crouched beside her. Taliah began to stir and then whimpered.

  “Shh, it will be better soon,” Doda cooed. “It will hurt for a while, but we’ll get herbs at home, and you’ll feel better.” She looked over her shoulder at Hoshea. “Come here, boy. I need your help.”

  Hoshea and Eleazar shared quarters, and though Hoshea was only eighteen, he’d already learned to tend wounded soldiers on and off the battlefield. But the poor boy had never endured a commander like Doda.

  “I’m going to straighten this broken bone,” she said, holding his gaze. “You will lie across Taliah like a blanket to hold her still.” Hoshea’s cheeks bloomed red as poppies, but he squeezed his eyes shut and obeyed.

  Doda Miriam said over her shoulder to Eleazar, “Get some leather for her to bite down on.”

  Eleazar tugged off the leather band securing his long hair at the nape of his neck. He knelt beside the girl’s head and placed it gently between her teeth. She bit down hard, screaming through gritted teeth, while Doda straightened the bone.

  Eleazar looked away, unable to watch Doda repair the break he’d inflicted. Prince Ram had descended the dais to ensure Pharaoh’s order was carried out. He’d whispered to Eleazar, “Get her to the Hebrew village before Abbi changes his mind and kills her.” Even Pharaoh’s favored son walked a fine line between loyalty and morality. So Eleazar made the break as swift and clean as possible—one swing with his spear shaft below Taliah’s knee.