Chapter 8
Pharaoh wore the red-and-white double crown of a United Egypt. He sat arrow straight, arms crossed over his chest, and held steady the symbols of state, the flail and crook, one in each hand. From the raised throne, he stared down his nose at the greasy priest prostrated before him. Nege should prove useful. If the palace informers were correct—and their lives were forfeit if they were not—Nege’s deeply embedded bitterness toward Hebrews was well justified.
According to his information, Nege had risen quickly through the ranks from scribe to priest. Eager to advance in his studies and move in rank from priest to physician and then to high priest, he had left the temple complex at Karnak, home of the god Amun, and traveled to the delta in Lower Egypt where he became involved with a foreign woman and her god, both Hebrew. Amun’s high priest banished Nege from the temple and required him to work as a scribe before he was reinstated as a minor priest of Amun. All the years of studying—lost; the favors curried—gone; the tuition his family scraped together—wasted.
Ramses knew the next few moments would be critical to his success. Nege was rumored to think of himself as impervious to … suggestion. No, Ramses corrected himself, never lie to yourself. Call it what it is—manipulation. In a few moments, Nege would be warm, wet clay in the hands of a master.
Pharaoh stood. He placed the flail and crook on the throne’s cushion. His gold-covered leather sandals clicked against the marble until he stopped on the lowest step.
“Nege, my brother.” Pharaoh paused, keeping his face expressionless. “Walk with me. I remember the service you provided and would seek your counsel.”
The soft, thin priest stood, red-faced from either pride or exertion, and briefly Ramses thought the man had defied nature to become pregnant, such was the bulge below his chest. “My lord, I live only to serve you.” Nege’s voice oozed obeisance.
True, Pharaoh silently agreed as they left the throne room. The two men walked through a wide hallway and stopped to watch an artist draw scenes of the king’s great victory at Kadesh against the Hittites. Ramses pointed out each of the army divisions, Re, Amun, Set, and Ptah. He thrust back his shoulders as he began to explain how he almost single-handedly brought about the battle’s great victory.
“We left in the second month of summer and marched through Gaza to Kadesh. No one could stop us.” Ramses shrugged. “I lost count of the number of towns we conquered, although the scribes surely recorded it. We had just passed the Tjel when my men captured two spies.” He sneered. “The fools tried to trick us into believing the Hittite king, Muwatallis, was fleeing.
“As the Division of Re began to make camp, I rode out on Victory-at-Thebes—sometimes I believe he knows he’s the finest stallion in Egypt—to observe the Hittite retreat and track their progress. As I assumed, the spies had lied, which I’m sure they regretted as the truth was beaten from them. Unfortunately, our camp suffered a surprise attack. I rallied those with me and led a counterattack.” Ramses gestured to the painting. “Look, here you see where we drove the Hittites across the Orontes River. Really, it was little more than a stream, and it was there we saved their fool Prince of Aleppo from drowning.” He chuckled. “See, my men hold him upside down to drain water from him.”
Ramses smirked and pointed to where the Hittite chariots were shown bogged in the mud. “Another reason they failed. They are much heavier than ours. They carry three people instead of two. Their round shields are inferior and inefficient as well. Observe how ours are rectangular and more efficient in covering the body and protecting it from arrows.”
Nege stroked his chin. “Naturally, we are superior under your leadership.”
“Although we were outnumbered, we were victorious.”
“Of course, Great One. The gods favor you as one of their own.”
“I refused a peace treaty from Muwatallis to accept only a truce. I will return to Syria.” Ramses traced the sketch of his pet lion shown racing alongside the chariot. “And this one shall go with me once again.”
Ramses turned to scrutinize the man beside him.
“You are not a soldier, Nege, but I sense the warrior’s spirit within you. You are an educated man, a man of courage and strong convictions.”
Nege preened and squared his thin shoulders.
Ramses leaned forward. He canted his head as if puzzled. “It has come to my attention you almost became a physician for the priesthood of Amun in Karnak, the city of temples. Is this true?”
“Yes, Great One.” Nege’s face mottled. “But I did not complete the training.”
Ramses moved away, pretending to inspect an ostrich feather plume outlined on the drawing of his horse’s head, allowing time for the disgruntled priest to compose himself.
“I find myself with two dilemmas, Nege.” Ramses rubbed the back of his neck as if weary from the weight of kingly troubles. “Someone with exceptional skills, someone I can trust completely, must handle the situations.” He turned to face Nege. “I need a man who is willing to serve in an unusual capacity, as overseer, priest, and”—Ramses shrugged—“perhaps physician.
“My father’s temple is unfinished. As a tribute to him, I wish to have it completed.” Ramses slowly shook his head. “It is a tremendous undertaking. Monumental. The design requires one hundred men to be able to stand atop each of the hundred or more columns. It is to be a covered sanctuary, a hypostyle hall at the Karnak Temple, with paintings throughout its temples. I would direct it myself, such is its importance, but…” Ramses paused and sighed. “My efforts are concentrated on completing the work my father began at Abydos and his temple there.”
He led the way to a low table. Grapes and dates spilled over the sides of a silver bowl. He motioned for the priest to sit. Ramses settled himself on the nearest cushion.
“It will be a great responsibility, a burden, I’m sure. The overseer will be in charge of all contracts for workmen and artisans.” Ramses tilted the golden goblet next to his hand and stared at his reflection. He knew Nege needed time to calculate the potential for personal gain.
Ramses spoke slowly as if uncertain how his next words would be perceived. “You are a servant of the gods. The gods told me you will shoulder this task.”
“My lord, anyone—everyone—I mean … I would be honored to serve you in this. I will most assuredly … yes, it would be my life’s privilege to serve you.” The priest fumbled his words. “Forgive me, but I thought you said—did you not say two—you had two dilemmas?”
“Ah yes, we have not spoken of the other … concern.” Ramses broke off a handful of grapes and ate them one by one as he relished the pregnant man’s trepidation. “My father, the god Amun, has come to me the last seven nights in a dream and warned me that our homeland is in grave danger.”
“Danger? From the Libyans or from the Nubians?”
“Neither.” Ramses leaned forward. “I have fought both countries, and this is far more threatening. It is treachery from within, from a danger which has greatly multiplied, heretics who serve a foreign god, the inhabitants of the delta.”
Ramses saw Nege’s eyes harden in understanding, his face losing all pretense of oily servitude.
“Being a priest and having completed most of your studies to be a physician of the temple, you understand certain … intricacies, the mysteries of gods who promise life and deliver death.” It was a question instead of a statement, and judging from the way Nege’s eyes sharpened, the man had recognized its implications.
“My lord, who can understand the ways of the gods?” Nege gazed into the distance and twisted the ring on one of his well-groomed fingers.
Pharaoh waited, allowing the priest to think, discreetly watching him and delicately peeling a grape before popping it into his mouth.
Nege smiled. He did not show his teeth, and the glitter in his eyes did not soften his face. “The gods have guided me. Allow me to direct you, Great Pharaoh, by telling you of my daughter. She was raised to serve the goddess Taweret but n
ow lives in Goshen as midwife to the Hebrew women. It would be my will and honor for her to serve you. Her name is Shiphrah.”
Chapter 9
Jochebed felt the baby kick and rubbed her swollen belly to calm the child. It wouldn’t be long and she’d need Shiphrah to midwife a second time. She’d always known Shiphrah would be a good midwife. Nothing ever seemed to upset her, and it was impossible to know the thoughts behind her obsidian eyes. When Shiphrah wanted to hide her feelings, her face hardened into a stone mask. Lili would have been a horrible midwife, alarming everyone with her gasps of dismay and moans of sympathy.
The baby kicked again. Would it be a boy or another girl? If a girl, would she, too, love weaving?
As she watched her mother teach Miriam how to rotate the basket with her thumb, contentment warmed Jochebed with an awareness of the past flowing into the future. They were woven together by birth and task and tradition.
Miriam was different though. While the child learned the weaves quickly, it was not enough for her to be still and work with her hands. Jochebed sighed. How could she have a daughter so opposite from herself? Miriam exuded confidence that she could do anything she tried. So far it had proven true. Was there anything Miriam couldn’t do … or wouldn’t try?
Miriam ran faster, sang sweeter, and learned more quickly than the other girls her age. Did every mother think her child was someone unique, or was Miriam truly … unusual?
It was hard to tell her daughter the stories of their people and the unseen God. Miriam listened with an unsettling intensity. And her eyes! During the stories, Miriam stared relentlessly into Jochebed’s eyes as if trying to see if what she said was true. Jochebed often busied herself with weaving to avoid looking into her child’s face.
Another daughter like Miriam would be the death of her. Jochebed hoped this child would be a boy. The birth of a boy would bring approval and acceptance. Perhaps then she would be released from hearing how her father allowed an Egyptian, one of their tormentors, to live. Perhaps she would then “be enough.”
Jochebed accepted her newborn son from Shiphrah and lowered him so his sister could see her tiny brother. “Your father said we are to call him by the name of Aaron, Aaron ben Amram. It is a strong name like yours, Miriam.”
Four-year-old Miriam eyed the wrinkled infant doubtfully. “He needs more than a strong name, Mommy. His nose is smashed.”
“As was yours when you were first born. Look at you now, four years later. Your nose is much thinner and straight as can be,” Elisheba answered for her daughter.
Miriam stroked the damp spikes of baby hair on her brother’s head, and Jochebed thought her heart would burst with the joy of seeing them together. She was content. She had given Amram a beautiful daughter and now a healthy boy. She pictured the way her husband’s dark eyes would light up at the news of his son. Surely he would finally be pleased with her. She could hardly wait to present little Aaron to his father. Amram loved children.
“You must help your mother take care of baby Aaron. He will need a big sister like you to help watch over him and protect him.”
“I will be his big sister.” With wide, solemn eyes, the little girl looked from her grandmother to her brother before voicing her promise. “I take care of baby.”
The three women shared their smiles at Miriam’s earnest face and then turned to the job of living. Shiphrah busied herself with afterbirth chores. She cleaned Jochebed after her long labor and disposed of the afterbirth. Elisheba prepared the evening meal while Jochebed cuddled her infant. Miriam knelt close by and watched her new brother sleep.
As soon as her confinement ended, Jochebed resumed the washing chores so her mother would not need to kneel by the water’s edge. Adjusting her grip on the smooth stone, Jochebed listened to the women fretting about the long season of drought as they scrubbed and pounded the dirt from clothes.
She studied the water’s level. The Nile did not appear to be rising. Harvest of the crops was complete, and still the season of shemu lingered. Jochebed knew she probably should worry, too, but inside she was relieved.
When the intensity of the summer’s heat decreased, two other annual events occurred. Jochebed dreaded both of them equally.
First came akhet—the flooding time—the uncertain time. With light flooding, not enough land was fertilized for the needed crops. After several years of low waters, famine seared the land.
If flooding was heavy, the waters receded slowly, shortening the needed growing period. The Nile turned villages into islands, homes into mud, and swept away lives.
Everyone faced the risks.
Jochebed faced fear.
This time of flooding began the season Amram turned away from her. Mired in the memories of his first wife, their life together, and her death in the swirling currents of the floodwaters, Amram seemed to forget he had a living family. He would stop in the middle of a task to look around as if he could not remember what to do or where to go. He did not reach for Jochebed in the night or talk to her in the day.
Jochebed faded like a star against the brilliant sun of his deceased wife’s perfection.
During the first flood after their marriage, Amram had acted so strangely, Jochebed feared he was ill. The next year, in the secrecy of the night, she’d found courage to ask if he tired of her, if she failed to please him in some way. He told her then of his wife being swept away in the currents as she tried to reach their son.
She understood him better and felt relieved until she realized where his thoughts centered each summer. Each time the river rose, so did the wife who lived no more, who would never again disappoint and never again fail. She had held his heart since their childhood, and he faithfully mourned her each year, his first love—the one Jochebed would always fall short of being.
The squeals of children interrupted her thoughts as they splashed fully clothed into the river or jumped feet first from the rocks into the shallow pools. Their dripping hair and soggy tunics would dry quickly in the white heat.
Jochebed shook out wrinkled clothes and wished she could as easily shake off the threatening fears rising to overwhelm her as surely as the Nile would threaten and overrun its boundaries. Would she always live in the shadow of Amram’s first wife, always feel as if she were “not quite enough”?
“Jochebed, if you have time to stare at the water, you could help me. Not that I ever complain, but since I fell and hurt my back, I sure could use a little help.” Sarah’s voice grated. “You’re sure not like your mother.” Sarah wagged her finger. “No, not at all. That woman knows how to work. I never see her standing around like she’s some fancy princess with nothing to do but dream. How old are you now … seventeen? You disappoint me. Guess you take after your father, Levi.”
The words slapped. After so many years, must her father’s name still be dishonored? Jochebed bit her tongue to keep from screaming something she’d need to apologize for later. She hated to apologize to Old Sarah.
Jochebed wrung out the last of the clothes with vicious force and dropped them in the basket. She carried the load downriver and spread them to dry on a rock far enough away to be safe from the still-splashing children. She worked slowly, not wanting to return to Sarah.
The dormant poison quickened and swelled. No one needed to tell Jochebed she was disappointing. She already knew.
She felt it every year when Amram’s thoughts turned to his first wife and how she drowned trying to save their child. She was reminded she was not equal to her mother whenever she carried baskets to market and Mother’s were sold first. She had no special healing skills like Shiphrah, and Lili’s ongoing unfriendliness convinced her she must not be a good friend either.
“Jochebed.”
Startled by the sound of Amram’s voice, she clutched the dripping cloth to herself and turned fearfully. What horrible thing had happened that he would risk the taskmaster’s whip by reporting late to work?
“Are you ill, Amram? Has the quota increased? Are you being sen
t to the quarries?”
“Woman, you do Miriam a disservice letting her choose her own way. She is headstrong and willful.”
Still clasping the wet cloth, Jochebed spluttered with indignation. “Miriam! You’re here because of Miriam?” She took a breath to still her pounding heart. “What harm can it do if she chooses the tasks she likes? I don’t mind doing the others. She’s still helping me, and the work is done. We never ask you for help.”
“She needs to do as she is told, the work she dislikes as well as the work she enjoys.”
“I know, but she’s such a good girl, Amram.”
“She’s good because you let her have her way in most things. Do you ever tell her no or insist she do something she doesn’t want to do?”
Jochebed did not reply. Amram was right, but did he realize how determined his daughter could be? He did not see her all day. He did not live with the difference between a disgruntled Miriam and a content Miriam. Most days, Jochebed admitted to herself, she felt too tired to battle her daughter’s strong will.
“You are her mother, Jochebed. It is up to you to teach her obedience as well as weaving and the promises of God. Do not fail in this also. I thought you were a worthy woman, but if necessary I will…” Amram knotted the rope around his waist and left without another word.
She watched him go, his feet pumping swirls of dust into the air. The dust disappeared. If only she could disappear as easily as the dust.
Was he threatening to put her aside or take her before the elders? She was not enough; she knew she was not, and she did not need help remembering it.
When had his patience soured to criticism, his tenderness become tension? Had she lost his affection? Would he turn away from her to a needless death as her father had left them? She was a failure not only as a mother, but as a wife.
Hands shaking, she started back, resigned to helping Old Sarah in an attempt to forestall more criticism, but Sarah had cornered someone else. Relieved, and feeling a little guilty, Jochebed bypassed them, sorry for the young girl Sarah was berating.
Slender Reeds: Jochebed’s Hope Page 10