In the Shadow of Sinai

by Carole Towriss

  After a while, the noise of a particularly large delegation caught Bezalel’s attention as its members stomped in from the entrance hall to the southeast of the courtyard. Their dark skin and closely braided hair identified them as Nubians. That meant gold. Lots of gold.

  Ten men, in pairs, carried enormous, open black-and-red pots filled with gold flakes and nuggets, tribute for the season. Bezalel’s thoughts ran wild as he envisioned the jewelry he could fashion from it. In its present form it wasn’t much good to anyone else.

  A parade of women in multi-colored garments followed, carrying trays full of copper and gemstones from the Sinai mines, shut down before summer’s fury took hold. Light green turquoise, deep blue lapis lazuli, pale purple amethyst, red carnelian, textured green malachite, and clear green emeralds. To most they looked like worthless rocks at this stage, but to him, even unpolished they held unbelievable beauty and possibility.

  Before Bezalel could dream about what he might do with the gems, two young girls bolted in from the hall, screaming. He grimaced as an inhuman growl filled the air. Sailors strutted in, one with a golden cat that stood as high as a man’s waist, with a long rope tied around its neck.

  The animal looked from side to side, as if searching for its next meal. The handler walked the cat up to the throne and stopped, then knelt. The cat, covered with what appeared to be black paw prints, lay down next to him, swishing its tail.

  Ramses leaned forward and pointed at the animal with his scepter. “What is this? Is this the leopard I heard about as a child?”

  The sailor stood and gestured grandly toward the cat. “Yes, my king. This is the famous leopard. There has not been one at court since Queen Hatshepsut, almost two hundred years ago. But I, Menes”—he put his hand on his chest—“have brought Ramses the second, the greatest king of all, the finest leopard in all the land of Punt.” He bowed deeply.

  Ramses raised his eyebrows. “Really? In all the land? You searched it all?”

  The sailor stood. “Well, it-it is the finest that I found….”

  “If I had wanted one, I would have sent for one.” Ramses sat back in his throne. “Did you bring anything … useful?”

  “Well, yes, there is a myrrh tree, frankincense, ebony, ivory—”

  “Very good. You are dismissed.” Ramses struck the floor with the heel of his scepter.

  The sailor’s shoulders fell, and he shuffled off, pulling the leopard behind him.

  Bezalel shook his head. Ramses didn’t care about the effort the man must have gone to as he captured, trained, and brought such a magnificent creature to him. If it didn’t fill his treasury or his harem, he troubled himself little about it, no matter how much sweat or blood it cost.

  Crewmen followed, carrying baskets of the promised white elephant tusks and black wood. This afternoon the rare ivory and ebony would be in the storeroom. Bezalel could hardly wait.

  The water clock said the day’s work was finished, although the sun would not set for some time. Finally, Bezalel’s week was over. He needed his family tonight. He packed up his tools and shut the door of his workroom behind him.

  He left the palace and headed northwest along the river and, in less than half an hour, reached his village. A day or so was hardly enough time. Thankfully, he lived close enough to come home midweek sometimes, if his workload permitted. Ammon had given him leave to choose his own time off as long as he accomplished his work. Would his new master do the same?

  The evening sun cast long, misshapen shadows east over the river, and the cooler air beckoned people outside. River birds darted above the heads of small children who hid among the papyrus reeds. Older children began arriving from the brickfields along with the adults. Several younger boys shouted as they played a game of chase near the river. Bezalel stopped and watched. Their innocent joy refreshed him after days with the selfish king.

  “Hey, palace rat, leave them alone! Stay away from them!”

  Bezalel flinched, and looked around for the voice that yelled at him.

  A group of mud-stained young men his age stood a short distance away, staring at him. The leader stood in front of the rest, arms crossed. His bushy beard made him look older than the others. “I said, leave! We don’t need your kind here.”

  Not tonight. His feelings were raw already. No matter how often he explained, some still couldn’t believe he did not have a choice of whether or not to work in the palace. The lack of mud on his tunic and blisters on his hands provided the only provocation some needed to hate him. He had no energy to argue tonight. Still, if they wanted it… He headed toward them.

  “Bezalel!”

  A familiar voice caught his attention. He turned to see his grandfather ambling towards him. Bezalel stared a moment at the group then walked away.

  “Sabba.” Bezalel smiled and hugged his grandfather.

  “Welcome home, habibi.” His grandfather clapped him on the shoulder. “Problem?”

  “Not anymore.” They fell in step as they strolled through the narrow streets of houses made with adjoining walls. They passed a couple nuzzling near the door of a mud-brick home. A gaggle of boys kicked a ball. Girls huddled, pointed, and giggled as boys walked by. Everyone had someone. Everyone except him. Sometimes—often—he wished he made bricks like everyone else. It would be so much easier. Why did he have to be different?

  They reached their small home, removed their sandals and walked through the large room into the open-air kitchen in the back.

  “Bezalel, you’re home!” His mother dropped the large spoon she was using into a pot, grabbed Bezalel, and held him close.

  “Yes, Imma, I’m home.” He smiled broadly and hugged her back then pulled away and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Oh, a week is too long, habibi. Hungry, I hope? I roasted a duck since you are home for dinner tonight. Now, wash your hands.”

  The two men washed and dried their hands, stepped into the main room, and sat on the floor in front of the low table already set with plates and cups and a pitcher of juice.

  Imma set out fresh dates and bread then disappeared again. She emerged with a platter of duck meat, which she placed on the table.

  “Thank you, Rebekah.” Sabba grabbed a date while she wasn’t looking.

  “So, what happened at the palace this week?” Imma sat beside Bezalel.

  He watched her as she filled his plate with meat and fruit. She looked so tired lately. Gray now streaked her beautiful brown hair, and her bright eyes always had dark circles under them. She looked far older than her years. “The Nubians brought gold again, and the Sinai miners sent basket loads of gems. I can’t wait to work with them. The water master came with the first report of the rise in the Nile. Sailors from Punt brought a leopard—”

  “A leopard! I thought that was only a legend.” Imma’s eyes grew as wide as the dates she had served.

  Bezalel swallowed his bread. “I guess not. An enormous cat. Gold with black spots. He was stunning, but he scared the servant girls.” He took another bite and thought of the girl in the throne room. Her face filled his mind, and once more he wanted to go find her and take her away. What was her name? What was she doing right now? How frightened was she? He shoved the thoughts aside.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Her question pulled him back to the present. “What?”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Ramses took a new wife again. Well, a concubine, anyway.”

  Imma’s mouth dropped open. “Again? But it’s been years.”

  Bezalel nodded. “She’s so young this time … the youngest one yet. And very pretty.”

  Imma studied his face. “Is that all? You’re still leaving something out, I think.” She touched the darkening bruise on his neck.

  He pulled away. “Don’t worry about it.” He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I guess if he is a god he can do anything, even marry a child.”

  “God?” Sabba huffed. “He is no god.”
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br />   “The people think so. He is as good a god as El Shaddai.” Bezalel shoved his food away. “Maybe better. Shaddai cannot stop Ramses from keeping us as slaves. He is not ‘the Almighty,’ and this proves it. No god would bring his people to a strange land and then leave them there to become slaves under these unbearable Egyptians.”

  “Oh, habibi.” Imma reached over and stroked his cheek. “Such anger in one so young.”

  After dinner, Bezalel wandered outside. He soon found himself at the river and sat on the wide bank. A gray heron stood on one leg, soundlessly hunting its dinner. The setting sun warmed his back.

  He lay on the ground, arms under his head, and listened to the flow of the water. The flooding would reach this part of the river in several weeks and cover the very spot on which he lay. His thoughts went yet again to the girl and this time he did not avoid them. He remembered her eyes, the sorrow and hopelessness in them. Or was it fear?

  He put one arm over his eyes. He knew what would happen tonight. And then Ramses would discard her, as he did all the others, like so much trash, and return to his beloved, to Nefertari. And then, like him, the girl would be alone.

  Somehow, he had to find her.

  Two

  Bezalel crept along the side wall of the throne room, wishing he had kicked off his sandals. He slid forward until he could see the faces of both the visitors and the king. Dust hung in the light streaming through the windows placed high in the walls. Silence settled on the room like a blanket, making even the early morning air feel heavy. A drop of sweat dribbled down his neck.

  Ramses descended from his throne and now stood a breath away from two Israelites.

  It was unusual enough that Hebrews would be allowed a meeting with the pharaoh, but that the king would come down to see them face to face? It was unheard of.

  Bezalel held his breath, put his hand on his empty stomach to muffle the grumbling.

  Aaron’s bare feet were still wet from the ceremonial washing required before a royal audience. His full, white beard and gray hair touched the patched brown cloak he wore over a mud-stained tunic.

  Bezalel didn’t know the other man. He was shorter than Aaron, and stockier. Like Aaron’s, his hair touched his shoulders, but his weathered face was clean shaven, like the Egyptians. Tension crept down Bezalel’s body.

  Ramses stared silently at the man. Light reflected off the old king’s thin hair. At eighty years of age, his hair color had faded but it still identified him with Seth, the god that gave his family the power to rule.

  “Moses.” An odd smile of recognition crossed Ramses’s face. “It has been a long time since we studied together at Thebes.”

  So was this “Moses” an Israelite or Egyptian? He studied in Thebes, he was barefaced, but he dressed like a slave. It didn’t make sense.

  “Y-yes. It has been many, many years.”

  “Indeed. Too many years for you to think our common ground has earned you anything other than an audience. You are now but a slave.” Ramses chuckled. “Although I hear you rejected even that identity and ran off to hide in the desert.” The king looked Moses over head to toe, gave a snort of contempt, then spun around and returned to his throne.

  Bezalel let out his breath and his muscles relaxed. He gazed at the ceiling, gold stars painted on a field of blue. At least Ramses wasn’t going to hurt anyone. For now.

  Moses took a deep breath as his cheeks colored. “I am here now. Th-that is all that matters.”

  “So you are. Speak to your king.”

  “My b-brother will speak for me.” Moses stepped back.

  “Someone always spoke for you.” Ramses glanced away.

  Moses nodded to Aaron.

  Aaron puffed out his chest. “This is what Yahweh, the God of Israel says to you: ‘Let My people go, that they may meet with Me in the desert.’” His voice echoed off the tiled walls.

  Bezalel watched Moses, although Aaron tried to capture everyone’s attention.

  Ramses snickered. “Who is this Yahweh? I know many gods. I know Ra, and Amun, and Osiris, and Isis, and many others, but I do not recognize any ‘Yahweh.’ Why should I obey him? I do not know him, and I will not let Israel go.” He lifted his hand in a wave of dismissal, but Aaron either did not see it or ignored it.

  Bezalel cringed as Aaron defied the king, raising his staff—and his voice. “Yahweh is the God of Israel, the only true God. He met with us last night, and we must make a three-day journey into the desert to offer sacrifices to Him.” He hesitated before continuing. “Or He may strike with plagues or with the sword.”

  Bezalel leaned his head against the wall. Oh, no, don’t threaten him. That never works.

  Moses glanced at Aaron with widened eyes, giving the distinct impression that Aaron went further than he should have.

  Ramses stood.

  A shiver crawled down Bezalel’s back, even in the delta heat, and he slowly sidestepped away from the dais. Ramses was unpredictable, but even Bezalel could tell when the king would explode.

  Aaron retreated several steps, but Moses stood firm.

  “Moses, why do you wish to keep my people from their labor?” Ramses’s voice began calm but grew louder with every syllable. The heavy kohl rings around his eyes made him appear angry even when he wasn’t. Right now, he looked positively menacing.

  The king stepped to the edge of the dais. “My city is not yet finished, and until it is, no one will leave this delta. Not even for three days! Your worship is not my concern. They all must remain here and keep working, and you are interfering. Leave them alone, and leave me alone. I have indulged you; now get out!” He lunged at the men but stopped short of jumping off the dais.

  Moses turned to go. Aaron started to raise his rod again, but Moses touched his arm. Aaron closed his mouth and followed his brother out, head bowed.

  Bezalel ran a hand over his face and breathed a heavy sigh as he walked to his room. He had just returned to the palace after spending two nights at home. He kicked off his sandals and plopped on his bed for a moment. What happened out there? Aaron has a brother? One who knew Ramses in Thebes, and meets with Shaddai?

  Bezalel gathered his tools and walked across the portico. He tried to focus his thoughts somewhere else—anywhere else—as he picked up his chisel. He pulled it gently in semicircles, each one deeper than the last, to form an ear. As he worked, the heavy scent of lotus blossom filled the air around him, and he felt eyes boring into his neck. He shrugged off the feeling, but it persisted. His hands continued to carve the alabaster, but he couldn’t hold his tool steady. Finally, he stepped back, as if to study his subject, drawing his arm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat.

  The king himself stood only a few strides away.

  Ramses sauntered toward Bezalel. He reached out and touched the sculpture. The king walked around the white stone bust, arms crossed over his chest, and studied it from all sides. His double crown reflected the sun’s rays.

  Although Bezalel was as tall as the king, he felt small in his presence. Bezalel’s heart pounded, and he feared Ramses could see it under his tunic.

  “I like it. You have done well. You capture the power of Ramses.” The pharaoh left without waiting for the customary response. Golden threads glistened in the pleated linen shenti wrapped around his waist, and jeweled bracelets on his wrists clinked together as he strode back to his private rooms beyond the dais. Several servants followed.

  Bezalel staggered and realized he had barely taken a breath since his ruler approached. He gasped, then stumbled backwards and sank onto a couch along the wall behind him. His heart had slowed to near its normal pace and he had caught his breath by the time a tiny Egyptian offered him a cup of water. Bezalel smiled and took it.

  “He can be scary, can’t he?”

  Drops of cool water ran down Bezalel’s chin and he wiped them away. “Maybe.” He studied the child’s face. His eyes were dark brown and his lashes were long and black. He had a tiny scar on his right cheek, and he h
ad lost a tooth. “What’s your name?”

  “Ahmose.” The boy was almost entirely without clothing except for his flaxen shenti. He wore his thick, black hair tied at the base of his neck.

  “I’ve seen you here before. How old are you?”

  “Seven.” Ahmose put his hands on his hips. “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.” Bezalel laughed at the boy’s directness. “Why aren’t you in school with the other children?”

  Ahmose stared at his bare feet, wiggling his toes. “I am only a servant.”

  “Oh.” Bezalel returned the cup. A servant at seven? That was terribly young for an Egyptian. What could the boy possibly have done to deserve that? Bezalel scrambled for words. “Thank you for the water. I needed it. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t speak.”

  “Is this the first time our master has spoken to you?”

  “Yes. I am in his presence almost every day, but he has never addressed me directly. I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

  “So why are you in here instead of out there with all the other Hebrews?”

  A twinge of pain pricked at Bezalel’s heart. Good question. One Shaddai had never answered for him. “I am an artist. I make things for the king. So he keeps me here.”

  “You can’t go home?”

  Bezalel clenched his jaw a moment before he answered. “No. I must stay here now.”

  Ahmose nodded. “I have no home, either.” The little slave left with the cup and wandered down the hall.

  Bezalel crossed the courtyard and headed toward the river. He didn’t like that word “either.” Maybe the boy didn’t have a home, but he did. He had a home; he just wasn’t allowed to live there. He had family; he just couldn’t be with them. He even had a people; they just considered him an Egyptian, a traitor. How could El Shaddai let this happen? Was he God Almighty or not?

  Bezalel picked up some rocks and tossed them into the river, aiming for a turtle. The small stone hit the reptile’s shell and it dove under the water and swam away. Even it had a home that couldn’t be taken away. It wasn’t fair.