In the Shadow of Sinai

by Carole Towriss

  The brothers started to leave, but Ramses called to them. “To whom were you talking?”

  Moses stopped and looked back. “The fr-frogs, of course.”

  Bezalel rolled over on his mat on the roof above his workroom and stretched. The sun was just rising over the Nile; the full moon was setting. The morning animals stirred as the night creatures returned to their nests and dens. He stood up then reached down for his thawb and shrugged into it.

  He walked to the edge of the roof and climbed down the ladder. At the bottom, his foot came down on something cold and clammy. Yanking back his foot, he looked down. Frogs!

  Regretting he had left his sandals downstairs in his room, he found an open spot to place his foot. He rubbed it into the sand to remove the stickiness. Frogs crept all around the palace, crawling more than leaping. Their croaking was sharp and relentless. He stepped between them and made his way through an archway on the side of the building onto the portico. Inside, the cold limestone floor was still clear of frogs. He checked his room and breathed a sigh of relief; there were none in there yet.

  He padded down the hall to the kitchen and grabbed a loaf of bread. On his way back, a plopping alerted him to frogs creeping onto the portico from the courtyard. Hurrying into his room, he shut the door. Then he stuffed his thawb in the space between the door and the floor to keep the creatures out. He shivered at the thought of the disgusting animals.

  Bezalel reached for the piece of pink alabaster he had picked out for the bust of Nefertari. He turned it over and over, searching for the grain, his fingers caressing every exposed bit. Tenderly, he set it on his table and reached underneath for two large sandbags. Placing them next to each other, he nestled the stone between them and reached for the largest claw, then began stripping away the pieces of rock that hid the face of the queen.

  The croaking outside the window high in the wall was louder now and assaulted Bezalel’s ears. The water clock told him it was well past the midday meal and the rumbling in his stomach finally drove him from the sanctuary of his room. He opened his door to a barrage of sticky green frogs. He stumbled backwards but could not find a place to step without squashing one of them. His feet were still bare and he cried out in disgust.

  The floor was a moving blanket of frogs crawling, croaking, creeping. He backed up enough to grab his sandals, leaning against the wall with one hand while he slipped them on, but shoes were of little use since the repulsive things crawled on top of his feet as well.

  In the kitchen he found no food, nor any servants—only frogs. Frogs everywhere: in the grain, in the ovens, in the vegetables, sitting on bread, swimming in juice, crawling over fruit.

  Still hungry, he vainly tried to avoid the creatures on his way down the hall and across the courtyard, and walked toward the Nile. The frogs were dying now, from being stepped on, from suffocating each other, from lack of food. The stench of rotting flesh grew stronger by the moment. The croaking bounced around in his head and threatened to explode his skull.

  He stared as thousands of them climbed up the banks and crawled toward the palace. How could there still be more? He looked north toward the villages and south toward Nubia. As far as he could see, frogs left the river and clambered up onto the land.

  He headed back to the palace. Maybe he’d just go to bed. They were crawlers, not jumpers, so they probably couldn’t get on the roof.

  As he approached the courtyard, he saw Jannes and Ramses in the throne room. He tried to stay out of sight but still be in a position to hear the conversation. Pharaoh had three servants whose only job was to keep the frogs away from him. Jannes stewed silently beside him.

  Amun-her approached and bowed before the king. “My father, I was told our magicians have succeeded.”

  “Yes,” Ramses said dryly. “Jannes here, to prove his consummate skill, has also caused frogs to ‘multiply and fill the land.’ They’ve been multiplying all afternoon. But he can’t seem to make them disappear. Any suggestions?”

  “What about Jambres?”

  “He, too, has tried and failed.”

  “Then I have no other suggestions, my lord.” Amun-her folded his hands in front of his chest and shook his head.

  “I have one, I am afraid.” Ramses inhaled a long breath. “That Israelite, Moses.” He sneered as he said the name.

  Jannes crossed his arms and turned away.

  “Bring him to me.” Ramses went to his rooms.

  Bezalel stayed out of sight until the king left and then picked his way through the portico full of croaking frogs and under the archway to the ladder up to the roof. As he thought, it was free of frogs, but his stomach was still empty. He gazed across the sand toward the river. Even the crocodiles and herons had eaten their fill of frogs.

  He looked around him at other rooftops. All were full of people trying to escape the vile creatures. Most of the roofs had families, groups of people laughing, talking. Some even had food.

  Few lived in the palace itself, as he did. There was the king. And his personal servants, of course. And the harem. The harem was actually just beside the palace, attached by a walkway. The king’s wives, concubines, and their children occupied these special chambers.

  He studied each rooftop, and could not find a single one other than his own with only one person. He wondered again why Shaddai had given him a “gift” that had taken away everything else in his life—his family, friends, any chance at a home and family of his own. Some gift.

  Some God. He didn’t seem any better than the Egyptian gods. They abandoned their people, too.

  The girl crossed his mind. Where was she? Was she still alone? Was she still crying?

  Eventually his thoughts ran in circles and doubled back on themselves and his mind went blank. The croaking became unbearable, and he put his hands over his ears and lay back on his mat.

  The shadows of the palm trees were growing long and the water lilies were closing for the night when the grumbling in Bezalel’s stomach awakened him. He must have drifted off to sleep. He sat up, stretched. He could see Moses approaching from the north under the light of the full moon. Bezalel sprinted for the ladder and jumped to the ground, ignoring the mass of amphibians beneath him.

  Moses stood before Pharaoh as ordered.

  Bezalel knelt behind a pillar. Torches lit up the throne room, but he remained in the shadows.

  “Where is your brother?” Ramses raised an eyebrow.

  “You may speak to me now.” Moses bowed his head.

  “Pray to your God, that he will take away the frogs, and then I will let your people go offer sacrifices.”

  “We will pray, but you must set the exact time you wish them to go, so then you will know that it was Yahweh, and Yahweh alone, who made the frogs return to the Nile.” Moses spoke deliberately and softly, but without faltering.

  “Tomorrow. At dawn.”

  Bezalel arose before the sun was fully up. He hadn’t slept well. Between wanting to see if the frogs would retreat as Moses promised, and the gnawing in his gut, he had tossed and turned most of the night.

  He slid down the ladder, entered the portico, and made his way to the kitchen. A few disgruntled kitchen workers were there this time and he grabbed a fresh loaf of bread. Dead frogs littered the oven floor. On his way out he bumped into Ahmose.

  “Habibi! What are you doing up so early?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Can’t you wait for breakfast?”

  “You didn’t.”

  Bezalel chuckled. “That’s because I didn’t eat all day yesterday.”

  “Neither did I.”

  Bezalel knelt to face the boy. “Didn’t anyone feed you?”

  “No. I usually have to get my own food. And I couldn’t find any yesterday.”

  “But why? Doesn’t anyone look after you?”

  Ahmose remained silent.

  Bezalel pushed some unbrushed hair away from Ahmose’s eyes and decided against questioning the child further. “Wait here a mome
nt.” He stepped into the kitchen and grabbed another loaf and a little covered pot of honey that had not been ruined. “The frogs are supposed to leave this morning. Want to watch?”

  “Where?”

  “I know a place by the river where there are some high rocks I don’t think they can climb. They can’t jump very well. Let’s go there and eat while we wait.” Bezalel held out his hand and Ahmose slipped his tiny one into it.

  When they reached the outcropping, the pair scaled the miniature mount. It was high enough to allow them to see the river and escape the frogs, and they made it just as the sun rose above the water. While they ate the first bites of bread dipped in honey, frogs whirled around and crawled toward the river. Within moments every frog was creeping toward the water.

  Ahmose bounced on his heels and squealed with excitement.

  Bezalel laughed and grasped the boy’s tunic to make sure he didn’t topple off the rocks.

  “Look!” Ahmose pointed as the creatures hopped toward the Nile. “There they go! Like you said!”

  It was fascinating to watch. Like an army of tiny green soldiers, the hordes of frogs marched toward the sea. Once they hit the Nile they were swept north toward the delta, leaving the river running with fresh water once again.

  Ahmose and Bezalel climbed down and headed for the palace. Ramses already had slaves sweeping dead frogs into great piles.

  Ahmose stopped and stared at the heaps of dried and decaying little bodies, most towering over him. “Oh, that smells awful!” He held his nose. “Will they just leave them all there?”

  “No, habibi, they’ll probably burn them.”

  “That sounds like great fun!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? I don’t see how it can’t be!” Ahmose laughed as he scampered off.

  Later that night, and for the next several nights, Bezalel watched from the roof as bonfires lit up the sky. An acrid stench filled the air. His eyes watered when the ash stung them. Coughing, his own as well as everyone else’s, made it difficult to sleep. His chest burned with every spasm.

  Dust covered everything during the day. Fruit had to be washed several times before it could be eaten. Most of the bread left over at night had to be thrown away every morning, so breakfast usually didn’t happen for many hours.

  The frogs may have disappeared in half a day, but the damage lasted for weeks.

  It was late in the evening, long past the time he normally went home, but Bezalel had stayed a little later to finish adding the gold balls to the bracelets. It took so long to get the bands heated to the exact temperature to fuse the gold balls to the base, but not melt them, that he preferred to stay and finish rather than start all over another day.

  The frogs and their aftermath had slowed him down for over a week. Now that they were finally gone, he had to catch up. Ramses demanded the bracelets for his son’s coronation. But Bezalel didn’t really mind staying late; at least while he was creating he could forget—for a time—that he was only a slave. He finished as Ahmose walked in.

  “Why are you here so late?” Ahmose whispered.

  “I had to finish putting the gold on the bracelets. I’m finally done now. Want to see them?”

  “No.” Ahmose moaned as he climbed up on the stool.

  “Do you want some more milk?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “I can’t stay. I’m late already.” Bezalel cleaned his tools and packed them into a basket. “I want to go home tonight. I haven’t eaten and I’m hungry. I’ll be lucky if Imma lets me eats so late.”

  “That’s all right.”

  Bezalel stopped his work and leaned on the table. He studied the boy’s face. “Will you come see me tomorrow?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Bezalel walked to the front of the table and bent down in front of the child, resting his hands on his knees. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Is something wrong?”

  “I’m all right. You better go home.”

  “Ready to get down?” Bezalel grasped Ahmose under the arms to pick him up. The boy cried out.

  “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” Bezalel let go and looked at him.

  Tears streamed down the boy’s face.

  “I couldn’t have hurt you that much. Something else is wrong. What is it?”

  Ahmose sobbed. “I’m not s’posed to say.”

  Bezalel thought for a moment then went to latch the door of his workroom. He gently pulled up the short tunic Ahmose wore and turned the child to see his back. The flesh was ripped apart in several places. The bleeding had stopped for the time being, and dried blood had closed the wounds.

  Tears came to Bezalel’s eyes.

  The boy whimpered.

  “Oh, habibi, I’m sorry.” Bezalel hugged him, but avoided his injured back. “I am so sorry,” he repeated.

  “You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t do it.”

  Bezalel could not help but smile through his tears at the boy’s innocence. “Come on, hop on my back. You’re going home with me. My imma will fix your back. Put your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist, and I’ll carry you.”

  Bezalel considered his choices as he hiked home. He knew severe punishment awaited any slave who ran away, but he could not leave Ahmose behind. A seven-year-old could not have done anything to deserve such a beating. From anyone.

  Ahmose was asleep by the time Bezalel stepped inside his house. He hated to wake him up, but he knew his back must be tended to.

  Imma came out to the main room from the kitchen beyond it, towel in hand, and her eyes opened wide when she saw the boy on Bezalel’s back.

  “This is Ahmose, a servant at the palace.”

  Ahmose awakened as Bezalel lowered him to the dirt floor.

  “Why on earth would you bring him here? He’s an Egyptian!”

  “He’s a little boy, Imma.” Bezalel set him down on the low table and showed her Ahmose’s back.

  Imma gasped. “Oh, my! Who did that?”

  “I don’t know. But I intend to find out. In the meantime, I hoped he could stay here.”

  “Of course he’ll stay here.” Imma headed to the kitchen. “I’ll get some oil.”

  Bezalel sat on the floor near the table. His mother returned with oil, honey, and cool, wet cloths and knelt across from him. Ahmose curled up on Bezalel’s lap, his chest to Bezalel’s, his face buried and his arms tight around Bezalel’s neck as Imma tended his wounds. The scents of honey and oil melded and soothed Bezalel’s frayed nerves as much as Ahmose’s back. Occasionally, Imma would hurt him as she removed the dried blood to get to the wound below. He did not cry out, but held more tightly to Bezalel, who marveled at how Imma’s motherly instincts seemed to have overtaken her fear.

  “Hush, habibi. We are done. Now it’s time for you to go to sleep.” Bezalel stroked the boy’s hair.

  “Have you eaten?” Imma asked him in Egyptian.

  Ahmose nodded.

  “I’ll take him upstairs, then.” Imma took his hand.

  Sabba came down from the roof where he had been resting.

  “I am sorry we disturbed you, Hur.” Imma gave him a weak smile.

  “The cruelty of these Egyptians will never cease to amaze me.” He shook his head at the sight of Ahmose’s wounds. “They even beat their own.”

  Bezalel followed Imma up to the roof.

  Ahmose winced as he lay face down on the sleeping mat.

  Imma left Ahmose’s shirt off so that the breezes might cool his back and help ease the pain. She sat next to the exhausted little boy and tenderly rubbed more oil and honey on his back.

  She stroked his straight, coal-black hair and gazed at him as he slept.

  Bezalel watched his mother’s face as she tended to the abandoned child, and knew the old pain flooded her once again. It was not fair that this little boy should be so unloved and unwanted when she had more than enough love for ten children, but only one on which to bestow it. She blinked back a tear.
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  “El Shaddai has His ways, however difficult they may be for us to understand,” she whispered to the child. “I pray He will watch out for you, habibi, because surely no one else is.” She stroked his battered back once more, leaned over and kissed his cheek, and left him to the care of El Shaddai for the night.

  Five

  Fourth month of Akhet, Season of Inundation

  Kamose poured water into a basin and immersed a rag into it. He wrung it out and wiped his face with the cooled cloth. He hung it on a hook above the small table and drank deeply from a pitcher.

  Sitting on the chair by his bed, he laced up his sandals below his knees, then stood and slipped his dagger into its sheath on his right hip, and gold bands onto his upper arms. As he leaned on the table, he sighed. The king would rise soon. It promised to be a very long day.

  Because he was captain of the guard, charged with protecting the life of Ramses, Pharaoh of Egypt, Kamose’s modest quarters were across from the king’s. Kamose stepped into the hall. Four soldiers stood at attention outside Ramses’s door. Normally there were only two, but these days, Ramses was suspicious of everyone. Kamose authorized a shift change, and four new watchmen took over.

  The captain returned to his room and sat on a low bed. He closed his eyes and listened to the call of an oriole in the courtyard. A bowl of grapes and loaf of hard bread had been placed on the chair beside his bed by a servant while he stepped out. He picked up a bunch of grapes, but his thoughts ran away with him, and he did not eat.

  Ahmose had disappeared.

  He had been gone for over three weeks now. Kamose rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. A thousand possibilities as to what may have happened ran through his mind, none of them good. Jannes could have beaten the boy literally to death, he could have given him to someone else, he could have sent him away, or locked him up….

  Kamose had told no one that Ahmose was his nephew. He had promised to keep that secret. Still, he had watched the boy grow for the past seven years, even once declining a transfer to field duty to remain in the palace.