In the Shadow of Sinai

by Carole Towriss

  He stood and clasped his hands behind his neck and closed his eyes. Somehow, he must find out what happened to the child. But how could he do that and honor his promise?

  The sun shone brightly as Bezalel walked to the palace. The cloudless blue sky reflected the lightness of his spirit—no one had come for Ahmose, things were back to normal at the palace, and even in the village the anger over the straw had abated somewhat.

  He stayed at home with Imma, Sabba, and Ahmose more often now. His house was close enough to the palace, and as long as he got his work done, no one cared. The new chief craftsman was far more interested in impressing Ramses than keeping an eye on Bezalel.

  Flood season was nearing its end and the air was cooler now. Bezalel strolled beneath the sycamore trees, their branches full of leaves spreading out like umbrellas. He quickly reached the edge of the village on his short walk to the palace.

  Moses and Aaron stood silently in the sand.

  Bezalel halted several paces away and waited.

  Moses raised his face to the sky and closed his eyes. After a moment, he turned to his brother. “Yahweh says, ‘Stretch out your rod over all the desert, and strike the ground. The dust will rise into the air and become gnats to cover all of Egypt.”’

  Aaron lifted his shepherd’s staff and extended his arm. “Praise be to the only God, the Living God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the great I Am.” He spun slowly to face the whole of Egypt.

  What happened to all his bluster and drama?

  After one complete turn, Aaron lowered his staff sharply to the ground and dragged it along in a second circle. As the dust climbed skyward the particles of earth became tiny gnats, growing wings and flying away toward the city.

  The brothers started back toward the village.

  Bezalel crossed over to them and stood in their path. He folded his arms. “Again? Things just settled down!”

  “I must obey Yahweh.” Moses spoke quietly.

  “Aren’t you going to warn Pharaoh?”

  “I have warned Ramses three times already. He refuses to listen. Perhaps this will open his ears.” Moses stepped around Bezalel and headed for the village.

  Bezalel groaned and sprinted for the palace.

  The palace buzzed with frantic activity by the time he arrived.

  Servants raced across the throne room and courtyard with pitchers, bowls, and other containers. Some were empty; others were full of fresh palm wine. Guards rubbed the wine over their skin to repel the bugs. Almost everyone scratched violently—face, arms, legs, everywhere.

  Bezalel smacked a gnat on his forearm and a red welt sprang up. He scratched the bite, slapped a few more bugs. He dreaded another encounter like the one with the frogs. Better to get out of here while he could. Perhaps the insects weren’t so bad at home.

  Exactly how harassing the Egyptians—and the Israelites at the same time—was supposed to secure their freedom eluded him. Ramses had promised to let them go if Moses sent the frogs back to the river but afterward conveniently forgot any such promise. Ramses seemed even angrier.

  Shaddai’s plan—if He even has one—is not working so far.

  Bezalel grabbed an armful of yellow-flowered wormwood plants that grew beside the path on his way home. The strong smell kept the gnats away.

  Noisy clusters of little children also carried fistfuls of the bush as he entered the village.

  He set the silvery-gray branches on the table in the front room and took a couple back to Imma in the kitchen.

  “They got you, I see.” She chuckled and took the feathery branches and spread them around. The bitter odor filled the little house. Then she ripped several leaves from a stalk of basil and crushed them with the back of a spoon.

  “There are not nearly as many here as at the palace.” Bezalel dug at the bites on his arms.

  Imma grabbed his hands to stop him from scratching. “When Moses and Aaron came back this morning they told us to gather wormwood.” She continued to smash the basil. “It doesn’t smell as good as palm wine, but it works, and there is certainly plenty of it around.”

  “Guess I must have missed that warning.” Bezalel allowed her to rub the excreted basil oil over the bites. The extract soothed the itch and the swelling started to fade.

  “What do you intend to do with Ahmose, my son? It has been almost a month.”

  Bezalel blew out a long breath. “I haven’t decided yet. I hate to take him back to the palace. They are quite hard on runaways.” He didn’t wish to tell her the whole truth yet about what punishment might await Ahmose.

  “But he didn’t run. You brought him home to tend to his back!”

  “They don’t know that. Do you think they will care? Besides, I thought I might keep him.” Bezalel winked, and a small smile escaped Imma’s lips. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “He went to the river with some of the boys.”

  Bezalel grabbed some honey-sweetened bread and dried meat and left. He tried to resist scratching as he wandered the riverbanks looking for Ahmose. He could feel the moisture in the air from the Nile, and the coolness of the breeze felt good on his bites. He finally saw the boy and called to him.

  Ahmose skipped over and Bezalel offered him some bread.

  Ahmose shook his head. “I ate a long time ago.”

  “Why do you get up so early?”

  “I’m used to it. My master always made me.” Ahmose dug his bare toes into the dark, wet earth at the edge of the river.

  “Jannes? The magician?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that’s how you knew his snake trick.”

  “Yes. I know lots of his tricks.”

  Bezalel finished his bread and ripped off a piece of dried meat. “Why are you a servant? You are so young; Egyptian children your age aren’t usually servants.”

  “I know. Jannes hates me. It has something to do with my mother. She died when I was born. That’s why I’m his slave.”

  “Why did he beat you?” Bezalel pulled off his sandals and piled up a mound of soil on Ahmose’s foot with his own.

  Ahmose giggled and pulled out his foot. “I spilled a pitcher of water on his potions.” He tried to cover Bezalel’s feet.

  “That’s all? You spilled some water?”

  “He’s been very mad lately, because of the blood and snakes. Ramses is angry at him, so he’s scared.”

  “That’s no reason to beat you.”

  Ahmose shrugged. “He doesn’t need a reason.”

  “Had he beaten you before?”

  “Yes. Many times,” Ahmose answered, matter-of-factly, as if nothing were wrong with that at all.

  After the evening meal, while Ahmose slept, Bezalel talked to Sabba and Imma about what he had learned from Ahmose that morning.

  “What I don’t understand is that he lives in the harem with the royal children, but he is a slave to Jannes.”

  “Many times,” Sabba said, “when a concubine dies, her children are made servants. They still live in the harem, if no relatives take them, taken care of, barely, by the other concubines. They can’t kick them out, since they are the king’s children, but they can ignore them. And they work every day instead of enjoying the leisure and education of the other royal children.”

  “The harem? You mean his father is Ramses?” Imma set a bowl of figs before them.

  “Quite possibly.” Sabba reached for a fig. He peeled it and handed half to Bezalel.

  Bezalel continued the thought. “I have heard it said Ramses has fathered a hundred children. When you see all his concubines, it is not difficult to imagine.”

  “I am, however, sure that Ahmose does not know.” Sabba took another fig.

  “But why should Jannes hate him? And get him as a slave?” Imma asked.

  “Perhaps his mother was Jannes’s sister, or daughter, and when she died he blamed Ahmose for her death.” Sabba shrugged. “It could be any number of things. We may never know. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because somehow, Ahmose ended up a
s his slave, and now he has, for all intents and purposes, run away.”

  “We can still keep him, can’t we?” Imma poured a glass of juice.

  “I don’t know. Listen when you are at the palace, Bezalel. See if anyone mentions him. Then we shall know how to proceed. Until then, this must remain a secret. A carefully guarded secret.”

  The bugs were gone by sunrise. They had come and gone in a day, leaving only welts and the smell of palm wine behind. The king had retreated to his private rooms; Jannes and Jambres were in hiding after the fiascos of the frogs and the blood.

  Bezalel stayed in his workroom finishing several small gifts, the kind Ramses liked to have on hand for state visitors. The sun climbed to its zenith and bathed the land in light and heat. It was time to gather some information if possible. As a king’s artist, Bezalel knew no guard would stop or question him, though he was only an Israelite. He summoned his nerve and strolled down the hall, trying to look as if he belonged there. Beyond the throne room, he stopped outside what he knew to be Jannes’s substantial and opulent quarters, although he had never seen the inside. The room, like its owner, was shrouded in secrecy. He looked down the hall, and behind him, and then, his back to the wall, crept up to the barely open door, hoping to hear something, anything.

  Jannes was inside with Ramses, and the king was not happy. “You have tried three times, and failed three times, to alleviate my suffering! The Nile, the frogs, and now these infernal bugs! And that doesn’t even count the snakes. Are you a magician or not?”

  “I have tried everything, every kind of magic I know,” the sorcerer said. “I cannot summon the bugs. I tell you, my king, we are dealing with something more than magic.”

  Bezalel shifted his weight outside the door. He noticed a shadow down the hall. Someone else was hiding, but he could not tell who it was.

  “Maybe this is the work of their God.” Jannes paused. “I don’t know what it is, but it is not as simple as you say.”

  “Perhaps Jambres can make it simple. You have until sundown to prove this is not the work of their god.”

  Knowing the conversation was at an end, Bezalel retreated and backed around a corner. The king’s bracelets clinked as he swept out of the room and down the hall. The slight sulfur odor of palm wine followed him.

  Bezalel knew well what Pharaoh’s simple statement meant. If Jannes did not succeed by dusk, he would be executed. Bezalel peeked around the corner and noticed the other spy leave too. He tried again to see who it was, but could make out only the flash of a red-trimmed thawb.

  At least no one had mentioned Ahmose, so Bezalel returned to his room to work a while longer, at least until dusk, so he could see what happened with Jannes. After just a short time, the door to his workroom opened quietly although there had been no knock. Bezalel looked up to see an unusually tall Egyptian. The man reached behind him and quietly closed the door.

  Muscular and clean shaven, he was exceptionally well built. He wore only a simple linen shenti around his waist, but the jeweled gold bands around his massive biceps identified him as captain of the guard, the highest-ranking soldier in the palace.

  Bezalel knew not only his name, but his reputation, a fact which did not make him feel more comfortable in the guard’s presence.

  Bezalel dipped his head in a slight bow. “Yes?”

  “I am Kamose.” His voice was so deep it inspired fear by itself. “I have come to ask you about Ahmose.”

  Bezalel caught his breath. “Why should I know anything?” He avoided looking at the captain.

  “I saw him come in here a few times before he disappeared.”

  “We are both servants. That is not so unusual.”

  “It was not easy for me to come here.” Kamose took two long steps closer. “The boy is my nephew. I am only trying to find him, to watch out for him, as I promised my sister I would. I do not wish to harm him.”

  Bezalel took a deep breath and tried to appear unconcerned, though his legs trembled behind his table. “I’m sorry. I cannot help you.”

  Disappointment covered the officer’s face. After a silent moment, he left.

  Bezalel gasped and braced himself against the table. The captain of the guard was not someone to have as an enemy.

  Shortly after Kamose left, a cry pierced the air. Bezalel rushed outside. The gathering crowd told him the shriek had come from Jannes’s quarters. Jambres stood in the doorway, massaging his temples, black kohl smudged around his eyes.

  Bezalel pushed his way to the front of the group.

  “What happened?” Kamose stood before the magician.

  “Jannes wouldn’t let me follow him inside, even though I am always with him to help him in his work.” Jambres’s exaggerated grief nearly made Bezalel burst into laughter. “I waited and waited for him to come out. After a while, I decided to go in. And this”—Jambres caught a ragged breath—“is what I found.”

  The captain peered inside. “Poison?” His eyes narrowed at Jambres.

  Ramses arrived with his entourage and the crowd made way for him.

  “Report.” The king looked at Jambres.

  Jambres turned from Kamose to the pharaoh. “It appears he killed himself rather than face you, my king.”

  “Coward. I detest cowards. Jambres, you are now my chief magician. Do not disappoint me.”

  “I shall try my best, my king. Jannes was my mentor. I do not know if I can measure up to him.” Jambres bowed low.

  “Neither do I.” Ramses’s voice oozed disdain. “But do try.”

  Jambres clenched his fist but held his tongue.

  The king turned and strode toward his rooms, followed by the captain.

  The crowd dispersed.

  Bezalel peeked into the room after the others left. He had seen many dead bodies, including a few suicides. Slaves died all the time. He had helped bury many of them. Jannes looked like a poisoning should look. His body was on the floor, face drawn up into a grimace, hands clenched. A bottle of potion lay nearby. Then Bezalel looked at the magician’s neck. There were raised red marks around it, welts, like something had squeezed tightly. But Jambres said Jannes poisoned himself. There shouldn’t be marks around his neck if he were poisoned….

  “May I help you?” Jambres spoke from behind him.

  Though Bezalel felt the sorcerer meant to be anything but helpful, he turned to face him. “I’m sorry. I was … curious.”

  “We have to clear this room now. Death contaminates it. You must leave.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” Bezalel watched as Jambres, his composure suddenly regained, picked up several bottles and his thawb.

  “Here, hold this while I lock the door.” The magician shoved the luxurious wrap at Bezalel. It was of the finest linen, gold strands woven throughout. Jambres locked the door, grabbed his thawb, and took off toward the courtyard.

  Bezalel couldn’t help but notice that Jambres’s garment had red trim.

  On a whim, Bezalel wandered farther down the hall. After the magicians’ rooms came the kitchen, and then the walkway to the harem. The king’s private quarters, taking up a third of the palace, lay beyond that.

  He turned left. He wanted to see where Ahmose had lived. The harem would be empty and unguarded during the day. The children usually studied and played outside this time of year, often relaxing on covered barges on the river. It should be safe for him to look around.

  He parted the layers of linen curtains and stepped inside. The narrow entrance belied an enormous room, with a limestone floor comprised of two levels. Stuffed cushions and mats, grouped together in twos and threes, littered the wide outer level. Tunics and combs and boxes of ointments and perfumes lay near each set.

  He walked down the steps and into the spacious center filled with trays of fruit, wooden toys, and parchments rolled into scrolls. Mothers and children must sleep on the outer level, and eat and play and spend time together in the center. A lovely arrangement—unless you had no one to share it with.

  Be
zalel took the two steps back up in one jump and was almost out the door when someone coughed. He turned to his left and spotted the girl sitting on a cushion, her back against the wall near the door. She hid in the shadows, and had she not made herself known, he would have walked right by her again on his way out. She stood and glided toward him.

  He took in a sharp breath. She was even more beautiful than he remembered her. Without her heavy kohl makeup, her deep brown eyes seemed to take up her whole face, though they still radiated sadness.

  Bezalel’s mouth went dry. He started to speak but no words came out. He felt like a fish that had landed on the bank gasping for air, his mouth opening and closing. The closer she got, the more stupid he felt.

  Her long, black hair fell straight this time—no fancy pins or flowers. Her new tunic was not torn as before, and made of the silkiest linen, not rough and coarse like his. It skimmed her body perfectly, and when she walked it swayed and made his head spin. Three vertical rows of tiny blue-black dots ran down each arm from just below the shoulder to above the elbow: the mark of a concubine.

  “Excuse me.” She stepped closer. She was about a head shorter than he was.

  That same scent of jasmine. Much as he wanted to, he tried not to close his eyes and drink it in. “Y-yes.” He surprised himself by managing to get the word out and then keeping his mouth closed.

  “I wanted to thank you for your kindnesses to me … uh … before.” She came even closer and reached up to touch his neck but stopped just short. “I see your bruise healed nicely.”

  His breath came faster. “Yes, it did. And you’re welcome.” His heart beat wildly, and he could barely hear his own voice over the pounding in his ears. He hoped his cheeks didn’t look as red as they felt.

  “My name is Meri.”

  Her voice sounded like honey tasted. “I’m Bezalel.” She was so close—he just wanted to touch her. He looked away, over her shoulder to steady his heartbeat, and noticed a ragged mat by itself in the far corner. He glanced around at the numerous opulent cushions and linens and returned his gaze to the mat.