Kay was just such a fool. Who was the old man who had been lying to him?
It was slow going up the stonecutters’ road into the mountains. It was not steep, really—a steep road would never do for transporting stone—but it wound around and around, so that they seemed to make no progress.
The sun was well up from the horizon when Sehtepibre called a temporary halt. Before them was an old quarry which had not been used for some time. Several large blocks of damaged stone lay where they had been abandoned. And a half-dozen were in various stages of being cut away from the mountain.
Sehtepibre jumped lightly from his chariot and walked back to where Sarai stood in Kay’s chariot. He patted Kay’s lead horse as he approached, and returned Kay’s salute. “My Lady Milcah,” said Sehtepibre, “I thought you might like to see the quarry where we used to draw good stone.”
“What happened?” asked Sarai. “How can good stone fail?”
“The stone did not fail, Lady,” said Sehtepibre. “The water did. You can’t cut stone without an ample supply of water, and when the nearby spring went dry, they either had to haul water a long way or search for a quarry closer to the water they still had. So because of the failure of the spring, we had to leave the best stone behind.”
Sarai listened with interest, but she also wondered: Why is Sehtepibre himself telling me this? And why stop the whole expedition to tell it? Perhaps the men needed a rest—many of them had stepped aside to urinate beside the road—but Sehtepibre still lingered with her. “In the old days, all this mountain was thick with grass. You still find tufts of it, dried up like an old man’s hair, tucked into corners where the wind has not yet ripped it away.”
“Before the drought,” said Sarai.
“Oh, this is just the latest drought of many,” said Sehtepibre.
“My brother Abram says that all these little droughts are really part of one great long drought that has been uprooting kingdoms and turning pasture into desert for a century.”
“If your brother Abram says it, then how can I doubt?” said Sehtepibre. “If he were not wise, he would not have Pharaoh’s attention for hour after hour every day.”
The words were so innocent, on the surface at least. But they were said loudly enough for many soldiers besides Kay to hear. Pharaoh spends hours and hours listening to a Hsy, that was the message.
At that moment Kay saw something and spoke in urgent, hushed tones.
“A gazelle, my Lord Sehtepibre,” he said.
Sure enough, a lone gazelle—a female, and from the look of her, a pregnant one—was picking her way through the quarry. She showed no fear of the humans gathered there—she walked right toward them, among them, past them until she bounded awkwardly onto the most nearly finished of the blocks that had been abandoned in place. Once there, she stood on trembling legs, facing the sun.
“She is sent by Horus,” whispered Kay. “See how she worships the sun!” But it was a loud enough whisper that nearby soldiers heard him, and murmured their assent.
The gazelle braced herself, shuddered, and began to give birth. Sarai’s first instinct was to start directing the men on how to help, for she had been involved in many a birthing of calf, kid, lamb, or foal in the years since joining Abram’s household. But this wild creature would not want help anyway. So Sarai watched as the newborn was squeezed out onto the stone. All the while, the mother did not take her eyes from the sun.
The baby gazelle stirred as the mother finally turned to it and began to lick the mucus of birth from its small body. In doing so, it seemed to stop and stare right at the three of them—Sarai, Sehtepibre, and Kay.
Hagar by now was standing on the ground beside the chariot. She reached up and touched Sarai and whispered, “Perhaps your brother’s god sends a promise of fertility.”
Sarai laid a finger on Hagar’s lips. She knew Hagar meant no harm, but Kay had definitely heard, and Sehtepibre probably as well. Since it was not known that Sarai was married already, to speak of an omen of fertility could only mean that she expected to be married, and there could be no candidate for her husband-to-be but Montuhotpe himself. If Kay was part of a conspiracy, or later joined one, this would surely not bode well for Sarai’s future, to be seen as planning on a marriage to Pharaoh.
“It was not to me that God sent this creature to give birth,” said Sarai. “It is not my quarry and not my mission here.”
Kay whispered to her—again loudly enough that all the nearby soldiers and workmen could hear him,”Are you saying that this gazelle was sent to Sehtepibre, then?”
“I only know that it was not sent to me,” said Sarai. And, in a much softer voice, she added, “as easily might it be said to have come to you.”
“Come,” said Sehtepibre. “We’ve rested enough. I know not what the gods meant by sending us this omen, except that clearly it is not an ill one. Let us rejoice in that and go on!”
Sehtepibre’s speech surprised Sarai. Normally the duty of a steward would be to proclaim such an omen as a sign of heaven’s favor on the king, for having sent forth this expedition. If the gods of Egypt send an omen, it is sent to Pharaoh, and Sehtepibre should have said so. By specifically not saying so, he left room for much idle speculation.
Or perhaps not so idle.
“Mark this stone,” said Sehtepibre to the foreman of the stonecutters. “When the gazelle leaves here of her own accord, mark the stone as the place where Horus sent a gazelle to greet my expedition.”
“I will leave a man to do that, sir.”
My expedition. There it was. Sehtepibre was claiming this omen as a sign given, not to Pharaoh, but to him. And not one person gasped at the sheer audacity of it. And in that moment, Sarai understood it all. It was Sehtepibre who had decided to rebel against Montuhotpe and take the double crown. By claiming this miracle for himself, as word of it spread so also would spread the other implied message—the gods had chosen to show favor to Sehtepibre at a time when all other omens, including the drought, seemed to show their disfavor toward Montuhotpe.
The expedition began to move again, but as they crested a rise in the road, Sehtepibre turned his face to the right and said, “Let us leave the chariots and walk this way.”
There was a murmur from the men. There was no reason to stop again so soon, and everyone knew it.
“We came in search of a source of better stone. Yet here, in this old quarry, is some of the finest stone ever found in Egypt. What we should be searching for is not stone, but water so we can cut the blocks for the sarcophagus. The old spring was up here, wasn’t it?”
“No, my lord,” said the chief stonecutter. “The old spring was farther down.”
“And yet the gazelle came from here. How could she live in this mountain without water?” Sehtepibre strode forward boldly, making some show of searching, but in fact moving quite relentlessly toward a place where, Sarai was quite certain, he already knew that water would be flowing.
More than flowing. A spring spilled over and trickled rapidly down to where it filled a natural basin with a small lake of clear and perfect water. Sehtepibre lay down at once, saying loudly, “I will taste first this gift from the gods.”
Sarai shuddered. This was even more blatant than before. To drink first from a new spring was a king’s duty and privilege. Sehtepibre was laying claim to this miracle of finding water. When word spread of this, there would be some who would demand that he be stripped of office for having acted as if he thought he were Pharaoh himself.
But there would be many others who would spread abroad the story that the gods had surely chosen Sehtepibre. Horus sent a gazelle to him, and she gave birth before him on an uncut block of sarcophagus stone. And then Sehtepibre found water where it had not been before. A waterfinder! Surely if the gods had chosen Sehtepibre, did that not mean that they had rejected that disloyal Montuhotpe—no, that would not be his name in the eyes of those who saw him as a fallen Pharaoh. To them he would be nothing more than Neb-Towi-Re, whom the gods rej
ected and who now occupied Pharaoh’s place unworthily.
To those who had ears to hear and eyes to see, Sehtepibre had declared himself Pharaoh, chosen to take the place of his nominal master, Montuhotpe. And yet Sehtepibre had said nothing to declare himself in rebellion, and it would take some time before Pharaoh began to see the danger that today’s events put him in.
Sehtepibre drank from the pool. Then, dipping his helmet into the water, he brought it dripping back to Sarai and offered it to her.
When she took it from his hands, she almost laughed aloud. “I’m afraid, Lord Sehtepibre,” she said, “that the water has all drained out.”
His dismay seemed real enough as he hurried back for more, this time using Kay’s helmet, which was watertight. But the symbolic statement had been made. This holy, godgiven water had been offered to this noblewoman of the Hsy, only when she went to drink of it, it was gone. Egypt had no more hospitality for the Hsy, that’s what he was saying. And that’s why she had been brought along—to be both the witness and the butt of the joke.
Later, when they were back at the dock, tediously alone while Sehtepibre oversaw the loading of chariots back onto barges, Sarai assumed that Hagar had understood it all, too.
“What are you talking about?” said Hagar.
“Sehtepibre has declared himself,” said Sarai. “Today. This whole trip was designed to announce that the gods have chosen a new Pharaoh.”
“But my lady,” said Hagar, “how could he have planned it when he didn’t know the gods would speak to him like this?”
“I was raised in a king’s house, Hagar,” said Sarai. “Things like this don’t happen by accident. It was the purpose of the expedition. The gazelle was tame—she had no fear of man—and no doubt the spring was dug out weeks ago and then covered over and kept under guard so no one would hear of it until Sehtepibre could discover it.”
“If Sehtepibre can make gazelles give birth,” said Hagar, “he should be Pharaoh.”
“Whoever tamed the gazelle knew when its time had come. Sehtepibre chose the day for this expedition, didn’t he? The hand that cut a hole in Sehtepibre’s helmet also caused the spring to be opened and that little pond to be filled. And that same hand caused the gazelle to be trained and the whole expedition to be in place when her time came to be delivered.”
“You are wickedly suspicious, Mistress,” said Hagar. But she smiled, for now she understood how the trick had been set up, and she admired it as much as Sarai did. “Did your father play tricks like that?” she asked.
“My father knew how to make a gesture that the people would understand,” said Sarai.
“And your ‘brother,’ does he help his god along?”
“The true and living God does not give signs to advance the political ambitions of disloyal servants,” said Sarai. “And if he did give a sign, he wouldn’t need Abram to set it up for him.”
Hagar giggled. “It’s like teasing children,” she said. “But it’s only funny to those who know the joke.”
Hagar did not know enough to fear the coming political turmoil the way Sarai did—though in truth what did Hagar have to fear? She had already lost everything, her family and her freedom. Slaves could afford to be amused at how the powerful jockeyed for position, for it would make little difference in their lives. And even if it would make their lives even worse, there was nothing they could do to prevent it.
How long now? Sarai wondered. How long before Sehtepibre puts it in plain language instead of declaring himself in signs and portents? He must have time for word of this manifestation to spread to many ears. Yet he must also strike before Pharaoh has time to recognize the danger.
What is my best part in this? Sarai wondered. Should I keep silence, and so serve the purpose of the conspirators? Or should I give warning, and give Neb-Towi-Re a chance to thwart this revolt before it’s well started?
She doubted the conspirators would know or care if she held her tongue—they would assume that she had not warned Pharaoh because she was an ignorant desert woman and did not realize how she had been used in this little drama. So the only possible advantage would come from warning Pharaoh. But this would ensure the white-hot hatred of Sehtepibre’s people. Did Pharaoh have enough power left to protect her and Abram?
O Lord, is this how you answer my prayer? By putting in my hand the power to save our lives—or end them—without telling me which the result will be?
Silently speaking this inward prayer made her think of something else. If Sehtepibre was in the business of faking omens from the gods, it must mean that he does not believe in any god at all. And if he feared no god, then what would restrain him from any crime he wanted to commit? A man without a god was a man without decency, for he would fear no divine retribution.
Abram, I have to speak to you! How else can I know what I should do!
Chapter 12
A few weeks later, Pharaoh returned for another round of conjugal conversation, and in the midst of his busy days and nights, he met with Sarai again. With Hagar just behind her, Sarai again avoided the place he offered her beside him, and sat humbly—but unaffectionately—at his feet.
“Your brother sends his greetings,” said Neb-Towi-Re.
“I’d like to see him.”
“He wishes he were not so busy, but he hasn’t time to come.”
Sarai knew Abram would come to her if he could, so Pharaoh’s answer meant he was still determined to keep them separated. Still, she couldn’t resist pushing a little. “Then I would gladly go to him.”
“And interrupt the work he’s doing?”
“I certainly wouldn’t want to do that.”
“He reads our most ancient documents and finds meanings in them that were long since lost. For instance, we have long identifed the god Seth with the Fenekhu god Ba’al, but Abram shows us clearly that in the beginning, both our Osiris and the Fenekhu Ba’al represented the same being, whom Abram calls . . . well, he won’t tell us the actual name, but the one he calls ‘the Lord,’ which is what Ba’al means. And Seth represents the one Abram calls ‘the Enemy,’ and is not really a god at all, with no power over the living except to lie.”
“I’m so happy that my brother is bringing you such enlightenment,” said Sarai.
“I would be glad to have your brother always with me,” said Neb-Towi-Re. “I would be glad if your brother could also be my brother.”
“The bonds of friendship can be as strong as the bonds of brotherhood,” said Sarai. And then, without quite deciding to do it, she added, “Just as the bonds of stewardship can be as false as the promises of Satan.”
Neb-Towi-Re blinked. “Why don’t we walk in the garden?”
So he wanted to hear her message, and knew better than to converse openly indoors. The trouble was that she had never decided to give the message. And yet, at the moment she spoke, she knew that it was right to speak. How had she known? And why did she know even now that she was going to warn Pharaoh of everything she had seen and everything she knew was coming?
Once outside, Sarai was surprised that he allowed his guards to remain within earshot. When she said so, Neb-Towi-Re scoffed. “They’re all Fenekhu. They have no friends among my enemies.”
“The dangerous spy is the one that you trust,” said Sarai—a lesson her father had often repeated.
Pharaoh waved a hand at Hagar.
“She is only one, and she already knows anything I would tell you,” said Sarai.
“But she doesn’t know what I will say in reply,” said Neb-Towi-Re, with a smile.
Sarai turned to Hagar. “While I speak with mighty Pharaoh, please stay as far away from me as Pharaoh’s guards stay from him.”
Hagar bowed and stepped back to stand beside one of the soldiers. With Hagar standing by him, Sarai noticed that while the man’s hair was clean, he still kept it at an Amorite’s length, and he wore more clothing than an Egyptian soldier ever would, though less than Amorites normally wore. The others also showed signs of
being Amorite or Canaanite, or from some other land. Not one Egyptian.
“That must please your army, that the soldiers you trust the most are not Egyptian.”
“You had something to tell me?” said Neb-Towi-Re.
It was time. She knew it was dangerous to speak; she couldn’t guess what the consequences would be for her and Abram. Yet she didn’t even hesitate, because in a place deeper than language, deeper than thought, deeper than fear or even hope, she simply knew that this was what she ought to do. And in a place even deeper, the place where her true self dwelt, she wanted with all her heart to do what was right. Her confidence was perfect. And so she spoke. “Perhaps you’ve already heard the story of Sehtepibre’s expedition to find better stones for your sarcophagus.”
“The gazelle that gave birth on a stone was regarded as a very favorable omen, and the priests tell me that the discovery of a new spring nearby is even more so.”
Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) Page 13