by Angela Hunt
Menashe felt an unwelcome blush creep onto his neck as the queen rose from her gilded chair. He had avoided glancing in her direction, for Tiy’s sharp, restive features and direct gaze had always reminded him of a vulture spying for carrion.
Dragging her pet dwarf on a golden leash, Queen Tiy advanced to Pharaoh’s chair. She inclined her head toward her husband in a deep gesture, then swung her gaze over the trio standing before him, her dark eyes lazily seductive. “The sons can never equal the father, for beauty divided could never equal the whole.” Her nasal voice cut through the silence like a hot blade. She cast a slight smile in Yosef’s direction. “But they are fine sons, my king, and any man would be proud to claim them.”
“So I thought.” With an abrupt nod, Pharaoh gestured toward his chamberlain, then rose from his chair. “I invited you today for a banquet, Zaphenath-paneah, so let us forgo formalities and retire to my chamber. I want to hear the details of your coming journey without the distractions of the court. Let my wife and my eldest daughter entertain your sons while you and I enjoy private discourse.”
Menashe felt his heart constrict a little at the king’s words. If the musicians played for Pharaoh, he would not have a chance to see Jendayi.
But Queen Tiy stepped forward and slipped her arm through his. “Come, young man, and escort me to my chambers where we shall relax and talk of interesting things.” Her smile did not reach her eyes. “My daughter waits for us there, along with food and music sweet enough to soothe whatever trouble stirs behind those restless eyes of yours.”
Smiling in the hope of better things to come, Menashe inclined his head and led the queen from the royal garden.
His smile broadened in approval when he discovered that the queen had spoken the truth: the banquet she had prepared was simple, quiet and intimate. The four diners—the queen, Menashe, Efrayim and Princess Sitamun, the king’s eldest daughter—sat in tall chairs which had been arranged so that each diner faced one of the others. A steady procession of servants brought in bowls of steaming meats, delicious fruits and tender vegetables. These dishes were presented first to Queen Tiy, who sampled them and instructed the slaves to divide the food among her other guests.
Menashe found himself sitting across from the queen, a position that unnerved him until he realized that the musicians, if they came, would sit behind her. He hoped he might be able to appear to give the queen his full attention while he studied Jendayi, but after assessing Tiy’s bold, black eyes, he decided she would not be easily fooled. She would know if something other than her royal presence occupied his thoughts.
For an hour they ate and carried on a pleasant and unremarkable conversation. As Efrayim’s tongue loosened he began to tease Sitamun, a pampered princess of sixteen. Tall and slender, with a narrow face, the girl possessed such heavy eyelids that she seemed perpetually on the brink of falling asleep. But her eyes gleamed as she bantered with Efrayim, and her wit proved as sharp as her tongue. More than once Menashe shot a smile in her direction when she scored a point against Efrayim in their gentle sparring, and before the first hour ended he realized that the conversation between his brother and the princess had evolved from common talk to the verbal fencing of flirtation.
Apparently Queen Tiy noticed the shift, too, for the faint beginnings of a knowing smile hovered around the edges of her mouth. Menashe was about to distract her by asking about the king’s plans for the restoration of the gates of Thebes when a curtain parted and Akil entered the room.
Menashe’s stomach dropped like a hanged man. Behind the chironomist came the oboist, the lutist, the woman who played the tambourine, the lyre-player and, finally, Jendayi, led by a handmaid.
Menashe stared at the little harpist in a paralysis of astonishment. He had not seen Jendayi in several months, and then only from a distance. How lovely she had become! No queen, surely no woman in Pharaoh’s harem, could rival the girl’s beauty. She wore a full wig now, as did all Pharaoh’s servants, but the young woman under the wig seemed more delicate and ethereal than ever. The hand wrapped around the wrist of her handmaid was slender, her fingers strong and slim. Her throat looked warm and shapely above the bodice of her dress, the softness of her young body seemed to melt against the linen of her gown. The eyes she lifted toward the windows were as gray and wild as a storm cloud, but Menashe knew that a passionate, intelligent woman lived behind those eyes and that perfect face. One had only to hear her play to know the depths of the soul that lived within her.
He took a deep breath and felt bands of tightness in his chest. How could any man look at her and not want her? How did Akil work with her every day, hear her voice, and not want to partake of her sweet innocence? And Pharaoh! How did he, the connoisseur of beautiful women, resist this lovely flower?
For the briefest instant his eyes met Queen Tiy’s. A smile nudged itself into a corner of her mouth and pushed across her lips. “Has anyone ever told you, my young friend—” she lowered her voice to the vaguest of whispers “—that your thoughts shine in your eyes like stars? From the look on your face I know that the king’s musicians have entered the room. And—” she leaned toward him “—the light in your eyes tells me you have found some sight for which you yearned. Since most of the women in Pharaoh’s orchestra are waspish, unlovely creatures, the gleam in your eyes must be inspired by—dare I say it?—the little harpist.”
Menashe stared at her, tongue-tied, but Tiy’s smile told him she understood. “The girl is lovely, isn’t she? A rare treasure, she possesses both beauty and talent. She is, I’m afraid, one of Pharaoh’s favorites.” She paused, her paint-lengthened eyes studying him, then pressed her hand to her swanlike throat. “Do not be alarmed by what I am telling you. Though our king has a fondness for music, the women in Akil’s orchestra have never been invited to join the royal harem.”
Menashe felt his heart swell with relief. A thoughtful smile curved the queen’s mouth as she regarded him. “I had almost forgotten that such innocence could exist, Menashe, son of Zaphenath-paneah.”
He allowed his eyes to drift back to Jendayi. “Surely God never created a more innocent creature.”
“I was not speaking of the harpist. I meant you.”
Menashe felt his flush deepen.
“Do not be embarrassed, my dear young friend,” Tiy purred. “And do not lose heart. Pharaoh is not completely attached to the harpist. With the right encouragement there may come a time when he might be willing to release the girl…to a man he wishes to honor.” The queen allowed her words to hang in the silence, then she lowered her gaze into Menashe’s. “There may also come a time when you may be of service to your queen, my young friend. Perhaps, in the future, we can help each other.”
Though the queen’s words hinted at some sort of mystery, Menashe was too thrilled by the prospect of winning Jendayi’s release to do more than nod in agreement.
Efrayim dipped his fingers into the tiny water bowl on his dinner tray, then dried his hands on a perfumed square of linen and studied his brother’s face. Menashe’s unruly eyes had trained on the harpist again, the sentimental fool. Did he not know that Tiy was a jealous queen? She would not take kindly to being ignored. Furthermore, Menashe’s mooning over a royal slave was a waste of time. The girl would never be freed from Pharaoh’s service, nor would she be allowed to marry. She should consider herself fortunate if she found joy within her music, for most of Pharaoh’s slaves knew nothing of happiness outside Pharaoh’s will.
“Efrayim.” Sitamun tugged on his arm, her hand lingering on his skin.
“How may I serve you, Princess?” He returned his attention to the girl across from him. Sitamun was a demanding companion, never happy unless he was smiling at her, but she was pretty and intelligent, gifted with her mother’s genius and her father’s persistence. She was also sixteen, ripe for marriage, and a not-altogether distasteful specimen of womanhood. Though he would prefer a creature of lightness and beauty like Menashe’s angelic harpist, the blind girl would
never bear heirs to a royal throne. Sitamun would. And though the crown prince stood to inherit Amenhotep’s kingdom, life was tenuous and the future uncertain…
A smile ruffled his mouth as he listen to Sitamun prattle about the latest court gossip. Why shouldn’t he marry a princess? Yaakov’s right hand had fallen on his head, and what better way could he lead the sons of Yisrael to greatness than through an alliance with Egypt? His father had begun a mighty work; Efrayim could continue it.
He leaned his head on his hand, studying the pleasant princess before him. “Has anyone ever told you—” he pitched his voice so it would not reach the other two diners “—that your eyes blaze like stars in a midnight sky?”
Though any observer would have believed Akil intent on the music he directed, his thoughts were focused on the circle of banqueters behind him. He knew the sons of Zaphenath-paneah, their natures and their desires, and he distrusted them. The eyes of the elder, Menashe, burned Akil’s shoulders as he stared at Jendayi, and the younger, Efrayim, seemed too glib for Akil’s comfort. During the three years he had lived in the vizier’s villa, he had not been unaware of Menashe’s longing looks and Efrayim’s bold flirtations with his prodigy.
But he had managed to shelter Jendayi, the most blessed of the gods, from the boys’ attentions. Her blind eyes had never seen the open heart Menashe revealed on his face, and her ears had never heard Efrayim’s bold flirtations. Only once could Akil recall having shirked his duty, the afternoon Efrayim had discovered Jendayi in the garden and kissed her in an impetuous moment. Fortunately, Akil had spied the pair before the situation could advance, and had led his stammering ward back to the slave quarters. Efrayim, cheeky as always, had grinned and walked away, probably to find a more willing slave on whom he could foist his attentions.
Akil cast a discreet glance over his shoulder. A soft and loving curve lay on the elder son’s lips as he stared at Jendayi, completely unmindful of the queen, but the younger man seemed intent on Princess Sitamun. Good. Let him cast his nets after the slippery princess; those two deserved each other.
At least, may the gods be praised, Jendayi would not see the look of love in the other man’s eyes.
Akil turned back to his orchestra and gave his sighted performers an approving smile. The song they played was an unobtrusive, unremarkable tune in which Jendayi did little more than strum an accompaniment to the oboe. He would not draw undue attention to her tonight.
For he had long known that Jendayi held the key to his own prosperity and happiness. As long as the little harpist retained the gift of the gods and remained in Pharaoh’s court, Akil would continue to be her musical interpreter. Though Amenhotep had access to the best musicians in the kingdom, he called for Akil’s orchestra at every great occasion, both personal and private. As long as Jendayi’s harp continued to thrill the king, Akil would remain in the inner circle of Pharaoh’s favor…and he would be summoned to play for the queen.
He could imagine no higher honor, no more beautiful or deserving woman. Tiy was the most brilliant star of Pharaoh’s world, a paragon of virtue, intelligence and cunning. Akil willingly gave his loyalty and service to Pharaoh, but he reserved his adoration for Tiy, the Mother of Egypt and his own Favorite Lady.
She might never know that he would die for her, but she would never have cause to doubt his loyalty.
Menashe’s soul burned with impatience as the queen’s slaves carried their dinner trays away. They still had to endure the ritual chants to thank the gods for their prosperity, then Queen Tiy and Princess Sitamun would take their formal leave and quit the chamber. The musicians might leave before the royals, so he would have precious little time to find Jendayi before the guards would arrive to escort him and Efrayim back to the docks. One did not wander through Pharaoh’s palace unescorted…
But he had to speak to Jendayi. He and his family would soon be leaving for Canaan, and it might be weeks before he received another invitation to Malkata. His silent heart had spent years yearning for her, but now she was old enough to hear of his love, to know that he wanted the best for her and would stop at nothing to obtain it.
The servants finished clearing the room; a bald priest entered and chanted a ritual hymn of praise and thanksgiving. When the priest had finished, Queen Tiy rose in a smooth, graceful motion. “We bid you farewell,” she said, her voice crisp in the stillness.
Taking her cue from her mother, Sitamun stood as well. A small, suggestive smile touched her lips as she inclined her head toward Efrayim. “A pleasure to speak with you,” she murmured, a sweet edge to her voice. The dark hair of her oiled wig glistened like polished wood as she transferred her gaze to Menashe. “You both must come again when you have completed your journey to bury your grandfather.”
“We thank you for your invitation, and yearn to accept it,” Efrayim answered, not bothering even to look at Menashe. “My brother and I will fly to your side whenever you command our presence.”
Menashe locked his hands behind his back. Let Efrayim accept Sitamun’s invitation; he would be pleased to accompany his brother if only to catch another glimpse of Jendayi. “Yes.” He nodded toward Sitamun. “We would be honored to see you again.”
“So be it, then.” Sitamun’s smile relaxed. “I will implore the gods to grant you a safe and uneventful journey.”
Efrayim and Menashe bowed, then Tiy led her daughter from the room. When both the queen and the princess had gone, Efrayim turned to Menashe in a burst of excitement, but Menashe stalled him with a touch on the shoulder. Leaving Efrayim in the center of the chamber, he hurried toward the corner where the musicians were gathering their instruments. Jendayi had already disappeared through the doorway, but perhaps the chironomist would call her back—
“Master Akil,” Menashe called, his voice a great deal shakier than he would have liked.
Akil turned. “May I help you, sir?” The musician wore a frown, and his brows had twisted in a brooding knot.
“I am Menashe, elder son of Zaphenath-paneah.” The words rushed together as he hurried to identify himself. “If you would summon Jendayi, I would like to speak to her.”
“I know who you are,” the chironomist interrupted. “But we are no longer the property of your father the vizier.” The man barreled his scrawny chest. “We belong to Pharaoh.”
“I know. But if you will call her—”
“Jendayi cannot speak to you. You are a nobleman’s son. She is a slave. And you must leave. The guards are even now at the door.”
Menashe glanced over his shoulder. The man had spoken the truth; a pair of armed warriors had entered the room and waited to lead him and Efrayim back to the docks.
“But I wish only a word.”
“No! Take yourself away or you will make trouble for both of us!”
Menashe stepped back, driven not by fear of Akil, but by the knowledge that any rash action might endanger future invitations to the palace. The chironomist was a stubborn fool, but Menashe had allies in higher places. Queen Tiy herself had intimated that she would help in his quest for the harpist’s hand.
“Later, Akil,” Menashe called, backing out of the chamber. “I will see you again.”
Jendayi followed her handmaid through the palace halls and tried to deny the sour feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was glad Pharaoh would not be summoning her to play again tonight, for nothing but loneliness, longing and pain could pour from her harp now.
She heard Akil’s shuffling steps behind her and lowered her head, knowing he would be angry if he read her feelings on her face. “Why do you long for things that can never be?” he constantly chided her. “Be happy where you are. You live in the grandest palace of the most glorious king of the most powerful kingdom in the world. The gods have blessed you, so rejoice and be content.”
She tried to be content, but the dream persisted. Her nightmare of death and the Hall of the Two Truths had not lost its power to terrify her. She awoke every morning in a sweat, recalling the fervor wit
h which the god condemned her. “You have loved nothing, you are nothing, you have nothing!” Anubis’s gaunt jackal face rose before her now, and with a shiver of vivid recollection she pressed closer to her handmaid’s side.
Life itself haunted her, for living seemed an exercise she often heard about but would never really experience. She ate, slept, drank and played in the lonely blackness of the blind; every day looked like every night. Each time she rose from her bed she slipped into a tunic that felt like the one she had worn the day before; the sounds that rose and fell around her were the same sounds that had kept her company since the days of her childhood. The people who moved along the fringes of her world raised their voices when speaking as if she were deaf, or they were quick to assume that because she did not make eye contact with them, they could not make any contact with her.
Pharaoh, the queen, the men and women of the royal court lived and laughed in the world, but Jendayi and her companions were forever isolated behind the veil of slavery, urged to perform well and scurry away like rats behind a wall. Her experiences had been as uninteresting and bland as warm water, and her stomach knotted at the thought of a lifetime of emptiness, long years of loving nothing, having nothing, being nothing…
She had been given one gift—an ability to hear and create music. Sometimes in the quiet of an afternoon one of the other slaves would tell a story of love or hate or jealousy, and Jendayi would struggle to interpret those emotions through her harp. But even at her best, she knew the tones that flowed from her hands were only shadows of the genuine passion that gripped and motivated the rest of the world. Her fingers strove to speak of love, and succeeded only in imitating the delicate warble of a mother bird that coos to its young hidden in the river grasses. She was an imitator, not an artist. Anubis was right, she was nothing.
“We are here, mistress.” Kesi, her handmaid, turned abruptly, pulling Jendayi with her. Jendayi lifted her head and inhaled the sweet lotus blossoms the lutist had arranged in a bowl the day before. They were back in their room, one of many chambers in the slave quarters behind Pharaoh’s palace.