by Angela Hunt
Efrayim plucked a dainty shat cake from a passing platter, then raised his eyes to find Sitamun watching him from across the chamber. Her teeth, even and white, contrasted pleasingly with her olive skin and dark wig. Her smile shimmered toward him like sunbeams on the surface of the Nile, then she looked away and murmured a comment to her sister. Fully aware of Efrayim’s watchful gaze, she leaned forward and carefully brought a slice of the juicy melon called sekhept to her rosy lips.
A wave of warmth trilled along Efrayim’s pulses. In his twenty-three years he had never given serious consideration to the sort of woman he might take for a wife, but sparks of unwanted excitement shot through him as he watched her. She favored him, the eager affection radiating from her was as evident as the sun at noon. And she was a princess. Since he had grown up in the second most influential household in the world’s most powerful kingdom, it was only natural that his heart should yearn toward Pharaoh’s household. If he took a royal wife, he might become a man even more powerful than his father. If Sitamun would not have him, he could marry Hentaneb, Baketamun, Ast or Hentmerheb. Pharaoh was rich with daughters.
He was about to ask Menashe which princess he considered most beautiful, but at that moment Akil appeared between two painted pillars. Efrayim stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth, knowing Menashe would be unfit for conversation for some time. Behind Akil, with one hand on her maid’s arm and the other around her instrument, walked the little harpist.
“Grace and prosperity to you.”
The throaty voice in his ear was familiar, and Efrayim turned, surprised that Sitamun had been able to sneak up without his notice. “Grace and peace to you,” he answered, releasing a short laugh touched with embarrassment. “Forgive my manners, but I didn’t hear you.”
“I didn’t want you to hear me.” She sank onto a low cushion by the side of his chair and casually tucked her legs under her. “Our fathers will talk of the burial for an hour to come, and—forgive me, please—I am not interested in a man who has passed into eternity.” Her eyes danced as her mouth tipped in a faint smile. “I prefer a man who is alive and well.”
Flattered, Efrayim leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I am glad you came to join me. I had considered venturing to your side of the hall, but did not think my father would approve. He already thinks me too forward.”
“Your father is a powerful man—” her eyes boldly raked over him “—but my father is Pharaoh, and he will not care if I kneel at your feet. I was nearly able to persuade him to allow me to accompany you into the desert.” She lifted one small, bare shoulder in a shrug of disappointment. “But my mother convinced him I should remain in Thebes.”
Efrayim laughed and she smiled, and for a moment they simply stared at one another. From across the room he could hear his father telling Pharaoh about El Shaddai and the jealousy of the Almighty God, but his mind was rapidly filling with jealousy of a different sort.
By all the gods, was this love? His thoughts seemed to be drifting on a cloud; a strange tingling in the pit of his stomach had overpowered his appetite. His gaze traveled over Sitamun’s young body, then moved over her face, searching her eyes. Yes, if she were his wife, he could freely give himself and all he possessed to her. Even from across the room she drew him, the smoldering flame in her eyes intriguing him. And if they could be married, Pharaoh would be honor-bound to place his daughter’s husband in a position of authority. He might even name Efrayim vizier of all Egypt, because Yosef was growing older…
Without taking her eyes from his, Sitamun inclined her dark head toward the dais where Pharaoh and his vizier debated. “Your father is speaking of his god again.” Her mercurial black eyes sharpened. “What think you of this Almighty God? Your father says he has never worshipped any other god, and yet he is sworn to serve my father, the son of Amon-Re.”
“El Shaddai is the god of the Hebrews.” Half of Efrayim’s brain struggled to weigh his words while the other half hummed with perilous, erratic energy. “But He welcomes anyone who comes to Him. I’ve heard that Queen Tuya worships God Shaddai. And Tuthmosis, your grandfather, sought knowledge from my father’s god.”
“The Queen Mother is an old woman.” A rush of pink stained Sitamun’s cheek for no apparent reason. “And Tuthmosis has been dead many years.”
“Tuya is no older than my father.” Efrayim tore his gaze from Sitamun’s delicate oval face and glanced over at his father. Yosef was moving his hands in tight, intense gestures, pouring out his heart to Amenhotep and Tiy. The queen looked bored while Pharaoh stared straight ahead, a patronizing quirk at the corner of his mouth.
Efrayim suspected that this king would never worship God Shaddai. Tragedy had driven Tuya and Tuthmosis to seek the Almighty God who could deliver them, but Amenhotep had known nothing but blessing in his life. Though from his childhood he had been presented with the Truth, he had let it slip from his grasp, choosing instead to placate the priests of Egypt and his enormous appetite for pleasure.
That thought had barely crossed Efrayim’s mind before another followed. If Yosef would never persuade Pharaoh to accept God Shaddai, Zaphenath-paneah would not be the man God would use to implement a Hebrew-Egyptian alliance to bless the entire world. God would have to use someone else.
“Efrayim.” Sitamun placed her hand on his, and his flesh prickled at her touch. She smiled with satisfaction when he turned back to her. “Tell me what you are thinking. Sometimes I think you like to take your thoughts from me.”
“Never,” he assured her, rewarding her with a larger smile of his own. “My thoughts would love to remain with you all day long. They would play with you in your garden, and sit with you at your dressing table as the maids apply malachite to your lovely eyes…”
One corner of her mouth dipped low. “Stop, my friend, or your thoughts will be following me into chambers where they had best not go. Tell me instead what you were thinking when you looked at my father. Your countenance closed as if you are guarding a secret.”
“I was thinking—” Efrayim paused. “They are unusual thoughts. You may not appreciate them.”
“Go on,” she urged, and for an instant wistfulness stole into her expression. “I want to know you better.”
“If the truth can be told, and your heart can be trusted—” he took her hand in his “—I was thinking that your father will never be the man my father would like him to be. Your father is a man of many gods, while my father worships only one.”
Her face fell in disappointment. “That is no great revelation.”
“But it is.” He squeezed her hand. “For it demonstrates that God Shaddai will not conclude His work in this generation. Don’t you see? God promised my forefather Avraham that He would bless the entire world through Avraham’s descendants. He also promised to give us the land of Canaan as an eternal dwelling place.”
Sitamun stared at him with a look of mingled ignorance and annoyance.
He would have to try another approach. “Consider this, pretty one.” He bent closer to her. “Which is the greatest kingdom in the world?”
She lifted her chin. “Egypt, of course.”
Efrayim nodded. “And through Egypt’s bounty the entire world has already been blessed. Now, which kingdom has the greatest military power in the world?”
“Egypt,” she answered again, her lips pursing.
“You are bright as well as beautiful.” He broke into a wide, open smile. “Now, which kingdom’s past king conquered much of Canaan? And which kingdom could easily conquer the whole of Canaan if it desired?”
Her narrow brows rose in obvious pleasure. “Egypt again.”
Efrayim paused to let the full import of his words sink into her brain. “God Shaddai has promised to bless the world through the Hebrews, and what could be a better channel for blessing than the power and glory of Egypt? God promised to give the sons of Yisrael a permanent home in Canaan, and what better way to attain it than through the military might of Pharaoh’s forces?”
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br /> He leaned to whisper in her ear. “But these things will not come to pass in my father’s lifetime, for he is content with the way things are. And so I suspect our destiny—yours and mine, Sitamun—must wait. When my father is no longer the vizier, perhaps your father may be persuaded to act.”
When the sound of clanging brass broke the stillness behind him, Efrayim jerked around. The crown prince stood behind Efrayim’s chair, his heavy eyelids wide-open, a startled expression on his face. A slave scurried to pick up the goblet the prince had dropped, and for an instant fear twisted around Efrayim’s heart—had he said anything that could be considered subversive? But the prince’s startled look melted into a look of mad happiness as he smiled at Efrayim.
“The gods have blessed you with wondrous thoughts,” Neferkheprure’ Wa’enre’ whispered, bending close so only Efrayim and Sitamun could hear. “But say nothing of this to anyone else. A man’s destiny will come in its own time.”
Across the room, Jendayi strummed her instrument and tried not to think about the pain in her heart. The soft sounds of laughter and conversation filled the empty spaces between the orchestra’s songs; the gentle clap of Akil’s hand on his knee rooted her to reality. Though her heart was breaking, no one could see. The revelers in the banquet hall had scarcely noticed the musicians; there had been no requests for special songs, no offerings of praise to the gods.
After an hour of eating and drinking, the funereal atmosphere lifted. Pharaoh seemed in rare spirits, his rhythmic laughter often broke from the sounds of the others, and the shrill timbre of the queen’s voice drifted around the room like the sharp clang of a bell.
Yet through the dissonance of muted conversations, the whispers of slaves and the percussive clatter of serving bowls, Jendayi recognized the vizier’s resonant voice and knew his sons must be in the room. The elder son was a cipher with no place in her memory. The younger one, she sternly told herself, was a charming joker whose foolish flirtations had raked her heart. She had spent hours pondering the myriad ways through which Efrayim might have been prevented from keeping a sincere promise to obtain her, but time after time she arrived at one truth: he was a free man and an influential one. If neither Kesi nor the vizier’s captain had lied—and Jendayi was certain they had not—then by this time Efrayim should have spoken to Pharaoh about her. But he had not, so he did not hold her in any regard; he had merely toyed with her as a diverting amusement. He had listened to her music, the offerings of her innermost soul, and had considered them nothing but idle entertainment.
Plucking the notes of the root chord, Jendayi heard the other instruments blend into the cadence of completion. A smattering of light applause sounded across the banquet hall, but the constant thrum of conversation did not cease. Jendayi shifted on her feet, wishing Akil had allowed her to bring the small harp she could play while sitting down. Even though she could not see the diners in the chamber beyond, standing before them left her feeling exposed and vulnerable.
Was Efrayim looking at her now? Laughing behind his hand? Sharing a joke with his elder brother?
Leather sandals slapped the nearby tiles, then a slave buzzed in Akil’s ear. Jendayi lowered her eyes and hoped the slave had requested a dancing song. The princesses were fond of dancing; perhaps they wished to impress the king with some new artistry—
“Jendayi.” Akil’s voice cut through her thoughts like the flick of a whip. “Pharaoh wishes you to sing an anthem of praise.”
She felt as if a hand had closed around her throat. She couldn’t sing, not while Efrayim watched. Twice she had sung for him alone, twice he had ignored her. Not even for Pharaoh could she repeat that humiliation. She would die first.
“I can’t.” She refused in a hoarse whisper.
A soft gasp escaped the chironomist. “What?”
She clung to the neck of her harp as though the instrument would protect her. “I can’t.”
“You must, girl!” She stiffened before the jagged and sharp threat in his voice. “Only a stupid slave would dare refuse Pharaoh! If you would live to see Re sail across the sky tomorrow, you must do as the king commands.”
She lowered her head, wishing the floor would open and swallow her, and something in her posture must have given Akil pause. When he spoke again, his voice had gentled somewhat. “Listen, girl, and perhaps you will find your courage. We will perform the story of music. It is one of Pharaoh’s favorites. I will begin for you. I will tell the story while you play the accompaniment, then you will sing.”
Soft currents of air brushed past Jendayi as the other women silently picked up their instruments and moved away, leaving her alone with the chironomist. Torn between rebellion and obedience, she straightened and heard Akil clap his hands for attention.
In an instant of black silence she felt the touch of a hundred pairs of eyes. Her fingers trembled as she pressed them to the strings.
“Oh, divine king, live forever,” Akil began, confidence in his voice. “Long ago, Thoth observed the orderly arrangement of the stars and the harmony of the musical sounds and their nature.”
A river of apprehension coursed through Jendayi, but her hands remained on the harp, creating a gentle stream of sound beneath Akil’s recitation.
“Thoth made a lyre and gave it three strings, imitating the seasons of the year—the Flood, the Emergence, the Drought. Then he adopted three tones, a high, a medium and a low, and gave high to the summer, medium to the spring and low to the winter.”
Jendayi tried to keep her heart cold and still, but her pulse began to beat erratically. Efrayim was watching her, now.
“The genius of Thoth led him to build a bigger harp,” Akil went on, “and to fashion mortals who had the gift of music. Then he created Merit, the personification of harmonic melody, and taught her to sing through the lips of mortal men and women. Merit has gifted this girl before you, divine Pharaoh, like no other woman before or since. Listen to her now, as she seeks to please your divine heart…”
The pounding in Jendayi’s ears drowned out Akil’s voice. She tried to play, but her mutinous hands deserted the harp and fell to her side. The floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. Her head swam. The harp, no longer supported, crashed to the floor in a sickening clash of sounds.
The familiar darkness thickened, muffling all sounds and sensations. She struggled to lift her leaden arms, then blackness swarmed like a cluster of bees and carried her away.
Chapter Thirteen
“Look at that.” Efrayim leaned forward in sudden interest. “The little harpist has fainted—and my brother has forgotten himself.” Menashe had leaped from his chair in the first moment the girl appeared to sway; now he knelt at Jendayi’s side while the alarmed chironomist stood wringing his hands.
“Let the servants take care of the slave.” Sitamun’s hand gripped Efrayim’s arm. “And pray my father shows mercy to your brother.”
Efrayim sat back, speechless with surprise. Menashe’s lunge toward the slave flaunted all protocol, tradition and common sense. His mindless dash to aid the girl had carried him directly in front of Pharaoh’s chair; therefore he had risked death to tend a fallen slave. According to Egyptian religion and tradition, the cobra affixed in Pharaoh’s headdress, a model of the serpent goddess Wadjet, had the power to deal out instant death by spitting flames at any enemy who approached the king. Either Wadjet had failed in her duty as Menashe ran willy-nilly across Pharaoh’s dais, or the goddess had known he was not an enemy. Amenhotep would decide the truth of the matter.
Efrayim thought his father went a little pale as Pharaoh stiffened in his chair. The king blinked, as if he was not quite certain he had actually seen someone invade his private space, then he fastened his gaze to the spectacle of the fallen slave and the hovering vizier’s son.
“It would seem, my king,” Yosef said, his voice tremulous and weak, “that my son has forgotten his manners in his hurry to aid your harpist.”
Pharaoh’s dark brows slanted in a frown. “I
must agree, Zaphenath-paneah.” He gazed at Menashe with chilling intentness and Efrayim held his breath, certain the royal anger was about to explode in reckless fury. Menashe had not only intruded on the king, but now knelt next to the slave as if he, not Amenhotep, owned the girl. If Menashe was not careful, in another moment Pharaoh would see the light of love in his eyes.
Menashe might be a romantic fool, but Efrayim still possessed his wits. Without pausing to glance at Sitamun, he sprang to his feet. “Live forever, most glorious Pharaoh,” he called, prostrating himself on the floor opposite the area where Menashe fretted over the fallen girl.
Distracted, Pharaoh turned toward him. “Who speaks now?”
Efrayim lifted his head and broke into an open, friendly smile. “I am Efrayim, the younger son of Zaphenath-paneah. I would beg you, divine king, for news of your new temple at Southern Opet. Since we have been away, I have not had an opportunity to visit the site.”
Pharaoh tilted his head and smiled, warming to the subject of his beloved temple, and Efrayim knew the episode with Menashe would soon be forgotten. Next to beautiful women, Amenhotep loved building. The temple he had dedicated to Amon-Re was one of his favorite projects.
Pharaoh cast an approving glance at his vizier. “You have a most astute son.” His dark eyes sparkled when he turned again to Efrayim. “I have recently commissioned artists to adorn the walls with reliefs depicting my birth and my royal parents,” the king explained, shifting his weight in his chair and folding his arms. “Six statues, more colossal than any before built, will adorn the area leading to the second pylon…”