by Angela Hunt
The king continued, unmindful of his guests’ drooping eyelids, and Efrayim remained on his knees, ignoring the pain of his bones grinding against the hard tile floor. But though he kept his gaze fastened to the king’s face, with his peripheral vision he could see Menashe lifting the harpist into his arms. Guided by the chironomist, he carried her away, safely out of sight.
Efrayim smothered a smile and lifted a brow as if vitally interested in the king’s architectural plans. He had been hard on Menashe that last night in Canaan. Perhaps his jests had been too brutal. But he had imagined his brother the victim of a foolish infatuation, not sacrificial love.
Perhaps he’d been wrong. And if his penance was enduring a pair of bruised knees, he would suffer this small agony in silence.
A flurry of wild, improbable dreams assailed Jendayi, then awareness hit like a punch in the stomach. She thrashed, feeling unfamiliar hands on her arms, but a male voice thundered through her fear. “I won’t hurt you,” he said, and the pressure of his hands lifted.
Jendayi froze. Where—and with whom—was she? Panic like she’d never known before welled in her throat.
“You fainted.” The man’s voice was soft and eminently reasonable. “Akil has left me to take care of you.” Jendayi shivered, slightly reassured. Akil would not leave her with a monster. This man had to be one of the servants, or perhaps one of Pharaoh’s bodyguards.
Her memory returned with a rush and she cringed, imagining the scene she had just caused. She pressed her hand to her forehead. “Is Pharaoh very angry?”
“Pharaoh is—” she heard a smile in the slightly familiar voice “—busy. Efrayim has asked him about the work at the temple of Opet. By now Pharaoh has forgotten all about your unfortunate tumble.”
Efrayim had come to her aid! She slid her hand down over her eyes, afraid that a sentimental tear might slip out and wend its way down her cheek. And she had imagined Efrayim cruel and flirtatious! He did care, or he would have simply gawked at her like the others. Instead he had risen to divert Pharaoh’s mind from her folly; out of concern for her he had risked attracting Pharaoh’s displeasure.
“Are you all right?” Her guardian’s voice now seemed husky and golden and warm as the sun. He spoke with the clear accent of an educated nobleman, so he must have been raised in an important household.
“I am fine.” She pressed her hands to the floor to push herself up. “It’s just—” She paused, her head swimming with dizziness, and felt the warmth of his touch on her shoulders.
“Should I call the physicians?”
Despite her pain, she couldn’t control a burst of laughter. What a joker this one was! As if the royal physicians would attend to a slave!
“Though I have heard your voice before, I don’t believe I know you,” she said, allowing him to help her upright. “But you are very kind to sit with me. I’m surprised Akil did not have me carted to the slaves’ quarters and dumped on a mattress.” She turned her face in his direction. “Do you work in Pharaoh’s apartments? Queen Tiy’s, perhaps?”
The stranger’s gentle laugh rippled through the air. “I do not serve Pharaoh.” His tone was slightly apologetic.
She paused. “The vizier, then. Are you of his household?”
“Yes.” His words were clipped, exact. “I serve the vizier.”
She caught her breath and forced her heart to remain calm. This man lived and worked in Zaphenath-paneah’s household, so he might know the reasons behind Efrayim’s reluctance to speak to Pharaoh. He might even be willing to carry a message for her.
“Will you tell me your name?” She tilted her head as if her sightless eyes could study his face. “I could use a friend at the vizier’s house.”
“You want me to be your friend?” Something caught in his voice.
“You seem to be the only one around.” She gave him a dry smile. “Look about, do you see others here to help me? Even my maid has fled away, for they all think Pharaoh’s wrath will descend any moment. As it would, if not for Efrayim—”
The words caught in her throat, and she pressed her fingers to her chin in a vain effort to stop it from trembling. The gods had spoken tonight. They had shown her that Efrayim did care. He was doubtless biding his time, weighing his options, trying to design a faultless plan with which he could bring her back to Zaphenath-paneah’s house. Men had been killed for far less temerity than asking for one of Pharaoh’s possessions. Efrayim had not yet acted because Zaphenath-paneah had warned him against such foolhardiness, or he was trying to discover another way to earn her freedom.
“I would be happy to be your friend, Jendayi.” The stranger’s voice was like a warm embrace in the vestibule’s chilly air. “You seem to need one.”
She turned toward him; something in his voice assured her he could be trusted. “Then, friend, since you know my name—” she smiled through the tears that stung her eyes “—tell me yours.”
A long, careful silence followed. “The vizier’s people know me by a Hebrew name, but you may call me Chenzira.” She stiffened in surprise when his strong hand lifted hers and held it gently. “It’s an Egyptian name meaning ‘born on a journey.’ But you probably knew that.”
“I didn’t.” She closed her eyes and wished that the warmth against her palm had been provided by Efrayim’s hand. “Were you born on a journey?”
“Yes,” he answered, his voice as soft as a caress. “I think I was.”
“Then, Chenzira, if you are my true friend, take this secret with you to the house of Zaphenath-paneah. If you have an opportunity, speak to Efrayim, the vizier’s younger son, and offer him my life. Tell him I will serve him in any way I can, but I am waiting for him to take me from Pharaoh’s house.”
“Is life so hard in the palace?” His voice rang with doubt and something else—jealousy?
“Chenzira,” she chided. “Pharaoh is no better or worse than any other master. But in the vizier’s house I hope to find love.”
His hand fell away from hers, and for a long moment she heard nothing, not even the sound of his breathing. Had she asked too much? Did he fear to carry such a personal message? A whisper of terror ran through her. Was she still dreaming? Would she awaken in a moment and discover that she had just confessed her innermost secrets to a spirit?
Abruptly thrusting out her hand, she felt the smooth bare skin of a man’s chest beneath her fingertips. “I am still here.” He spoke in a strained, yet gentle tone. “And you ask a lot of a man.”
“I know.” She lowered her eyes. “I know a slave should not be so forward with his master. But if you will speak to Efrayim for me, I am certain he will not be displeased. He and I are…old friends.” The memory of Ammit’s gleaming eyes compelled her to explain. “I must keep his friendship or die forever.”
Chenzira’s hand squeezed hers. “I will do anything I can to help you, Jendayi.”
Restless and irritable the next morning, Menashe paced in his small chamber and considered his options. Last night had been a dream and a nightmare, agony and ecstasy. He had never felt anything like the dizzying current that raced through him when he lifted Jendayi into his arms, nor had he ever been as stunned and sickened as in the moment when she confessed that she would give her life to serve Efrayim.
Once again, without even trying, Efrayim had wrested away something that rightfully belonged to Menashe.
Assailed by a bitter sense of injustice, Menashe sank onto his low bed and knocked a fist against his forehead. Had some evil priest put a curse on him? He could not think of anyone who hated him enough to invoke the forces of evil against him, but there had to be some reason for the incredible events of the past few months. Throughout his entire life he had been well liked, even spoiled, by his father’s servants and Pharaoh’s household. He was quick and capable, a little too sure, perhaps, of his position as the vizier’s elder son, but he had never done anything to warrant the torment ripping at his heart.
He lifted his eyes to the high, narrow window
that directed a sliver of sunlight into his small chamber. Even God Shaddai had worked against him. The god of Yisrael had spoken to him in a dream and then hardened the hearts of Yaakov’s people.
Menashe ran his hands through his hair, weary of his dilemma. Why should he concern himself with thoughts of Canaan and God Shaddai? He had obviously been mistaken. He had experienced a strange dream invoked, no doubt, by the spirited stories of his uncles. What he took for inspiration was nothing more than the product of a vivid imagination. If God had wanted to give a message to the sons of Yisrael, He would have spoken to Yosef or one of the uncles, not to a dishonored elder son who knew less than any of the others about Avraham’s Almighty God.
And Jendayi—Menashe covered his face with his hands. God’s cruelest joke was that a slave girl who knew neither of Zaphenath-paneah’s sons well had chosen to love the one least likely to return her devotion. Though last night she had been too shy and discreet to say the word love, now he knew her attachment to Efrayim went deeper than mere infatuation. She was obviously unhappy at the palace and desperate to return to the vizier’s villa.
And he had promised to help her. Menashe supposed he could attempt to speak to his father to see if Pharaoh might trade another harpist for Jendayi, but wouldn’t she be more deeply hurt by Efrayim’s indifference if she had to encounter it every day? If she returned to the vizier’s house and learned that Efrayim had never loved her, she would bear the same grief Menashe had come to know.
He laughed bitterly. Perhaps he would comfort her as the slave Chenzira. And if God was good—
What was he thinking? God was not good. God was a cruel trickster, a force beyond the strength of mortal men. Who would hope to win the struggle against Him?
“If you had only moved one of them to support me,” he whispered, resting his heavy head in his hands. “Efrayim. Or my father. Anyone. But you have left me alone, and I cannot do what you asked of me.”
The sun stood like a bright, baleful eye over the courtyard as Efrayim wiped a trickle of perspiration from his temple. Under Tarik’s watchful eye, he lowered a shining blue-gray sword to the level of Menashe’s chest and squinted down its length. “It is a good blade,” he said, taking a practice thrust as Menashe leaped away. “But this iron is heavy. It will weary a man’s arm faster than a copper sword.”
“Heavier, yes, but the metal is strong enough to break a copper blade.” Tarik thrust his own blade between the restless points of the brothers’ weapons. “And iron is more valuable than silver. It is a precious rarity. I’ve heard that Pharaoh keeps an iron dagger by his bedside.”
With graceful determination, Efrayim parried Tarik’s blade and feinted to the right, then lunged to Menashe’s left, lightly kissing the skin of his brother’s rib cage with the sharpened point of the blade. Glancing down, Menashe let out an oath.
Efrayim grinned. “Do not drop your guard, brother, when I am armed.” He tossed the sword to a servant who waited nearby. Sweat and blood from an earlier mishap soaked the hair of his own chest, and another slave handed him a square of linen to clean himself. “Tell me, Tarik—” he glanced at the captain as he toweled off “—which of us is the best swordsman?”
The guard pasted on a diplomatic smile. “You are equally good and equally headstrong.” He took the sword from Menashe’s hand. “But you have not been truly tried. What a man does in the practice ring, Efrayim, is not always what he will do on the field of battle.”
The captain’s wry remarks weren’t enough to dispel Efrayim’s good humor. He was about to taunt his disgruntled brother again when a slave from the gatekeeper’s lodge sprinted toward them.
“Life, health and prosperity to you, my masters,” the slave called, bowing from the waist. The man wore a grim expression, and when Efrayim glanced toward the parchment scroll in the slave’s hand, he realized why—the scroll had been sealed with the imprint of the royal house. “The message—” the slave bowed again “—is for Efrayim, son of Zaphenath-paneah.”
Tarik studied the outside of the scroll, then gave it to Efrayim. His expression stilled and grew serious. “I hope no trouble is stirring.”
With a casualness Efrayim did not feel, he took the scroll and weighed it in his hand, considering what message it might contain. His father had just returned from the palace at Malkata, and he had not sent word of any matter that would concern Efrayim. So why had a message come from the palace?
Despite his nonchalance, his hand trembled as he broke open the seal. He was well aware that both Tarik and Menashe watched as he read the carefully penned hieroglyphs.
“My father and I—” he snatched a quick breath of relief as he looked up at Tarik “—are invited to the palace at Thebes tonight for a banquet given by Queen Tiy and Sitamun.”
The captain lifted a brow. “Just the two of you?”
“Just two,” Efrayim answered, realizing the significance of Tarik’s question. He shot a glance at Menashe, whose expression had hardened to stony indifference. It was odd that the queen should not have invited both of them, but perhaps this banquet had been Sitamun’s idea. If so, she certainly would not choose to invite dour and disapproving Menashe.
But Menashe would not understand. “If you, brother, had not begun to grow that filthy beard,” Efrayim joked in an attempt to ease his brother’s embarrassment, “perhaps the queen would look with more favor on you. I don’t know why you insist on being as hairy as a common sheep herder—”
“I look like what we are,” Menashe interrupted, one corner of his mouth twisting. “We are descended from sheep herders, Efrayim, there is nothing shameful in it. Avraham, Yitzhak and Yaakov all kept sheep—”
“Enough, please.” Efrayim tossed the dirty towel to a waiting slave, then snapped his fingers at a young girl who waited with a pitcher of water. “You may be a shepherd if you want to—” he stooped as the silent girl poured water over his bare shoulders “—but I am the son of a vizier, and tonight I shall dine with a queen and a princess.” He paused as another slave handed him a clean towel. “And there shall not be a sheep in sight.”
Tiy sat in practiced repose, her hands clasped at her waist and her ankles crossed, while her thoughts raced like the wind. Her intimate dinner, quietly arranged in her own private chambers at the Theban palace, appeared to be a success. At the banquet to welcome the Hebrews back from Canaan she had watched to see which foods Zaphenath-paneah particularly enjoyed, and those dishes were spread before him now: honey-basted quail, sweet pomegranates, ethereally light shat cakes, melt-in-the-mouth lotus bread. The vizier, devastatingly handsome as always, sat at Tiy’s right hand; Efrayim and Sitamun sat at her left.
The dinner conversation had been light and inconsequential. If either the vizier or his son wondered at the reason for this banquet, neither of them had expressed his curiosity. They spoke of Pharaoh’s construction at Opet, the recent trip to Canaan and the remarkable beauty of the Nile at sunset. Though Tiy attempted to guide the conversation into more personal channels, the vizier remained annoyingly aloof. He deflected her praise for his thoroughness, attributing his success to Pharaoh’s insight; he murmured that his abilities were not his at all, but blessings from his god. And always, no matter how closely she leaned toward him or how intently she tried to breach the wall behind those dark eyes, an air of isolation clung to his tall, majestic figure.
Her daughter, Tiy observed, was enjoying far more success with her suitor. Efrayim’s nature seemed as full of sunshine as his looks. Sitamun, who was too frequently given to pouts and temper tantrums, laughed freely in the young man’s presence. She seemed a bit in awe of him, and was perhaps a little confused by his easy charm. But the girl had been ruthlessly spoiled and she needed someone who could inspire her to admiration. When Tiy noticed Efrayim’s gaze focusing on Sitamun’s lips, she leaned toward her daughter and suggested that Efrayim might enjoy a tour of the royal gardens.
Sitamun lifted a brow; the idea pleased her. Without hesitation, Efrayim stood a
nd offered his hand. The gallant gesture touched Tiy. Amenhotep had once behaved in such a way…a long time ago.
Zaphenath-paneah swiveled his head to keep the young couple in view. “Are you certain, my queen, they should venture out alone?”
“No one is alone here in the palace.” Tiy shifted in her chair to face him. “There are too many guards and slaves, priests and royal relatives. It is impossible to be truly alone here…yet it is quite possible to be lonely.”
As the two young people moved away through the open doors, Tiy clapped her hands. Slaves materialized from several doorways, and with a languid gesture she indicated the bowls and dishes of steaming food remaining on trays scattered around the room. “Away, all of it,” she commanded. The slaves sprang into action.
“You have been very gracious, my queen.” Zaphenath-paneah folded his hands and looked at her with polite and tactfully incurious eyes. “The dinner invitation was most kind. Of course, I imagine Sitamun prompted you to issue it.”
Tiy smiled, waiting until the last servant had exited the chamber. When the drapery had fallen behind the departing slave’s form, she lifted her chin and allowed the heavy weight of her beaded wig to pull her head back. “Sitamun did no prompting at all.” She studied his face unhurriedly, feature by feature. His eyes fell beneath the power of her gaze, and she smiled. “Have you wondered, our noble vizier, what compelled me to bring you here tonight?”
He looked away with a smile that seemed almost boyish in its shyness. Did she detect a grain of softness in his granite strength? Had he suspected her secret motivations?
“I did not want to be presumptuous.” A look of tenderness crossed his exquisite face as he glanced back at her. “But I did wonder if you were attempting a bit of matchmaking.”
She laughed. Perhaps he had begun to understand.