by Angela Hunt
Tura Quarry stood behind the green belt of the Nile like an aloof, august presence. Menashe paused on the trail that led to the quarry and gazed up at the chiseled cliffs from which ancient Egyptians had dug limestone for the casing of Cheops’s pyramid. A score of slaves moved like ants over the cinnabar-colored walls, cutting stone for Pharaoh’s latest project. A wagon loaded with meat, bread and drink tottered along the path leading into the quarry, and under a faded canopy near the gate a group of scribes sat cross-legged in a shady spot, each man’s parchments resting on the taut spread of his kilt as he recorded his share of the daily business. The air vibrated with the incessant tap tap tap of the workers’ hammers, keeping time with the heightened pounding of Menashe’s heart.
A short distance away, south of the quarry but separated from the river by a rocky ridge, a whitewashed, pillared building stood out like a beacon in the midst of the crimson hills. Menashe pointed to it.
“You are right, cousin.” Jokim’s eyes narrowed as he followed his cousin’s finger. “It is perfect. Isolated and quiet.”
“My father used to stay there when he was required to supervise projects at the quarry.” Menashe lowered his arm. “No one will think it strange that I am here…or that a few of my relatives have come to join me.”
“But not your brother,” Jokim murmured.
“No. Not Efrayim.”
Before leaving his father’s villa, he and Jokim had asked Ani about the vizier’s cattle being accepted at Egyptian temples. To Menashe’s horror, Ani confessed that Efrayim had ordered that two dozen of the finest beasts be sacrificed at the leading temples of Thebes and Heliopolis.
A tumble of confused feelings assailed Menashe at the thought of Efrayim’s disloyalty. Had he no faith in El Shaddai? Was he so determined to remain in Egypt that he wished to placate a host of false priests?
Sickened by the struggle within him, Menashe turned his thoughts from his brother and gave his cousin a troubled smile. “It is good there are many who will join us. Efrayim must make his own decisions.”
Behind him, Tarik broke into the conversation with a discreet servant’s cough. “May I inquire,” he asked when Menashe turned, “how long you intend to stay here? Your father will want to know.”
Menashe studied the rocky hills and felt the power of the secluded spot. “You need not say anything to my father,” he said, closing his eyes against the sun’s brightness on the gleaming cliffs. “I doubt he will notice I am gone.”
Even with his eyes closed, Menashe could sense Tarik’s hesitation. The stalwart captain still tended to think of Menashe as an untried youth unable to spend a night unguarded and away from home…
“You will be quite alone in this place,” Tarik said, confirming Menashe’s suspicion. “If you are only planning to stay one night, why don’t I remain with you? We can take the felucca back in the morning—”
“I would not keep you from your duties.” Menashe opened his eyes and turned, easing into a smile. “Besides, you taught me how to defend myself. Do not worry. No harm will befall us here.”
Tarik inclined his head, but apprehension still flickered in his dark eyes. “Menashe—” he lowered his gaze “—can you not tell me what you intend to do out here? It has been my duty and privilege to protect you since the day you came into this world—”
“And it has been my privilege to have you as my guardian.” Menashe lowered his hand to the man’s shoulder and stooped to look into the shorter man’s face. “But you, Tarik, are sworn first and foremost to serve my father, and I am not certain he will understand what Jokim and I intend to do. So if you do not know what we intend, your loyalties cannot be divided.”
“Perhaps they already are.” Tarik’s jaw tensed, betraying his deep frustration, but he did not argue further. Instead he gestured toward a pair of servants who lingered on the trail. “Come,” he called over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from Menashe’s. “Take the supplies into the house. Then we must return to Thebes.”
“Thank you, Tarik.” Menashe shifted his hands to his hips as the servants drove the supply wagon toward the house. “I shall not forget your help.”
“Grant me one request,” the captain said, stopping in mid-stride. His brow furrowed as he hesitated, then a rush of words poured forth. “I don’t know what you are planning—and I shall not ask—but if you should need help, there is a warrior at Malkata who might be willing to assist you. His name is Abnu, and he is a friend. He owes me a debt, and I give you permission to claim it.”
Menashe grinned. “What is he? A guard of the royal harem?”
Tarik’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “He is a giant. A Medjay warrior. Sometimes he fights for Pharaoh’s entertainment, yet I heard he was tiring of the sport, for he always wins. But he enjoys an adventure, so remember his name. He would enjoy this one, I think.”
“A giant?” Menashe squinted. “When did you keep company with a giant?”
“My life did not begin with you, young master.” The captain’s brittle smile softened. “But the past is only important if it can be of use to your future. Call on Abnu if you need a strong arm. And may your father’s god give you wisdom in the days ahead.”
Tura lay a full day’s river journey north of Thebes, but was only an hour’s camel ride from the Hebrew camp at Goshen. After depositing their supplies in the deserted house, Menashe and Jokim bid Tarik farewell, then walked to the quarry to bargain with the overseer. The old man in charge of the stonecutters fell to his knees as soon as he recognized Menashe, and Menashe felt his face color as the man groveled in the dust. Though he was accustomed to displays of respect from common folk, in Jokim’s presence the man’s obsequiousness embarrassed him.
“Rise, friend.” Menashe extended a hand. “You should bow to the vizier, but I am only his son. If you are willing to be of service, however, my kinsman and I are in need of a camel—two, if you can spare them.”
“For you, son of Zaphenath-paneah, we can spare anything,” the man said, his grin toothless and stained in the midst of a ruddy face. He rose and squinted at Jokim, then his head bobbed like a cork on the Nile. “Two camels, yes, you may take my own. They should serve you quite well.”
“We’ll only need them a day or two.” Menashe rested his hands on his hips. “I do not want to inconvenience you.”
“Two days, two weeks, it is all the same to me.” The old man bobbed again. “Where am I going? Nowhere. Take them, with any of my slaves you might require. I have a daughter, too, if you’re interested—”
“No, thank you,” Menashe interrupted. “We need the camels only.”
Later, perched atop a gurgling, growling beast that moved with long strides across the silent sands, Menashe dropped the reins on his thoughts and let them wander freely. Solitude was a rare commodity in crowded Thebes, and especially precious to one who had come from the bustling vizier’s household. Here in the wilderness he found it almost possible to forget who and what he was. In Egypt men bowed and scraped before him because they knew him to be the vizier’s elder son. What a joke! Yisrael, the one whose opinion mattered most, had seen Menashe as inferior. And Yosef, who could have rebuilt the foundation of Menashe’s self-confidence with a blessing of his own, seemed content to continue about Pharaoh’s business. He spent the bulk of his time and energy on Amenhotep, apparently satisfied to ignore his sons and allow his brothers to remain in a land to which they could never belong.
A fierce, steady wind shrilled southward, blowing up clouds of sand that scraped Menashe’s arms and legs. He lowered his head, delighted to let his cousin lead the way back to Goshen. Jokim, like the other Hebrews, was accustomed to the desert. Menashe knew he had much to learn, including how to dress. Like most other Egyptian nobles, he wore only a kilt, a cloak and a wide collar, and he found himself wishing he had donned a long tunic and head covering like the one Jokim wore. The scraggly beard he had begun to grow as a symbol of identification with his Hebrew brethren was not yet full enough to p
revent the sand from scouring his neck.
If he was going to lead his people back to Canaan, he would have to dress, talk and think the way they did. They would follow a son of Yosef, but only if he behaved as a Hebrew.
After arriving in Goshen, Jokim led Menashe to his father’s tent, then went in search of the men who had sent him to Thebes. Shela’s tent stood empty when Menashe entered, so he sank onto a stool, then ran his hand over his face and tasted sand on his lips. Was there an inch of his body not covered with grit?
A flapping noise startled him, and he looked up to see a young girl standing in the tent’s opening. She carried a pitcher of water in her arms.
“Jokim said you would want to wash your hands and face,” she said, speaking Hebrew in a delicate whisper. She was a willowy creature, more child than woman, but the potential for loveliness was evident in her form and the elegant curve of her cheek. Her thick, dark hair hung in long, graceful curves over her shoulders, and the hands that held the pitcher were delicate and long-fingered.
She has Jendayi’s hands, Menashe thought, his greeting sticking in his throat.
Seeing him hesitate, the girl lifted a brow. Menashe flushed and he cleared his throat. “Yes, I would like to wash.”
“Hold out your hands.” He obeyed, and with the glee of a small child she tipped the unwieldy pitcher, allowing a stream of water to splatter on his hot, dusty palms. The liquid felt wonderfully cool and cleansing. He looked up to smile his thanks.
She lowered the pitcher to the ground and wiped her hands on her tunic. Then, staring at him with curiosity, she leaned against a tent pole and thrust her hands behind her back. “Jokim says you are here to talk to his friends.”
“That’s right.”
“He says I am not allowed to listen.”
Menashe ran his hand over his mouth, hiding a smile. “Does the conversation of men interest you?”
She pulled her lips into a round rosette. “Not always. But it is not every day that you come to Goshen.”
Was he the “vizier’s son” even here? His good humor evaporated. “I am afraid you might be disappointed if you listened to us,” he said. “We will not be discussing topics to entertain a child. And if you want to meet the vizier’s son, go to Thebes. The better one is there.”
“I’m not a little girl. I’m fifteen.” Her dark eyes boldly met his. “You are as bad as Jokim, thinking of me as a girl. And what is the Egyptian vizier to me? Nothing. We are the children of Yisrael. Jokim says we are going back to Canaan, so I wanted to meet the man who will help us go.”
She lunged toward the doorway, but Menashe caught her arm. “Wait.” His mind bulged with questions. “You know about our plan? And you want to go back?”
“Jokim tells me everything.” Anger edged her voice as she jerked from his grasp. “And I know enough to keep quiet. Father does not want to talk about leaving Goshen, and neither does Grandfather. They are surveying land right now, deciding where they should build their houses and pen their animals. My mother is with them, her head spinning with dreams of the jewels she will buy and the garments she will make. They want to stay here, but I do not. I am ready to go back to Canaan.”
“But why? You are too young to have memories of the place.” Menashe marveled that so small a frame could contain so fierce a spirit. “How do you know you will like Canaan?”
A flush rose on her cheekbones. “How does the eagle know how to fly?” She lifted her chin and stood on tiptoe, bringing her lips to within inches of his ear. “He hears the voice of God Shaddai.”
Before Menashe could react, she whirled and raced through the tent opening. He started forward, intent on catching her, but Jokim blocked his path. He watched the girl go, and a wry grin split his face as he turned back to Menashe.
“I see you’ve met Atara.” He sighed in mock heaviness. “It was all I could do to keep her at home when I left for Thebes. She wants very much to be a part of all this.”
“She is your betrothed?” Menashe asked, staring after the girl’s willowy form as she threaded her way through a huddle of women around a cooking fire.
“By heaven, no, and I pity the man who marries her. She is my sister—my curious, mischievous little sister.” He clapped a hand on Menashe’s shoulder, and when he spoke again his voice was lower and more intense. “The others are waiting outside the camp, in a wadi a short distance away. We cannot meet here, too many of those who disapprove would notice. We are trying to keep peace with our fathers, so we do not speak openly of our plans.”
Shaking all thoughts of the girl from his mind, Menashe followed Jokim from the tent.
Nearly forty men had gathered in the dry streambed where Jokim led him. They sat on stones and various outcroppings of rock, and Menashe was pleased to see that most of them wore a look of determination. They were the new generation; most were his age or a few years older. These were the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Yaakov, and they were eager to find their places in the land God had promised to His people.
Jokim led Menashe through the waiting Hebrews, then gave a swift introduction. “Brothers and kinsmen, I am certain you remember Menashe, son of Yosef. When I went to Thebes I was certain God had sent me to bring Efrayim back to you, but God showed me this is the man to lead us. Listen to him, my brothers, as you once listened to his father and his father’s father. For I am convinced God would have us journey back to Canaan. Menashe heard the voice of God Shaddai. He is the man to take us home.”
Without further ceremony Jokim sank to a rock and looked to Menashe, his eyes alight. Menashe felt his mouth go dry as he looked at the crowd of bearded faces, remembering the last time he stood before his Hebrew relatives. On that morning he had proclaimed his dream and they had mocked him. But these few, at least, had carried his conviction with them.
He searched for words and found none, but God had promised to provide all he would need to obey. What I need now, God Shaddai, is the gift of persuasion.
“Kinsmen—” he spread his hands “—I stand before you dressed like an Egyptian because this is the land that gave me birth. But unless we leave this place, all men of Yisrael will look as I do within a few years. Our people will forget the promises of God, we will forget God himself. And the land that now binds us with goodness and generosity will bind us with chains and whips.”
One man lifted his fist in protest. “No!”
“Never!” echoed another voice.
“It could happen,” Menashe said, with a cautionary lift of his hand. “My father and my brother and I live according to the truth of God Shaddai. There are no idols in our house, but anything we serve more than God—whether it is a habit, an idol or a kingdom—will eventually enslave us. If our people begin to love and serve Egypt, they will be imprisoned. Hear me, for I speak God’s truth.”
“How could such a thing happen?” one young man shouted. He leaped to his feet and threw his hands up, fists balled. “The sons of Yisrael are not idol worshippers.”
Jokim moved to the empty space between Menashe and the young man. “This is Hezron, son of Perez, son of Yehuda.” Jokim turned to the audience and spread his arms in an expansive gesture. “We think we will never change, that we would never forget the god of our fathers,” he called, his jaw tightening. “But though we love God Shaddai and our fathers have taught us truth, we cannot be sure our children will not be affected by the evil in Egypt. Just yesterday I watched Efrayim, who was elected to stand with Yaakov’s own sons in the inheritance, bow before an idol. He committed the act in jest, but how do we know today’s jests will not be tomorrow’s practices?”
Menashe felt his cheeks burn for his brother’s sake, but a hushed silence fell over the group. Hezron sat down.
Jokim hitched his thumbs in the woven belt at his waist. “Menashe is true to us and our god, and he knows the Egyptians. He has sympathetic friends in high places. With his help we can gather horses, chariots, weapons—all we will need to retake our land.”
&nbs
p; “But look at us,” another voice called. A gangly youth with a blotchy face stood and lifted his thin arms. “There are scarcely forty of us, and there are thousands of Canaanites between Goshen and Hebron. Even if we had control of Pharaoh’s army—”
“We might have the army, or at least part of it,” Menashe interrupted. “The border police are mercenaries paid by Pharaoh to guard his borders. They will fight for any cause so long as they are compensated. They will join us if we guarantee them a part of the spoils.”
“But we are not warriors.” Another young man looked at Menashe with something fragile in his eyes. “I am Zimri, son of Zerah, son of Yehuda. I am a goat herder, but the goats stay close to the camp. I have never even fought a wild animal, so how am I to fight a Canaanite warrior?”
Menashe felt his heart swell. The youth had the mild eyes of a man who should grow old sitting quietly in his own house, but if God could use Yaakov, the trickster, He could use anyone willing.
“Zimri—” Menashe gentled his voice “—I will teach you all you need to know. My father’s captain taught me swordplay and charioteering. I can hurl a spear with deadly accuracy, and I can teach you to do the same. Have no fear, cousin. If God is on our side, who can stand against us?”
Menashe folded his arms across his chest. “We may not have to kill. If we are bold, we will march first on the small settlement of Gerar. Those men will flee rather than fight. But we will take the city, and the inhabitants of Gaza will hear of it. When we move northward, the men of Gaza will flee to Ashkelon, and the word of our force will grow. We will tell any who listens that we come in peace and want nothing more than to return to our homeland.”
Silence. They sat and stared at him, thinking.
“How many mercenaries might we enlist?” Hezron asked.
“One hundred, perhaps two hundred.” Menashe unfolded his arms. “And they are skilled in combat.”