by Angela Hunt
Another moment of silence passed, then Menashe nodded and swept his audience with a piercing glance. “I have secured a place, a house outside the quarry at Tura. No one will notice us there, and we will have the entire desert in which to train. The overseer of the quarry will provide all we need, for he wants to remain in my father’s good graces. As soon as we are settled, I will send word to the captain of the border guards. We should have his answer within a few days.”
“One more thing!”
Menashe lifted his head. Hezron stood again, an implacable expression on his face. “How can we know—” he turned to face the others “—that God Shaddai is on our side? That we are following His will?”
Forty pairs of questioning eyes shifted to Menashe, arousing his old fears and uncertainties. “Did God not tell our father Avraham that Canaan was the promised land?” Menashe asked, his voice calm, his gaze steady. “Did God not tell Yaakov to fear not to descend into Egypt, for He would preserve us and make us a great nation here?”
“Yes,” came the murmured reply from a dozen throats.
“Can you think of any reason why God would want us to stay here?”
The only answer was the moaning of the wind over the wadi.
“God has preserved us,” Menashe said. “He has made us a great nation. And now it is not a question of whether or not God wills for us to reenter Canaan, but whether or not we are willing to obey Him. Are we willing to be obedient? Are we willing to march into the land He has promised?”
“Yes!”
“I am!”
“I am ready!”
“Hear him!” Jokim shot his fist into the air. “Now, kinsmen, go home to your families and take your leave. Bid your fathers and mothers goodbye, kiss your sisters farewell. But tell no man where we are going or what we are doing. The old ones disapprove, the women will weep and wail. But we will not be deterred.”
As one, the group lifted their voices in a determined roar.
Menashe smiled as the hired warrior fell to the dirt, a trickle of blood streaking across his cheek. Hezron managed the battle-ax very well, especially when Menashe considered that the Hebrew had only been introduced to the weapon two weeks before.
“Very good.” Menashe thrust his hands behind his back as he nodded. The burly shepherd extended his hand to help the warrior, one of the border mercenaries, to his feet. “You have caught the idea.”
“You should not be surprised,” Hezron answered, chuckling. “A battle-ax is nothing but a shepherd’s staff with a blade attached. In the wilderness my brothers and I have battled far worse than this Nubian. Once a bear attacked me when I had nothing but a staff to defend myself. Another time Hamul used the sharpened point of his staff to kill a pair of Philistines who came on him in the night.”
Menashe bit down hard on his lower lip, determined not to defend himself in front of these men. He had never intended to imply that they were less skilled than he, but animosity had flared toward him several times. Peace was not easily kept among men who purposely worked themselves into the frenzy of combat, and not all the Hebrews were ready to accept a leader who was so…Egyptian.
He turned and walked to the circle where Zimri and Shallum were involved in a wrestling match. Several of the others had gathered to watch, and Menashe found Jokim in the group. Someone had drawn a lopsided circle into the sand, and within it Zimri and Shallum hunched like prowling bears, each intent on the eyes of the other.
Menashe watched the circling men, then gave Jokim a nudge in the ribs. “I see new faces here.” He frowned as he searched the gathering. “Who are these strangers?”
Distracted, Jokim tore his gaze from the wrestlers and looked around, then gave Menashe a one-sided smile. “They are quarry slaves. The overseer gave them permission to train with us.”
Menashe’s mind flooded with objections. “But what if Pharaoh learns of this? Or my father? We don’t need these men.”
“We need every pair of hands willing to join us.” Jokim looked back at Menashe with a level gaze. “And if God chooses to help us by the hands of these Egyptians, who are we to say He should not?”
“We don’t need the Egyptians!”
“We needed mercenaries.”
“They are different. When the fight is done, they will return to their posts.”
Jokim shrugged. “When the fight is done, these men will return to the quarry. They are slaves. They have no choice. But the overseer thinks he will please your father by having them help us, so he volunteered their labor. He has no great need of them. Pharaoh has not called for blocks of limestone in months. The overseer said these days Pharaoh favors black granite from a place called Ibhet.”
Alarm rippled along Menashe’s spine. Once again, a younger kinsman had stepped into his rightful place and usurped it without even thinking. Without considering the price that might have to be paid.
“What will happen when one of these slaves slips away?” Menashe asked, his voice tight. “When he takes a boat—or steals one—and goes up the Nile to tell everyone he meets about our work here? What will happen when my father finds out? I am still the vizier’s son and my father still has the power to—”
“To do what?” Jokim asked, his eyes bemused and opaque. “To punish you? You are a grown man. Your father can offer you nothing but his blessing.” He turned back to the wrestling match.
Menashe looked away, not trusting himself to answer. A tumult raged as despair, anger, denial and aggression warred in his spirit. Jokim could speak so lightly of a father’s blessing only because he was certain to receive one. He did not know the searing pain of being passed over, while Menashe felt a rock fall through his heart every time he thought of Yisrael and Efrayim…
“I am not unaware, Menashe, of what you are feeling,” Jokim went on, watching the wrestlers. “But I am not the firstborn. I do not expect that blessing and will not be disappointed when I do not receive it.”
“You cannot know,” Menashe answered, the words tasting like gall, “what I am feeling.”
“Perhaps not.” Jokim turned to face him. “But I am not your adversary, nor am I trying to take your place. I must answer to my own conscience, and to what I know as truth. The truth is we need every man who will join us. I am grateful for any man, Egyptian or Hebrew, who will risk his life to help our cause.”
“Still, if I am to lead, I should be consulted.”
Jokim turned his gaze back to the contest. “I had planned to speak with you tonight, when we could talk in private.”
Menashe crossed his arms. Jokim was right. The decision to accept the slaves was logical, sensible and smart. And if Menashe had not been so intent on believing only he could make decisions, he would have seen the merit in his cousin’s reasoning.
He clapped Jokim’s shoulder. “I’ll be in the house if anyone needs me,” he said, preparing to leave the circle of cheering men. “But perhaps it is good no one does.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Captain Tarik!” A chubby little slave boy, clothed in a smudged and wrinkled kilt, lifted the tapestry over the doorway of the captain’s small house. “The vizier calls for you!”
Tarik threw an apologetic glance at his wife, then rose from his chair and tied his sword belt over his kilt.
“Is there trouble, do you think?” Halima asked, a frown settling across her pretty features. “Zaphenath-paneah does not often call for you so late.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary, I’m sure.” Tarik’s mouth curved as he looked back at his wife. “Keep the roasted pigeon over the fire. I’ll be back before you go to sleep.”
He pulled his spear from the wall, then walked through pools of torchlight up the wide marble steps of the portico, through the vestibule, and into the vizier’s grand reception chamber. Zaphenath-paneah sat in his gilded chair, still every inch an official, still intent on his work though the sun had set hours before.
Before him, in widely spaced seats, sat Efrayim and a heavily bearded man Tarik r
ecognized as one of his master’s elder brothers. He struggled to recall the man’s name.
“Tarik, you remember my brother Yehuda.”
Tarik bowed. “Life, prosperity and health to you, my friend!”
“Yehuda has come to Thebes to inquire about his grandson,” Zaphenath-paneah went on, a watchful fixity in his face as his eyes searched Tarik’s. “Jokim is his name, as I’m sure you’ll remember. He came to visit Menashe and Efrayim several weeks ago.”
Tarik nodded. Jokim had visited exactly fifteen days before, but Zaphenath-paneah was not always well-informed about the goings and comings in his household. Tarik thought it best not to correct him.
“We have passed a pleasant evening in conversation, but a few moments ago Yehuda asked to see Jokim.” When the vizier paused, a quick and disturbing thought struck Tarik. By Seth’s diseased toenail, did Yehuda think Jokim was here?
Zaphenath-paneah must have read the thought in Tarik’s eyes. “Yes, captain, my brother has been led to believe that Jokim is visiting Menashe and Efrayim. And until this moment I believed Menashe was in Goshen.”
Tarik lowered his gaze, dreading his master’s next question. He had never lied to his master. He would die for Zaphenath-paneah or his sons, and that love had driven him to help Menashe—
“Where are they, captain?”
Tarik lifted his gaze. From the corner of his eye he saw Efrayim press his hand over his mouth, probably hiding a smile.
The day of reckoning could not be postponed forever. He lifted his head. “I believe, master, that Menashe and Jokim are at Tura.”
Efrayim dropped his hand, his smirk wiped away by astonishment. “What are they doing at the quarry?”
Tarik took a deep breath; this would not be easy. He had promised to keep a secret for Menashe, but he had sworn loyalty to his master. “It is my belief,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “that he is…training.”
“For what?” This from the old man, Yehuda.
Tarik wished he had been away at the stables when the vizier’s summons came. “For possible battle, sir. In Canaan.”
He could say no more, but he’d said enough. Zaphenath-paneah and Yehuda looked at each other and Tarik knew they understood. Even he, an Egyptian, had felt the power of Menashe’s burning conviction that the Hebrews should return to the land of their fathers. Menashe had insisted his summons came directly from God Shaddai, and though Tarik could not imagine life away from Zaphenath-paneah or Thebes, he would have gone to the Underworld and back if his master commanded it. Menashe could do no less.
“This is ridiculous.” The old man’s bony hand knocked against the arm of the chair in some sort of frantic palsy. “They are nothing but youths—”
“They are men, sir,” Tarik interrupted, knowing he could be punished for the insolence of speaking without first being addressed. “Do not fault him for the crime of being a young man. My master’s son is mature and responsible. Menashe possesses courage and grace in full measure. Time will only weaken his strength.”
Yehuda scowled. “Time would improve his character,” he snapped. “And his wisdom!”
Tarik looked away. In the other chair, Efrayim wore an expression of stunned surprise. “Jokim is my age, uncle,” he whispered. “He is a man full grown.”
“No man has the right to engage in war on a whim.” Zaphenath-paneah’s tense, clipped voice forbade any further discussion. “War is for kings and princes, not unrealistic young men. They must be brought home. Whoever is with them must return to their people.”
Zaphenath-paneah brought his hands together in an explosive clap and two slaves appeared in the doorway as if they had materialized from out of the wall. “Fetch my scribe, and a runner,” the vizier commanded. “I will write a letter that must be carried downriver tonight.” His eyes flashed toward his captain of the guard. “Tarik, summon the boatman. The letter must be safely delivered to Menashe, and when the boat returns, Menashe must be on it. Take two of your best guards to make it so.”
Cold dignity created a stony mask of Zaphenath-paneah’s face; never had his eyes seemed so hard. “Captain, can I trust you to see that my orders are followed?”
“Yes, my lord.” Tarik’s voice, like his nerves, was in tatters.
Down at the docks, Tarik paused before dismissing the boatman. Yehuda had already spread out his cloak to sleep beneath the canopy, and the usual contingent of rowers and seamen lined the railing. There was no need for additional men, even though Zaphenath-paneah had expressly commanded that a pair of guards be dispatched to bring his son home.
Tarik’s promise to obey weighed on him. Could the vizier truly know so little about his son? A pair of guards on the felucca’s deck would arouse Menashe’s suspicions. He would see their weapons and refuse to show himself; he would be hurt, angered and driven to disobey his father’s summons.
“Is that all, Captain Tarik?” the boatman asked, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “We’ll be off unless there’s anyone else—”
“There is no one else.” Tarik looked the man squarely in the eye. “Just your seamen, the messenger and the Hebrew.”
The boatman ducked and moved out to the gangplank, his bare feet sliding over the weathered wood without a sound.
A wizened seaman pulled the gangplank into the boat, and Tarik caught his breath, the knowledge that he had disobeyed his master twisting and turning like a whirlwind inside him.
Menashe stepped out onto the villa’s wide portico and lifted his arms to stretch. The rising sun swallowed up the wind that had howled around the villa all night. The house had begun to look like a barracks, for men slept everywhere they could find room to lie down. The slaves from the quarries deemed it an honor to sleep in the vizier’s house, while the Hebrews dreamed of the green hills and lush groves of the Jordan River valley.
Menashe had dreamed of Jendayi. Despite her attraction to Efrayim, his heart still yearned for her. Perhaps, once he had proven himself a warrior, she might come to love him. But whether she did or not, he was determined to keep his promise and win her freedom. As soon as they had cleared the way back to Canaan, he would return to Egypt, make things right with his father and enter Pharaoh’s palace. Before the gilded throne and the gleaming Wadjet eye on Pharaoh’s headdress, he would offer sheep, oxen, everything he had gathered in the spoils of war. But he suspected Amenhotep would be more swayed by the proffering of praise than possessions.
Menashe wasn’t sure when the truth had come to him, but one afternoon as he sifted through his thoughts he had been struck by the realization that he and Pharaoh shared a father figure, Zaphenath-paneah. To both Menashe and Amenhotep Yosef was a daunting example, but did Pharaoh feel smothered to the same degree Menashe felt alienated? The common people joked that Pharaoh had built Malkata in an attempt to live with his harem apart from Queen Tiy, but perhaps he had built it to put distance between himself and his vizier. Though Zaphenath-paneah still spent a few hours each morning in ceremonial attendance on the king, he spent most of his day in Thebes.
Doing Pharaoh’s work. Receiving Pharaoh’s praise. And the people’s. Everyone adored Zaphenath-paneah except the priests of Amon-Re—
No wonder Amenhotep had never converted to the worship of God Shaddai. In his theology, at least, Amenhotep could stand apart from the clouding shadow of Zaphenath-paneah’s influence.
Alone with his thoughts, Menashe had come to understand the frightened god-king on the throne. Amenhotep was as easily intimidated as any man and he found it easier to withdraw to Malkata than to see his glory dimmed in the presence of one who shone brighter.
So when the battle for Canaan was done, Menashe would approach Pharaoh, massage the royal ego with sincere praise and offer whatever Pharaoh required in exchange for Jendayi’s freedom.
As dawn draped misty veils over the little village where the quarry slaves and overseer lived, Menashe squinted toward the stocky brick structures. Already one of the slaves stirred along the small
path winding among the huts—probably an ardent worshipper of Amon-Re, out to catch a glimpse of the god as he began his ride across the sky. Either that, Menashe thought with a wry grin, or the man was up early to answer nature’s call.
Menashe yawned, stretched again, and was about to turn back into the house when another movement caught his eye. Far in the distance, near the western riverfront, the small triangular tip of a sail peeked from behind an outcropping of rock. Visitors, but from where? Who would risk the dangers of traveling on the river at night?
A wave of apprehension swept through him as he darted toward the rocky wall that bordered the path and partially hid the vizier’s house. Reaching for foot-and handholds he had known since his childhood, he lifted himself up and over the edge of the sheer wall. Lying flat on the rock’s broad back, he shimmied forward, pushing himself with his toes until his eyes peered over the rim of stone.
For an instant his heart expanded in relief. The felucca was his father’s, for the vizier’s crimson and white standard flapped from the single mast. So either Tarik had sent word of some emergency or his father knew—everything.
His stomach heaved. Without a doubt his father knew; Zaphenath-paneah realized everything eventually. Menashe should have known the confrontation could not be forestalled; a showdown was inevitable. But he would not be reprimanded in front of his men.
Sliding backward off the rock, he slid down the cliff as quickly as he dared, then hurried toward the river, determined to intercept his father’s emissaries before they reached the house.
An hour later, Menashe sat alone on a mounded levee at the river’s edge, a papyrus scroll in his hand. The messenger had been happy to leave the scroll with Menashe and depart for Goshen, but before the felucca moved on Menashe caught sight of Yehuda’s set face, clamped mouth and flashing eyes beneath the canopy of the boat. Jokim would be glad he had not followed Menashe down the river path.
Now Menashe’s eyes focused on the western horizon while his heart struggled with the knowledge that this time his father could not be obeyed and must not be trusted. God had spoken, and Yosef had not been willing to listen, nor had Yehuda. What was it about old men that deafened their ears to the voice of God?