by Angela Hunt
“Who was it, Menashe?”
Jokim’s voice startled him, but he did not turn around. Judging from the sound of their footfalls, more than one man stood behind him.
“The boat brought a message from my father.” Menashe rested his elbows on top of his knees, wearily considering the river before him. “We have been discovered. And our fathers—mine and yours, Jokim—demand that we return to our homes. It is not the right time to indulge in battle, my father says, and only Pharaoh can declare an invasion. So when the felucca returns from Goshen, I am to board her and join my father in Thebes.”
Jokim sank onto the levee beside Menashe while Zimri sat beside Jokim like a well-trained puppy. “Since the felucca is only going back to Thebes, apparently your father doesn’t expect me to board her,” Jokim said. “So I will stay, as will the others. Our fathers are not the vizier.”
“You know what the elders will say.” Menashe turned to Jokim with a critical squint. “They will say you are living in rebellion. And no good son rebels against his father.”
“Unless a father rebels against God,” Jokim answered. “In that case, we ought to obey God first. I will not disrespect my father. I will not argue with him, insult him or dishonor him. But I believe God has called us out, Menashe. I will not abandon the cause, no matter who summons me.”
Menashe flinched at the subtle accusation in Jokim’s voice.
“You do what you must do,” Jokim finished, staring out at the river. “But now that your father knows our location and intent, it is too dangerous for us to remain here. We will move our camp into the wilderness, and we will relocate every night in order to escape detection. If you come back—”
“When I come back,” Menashe interrupted. “I will go home, make peace with my father and do my part to keep things quiet. And then I will return. I would be a worthless warrior if I put my hand to the sword and proved unwilling to finish the battle.”
Jokim smiled. “When you come back, stop at the quarry and ask the overseer where we have gone. We will leave word with him so you will be able to find us.”
Menashe inclined his head, not looking at his kinsman, and after a moment Jokim and Zimri stood and walked away, their footsteps puffing over the sand as they climbed the trail to the marble mansion. Menashe closed his eyes to the sight of the shining river, hating it with every fiber of his being. Lying there, green and shining, it reminded him of a jungle python, sometimes thin and lazy, other times engorged and restless, but always moving, always pulling, always alive. You couldn’t kill it or escape from it. It hypnotized; it drew people from the mountains and wilderness until they lived in a thin margin along its banks. And, like the others who had come from the forests and the deserts and the stony mountains, his father and Avraham’s people had come from the holy promised land to live alongside the glowing water. The river had saved them according to God’s plan, but now, still hypnotized by its beauty, they were loath to leave it.
He rose and crumpled the papyrus scroll in his hand. With all his might he flung it toward the controlling and treacherous Nile, then turned and stalked up the trail to fetch his cloak.
If he did not obey his father’s order, Zaphenath-paneah would send others to search for him. So he would depart with the felucca; he owed that much to the men who had toiled with him under the blazing sun. He would meet the boat at the river, away from his warriors, so as not to reveal their faces or their number. He would reenter his father’s house and pretend to be a properly obedient and chastised son.
But he would return to the fight as soon as possible.
The oarsmen rowed to the steady beat of the drum throughout the night. As the felucca raced over the crushed diamond water, Menashe leaned against the railing and crossed his arms, grateful that his father hadn’t sent an armed guard to escort him home. That would have been the ultimate insult, a statement that the vizier’s elder son could be trusted no more than a slave or condemned criminal. Menashe mentally thanked his father for the gesture of confidence even though he planned to abuse it.
The sun had begun to adorn the housetops with the first gray-pink tatters of dawn as the boat neared Thebes. Menashe gave a nod of thanks to the boatman who lowered the gangplank, then he stepped down the ramp and darted toward a huddle of fishermen who were gathering their nets.
Carefully, he scanned the crowd at the docks. Menashe thought his father would send a messenger to the river, a friend, perhaps, to escort Menashe home and sound out his feelings about this ignominious return. He concealed himself among the fishermen, stooping slightly to disguise his height, until he spied a familiar face hurrying toward the waterfront.
Ani. Of course. His father had sent the villa’s resident wise man, the beloved tutor to whom Menashe had taken his questions about the earth, the sky, his body, his brain, even his heart. Yosef had been wise to send Ani, for Menashe might have shared his plans with him, but Ani’s aging eyes would fail him this morning. As the old steward peered across the crowds of fishermen who prepared to set out on the river, Menashe slunk away and moved northward through the crowd.
He would face Yosef, but not now. His eyes burned from sleeplessness, and the malaise in him would choke off any words he might want to say. He needed rest. He wanted the company of a friend.
He spied an abandoned papyrus skiff near the reedy bank, one of the ubiquitous rafts children often used to slide from one shore to the other. Without a sound, Menashe stepped onto the skiff and sent it winging westward across the river. With any luck, the encroaching fishing ships would surround him within a few moments, and in the river traffic he could move unnoticed toward Malkata.
If he needed help, Tarik had promised, a giant called Abnu might be willing to give it.
But another, more pressing reason lay behind his urge to visit the king’s palace. Jendayi waited there, and nearly two months had passed since he had last seen her sweet face.
Amenhotep built his palace on a shore previously reserved for the dead. Malkata lay just north of Thebes on the Nile’s western bank. Menashe knew it might be difficult to enter the harbor without arousing suspicion, but in the past few days he had been surprised at how many things were possible if one had the temerity to attempt them.
When the towering granite pillars of Malkata rose from the emerald ribbon of foliage bordering the riverfront, Menashe left the bustling, noisy river and floated into the harbor, crouching low on the skiff and paddling through the water with his hands. High reeds edged the king’s harbor, and he remained in the rushes until he passed the royal docks without raising an alarm. Moving slowly so he wouldn’t attract attention, he pawed through the reeds until he caught a glimpse of green water behind them—the secret canal. His father had mentioned it when they last visited Malkata, but Menashe had been too engrossed in his dreams of Jendayi to look for the hidden entrance.
Pointing the nose of the skiff into the reeds, he threaded the boat through the thick growth, using the willowy stems to pull his way through the camouflaged opening. Finally the tiny boat broke free and slid into the waterway beyond.
For a moment Menashe wondered if he had entered a different world. A pink granite wall rose at his left hand, tall and forbidding. The muddy banks had been cleared of reeds and plant growth so any approaching enemy would be exposed. The wall of reeds muffled the raucous sounds of the Nile’s sailors and fishermen. Menashe heard only the steady slush and suck of the water beneath his small boat, and from somewhere behind the wall, a broom hissing over wet tiles. At his right, shimmering mirages made the western cliffs dance in the distance. The air vibrated with the wings of swifts that flew low to catch insects hovering between the shifting line of sun and shade.
He crouched, his hands dripping on the reed boat, as the muddy banks slid by. Finally he spied a gate in the granite wall. Two guards stood there, their backs to him, and Menashe ducked and lowered his hands into the water, turning the skiff into the bank. He beached the vessel out of the guards’ sight, then paused to w
et the edge of his cloak and wipe the previous day’s accumulated grime from his hands and face. He moved cautiously, for danger lurked beneath the blinding dazzle of the sun’s path on the quiet canal.
But crocodiles and vipers were the least of his worries now. Throughout the night he had considered ways he might slip into the palace, knowing that no one entered Malkata without an invitation. Unless he could convince the gate guards that someone inside the fortress had summoned him, he would pay dearly for this adventure. He had enough confidence in his physical training to think he might overpower these two warriors, but a noisy disturbance would force a general alarm. He considered sneaking in through the servants’ quarters and skulking around like a drudge, but a lifetime on the fringes of the royal circle had taught him that a man could rise to success in Pharaoh’s court only as long as he did not show his insecurity.
He would walk into the palace as if he were an invited guest. If apprehended, he could always throw himself on the mercy of Pharaoh, Queen Tiy or even his father the vizier.
Menashe tugged on the kilt he wore and ran his wet fingers through his close-cropped hair. If he had known he would find himself at Malkata, he would have brought his wig and a blade to shave his straggly beard. In this unconventional guise he would stand out more than most men, but he had no other choice. He had come too far to turn back.
Lifting his chin, he strode up the bank. The guards were Nubians, two of the famed Medjay warriors. He did not recognize them, but thought it safe to assume that at one time or another they had manned the guard post at the front gate. They certainly would know his father, and perhaps they had even seen Menashe enter with the renowned Zaphenath-paneah.
The warriors stood at the gate, laughing at some private joke, and Menashe positioned himself before them, spreading his legs in a bold stance and resting his hands on his hips.
He cleared his throat. The men looked up, and the taller blinked in consternation.
“Life and peace to you, my friends.” Menashe thrust his hands behind his back. “By the life of Pharaoh, I pray you are well.” He nodded at the larger man, who looked every inch an African warrior: tough, lean and sinewy. “Is that a new collar you are wearing, captain? I do not recall seeing it when my father the vizier and I dined here several weeks ago.”
The guard’s gaze traveled up and down Menashe, taking in the fine linen kilt, the soft sandals, the gold wristbands…and the beard. He transferred his inscrutable gaze to his companion.
“I know I look disheveled—” Menashe exchanged a smile with the second man “—but I have been training in the desert.” He glanced pointedly at an angry-looking slash across his chest and shrugged. “This little scratch must seem like nothing to a pair of Medjay warriors. Tarik, the captain of my father’s guard, has often told me of your bravery in battle. He says there are none in the world as skilled as the Medjays.”
The big guard lifted his chin and stiffened his massive weight. “Life and peace to you, son of the noble vizier.” He inclined his dark head in a deep bow. “We did not know you were expected.”
Menashe held up a disarming hand. “I am not here to disturb Pharaoh, but to speak with a warrior. The captain of my father’s guard recommended that I find the man known as Abnu.”
At the mention of the giant’s name, the smaller guard cast a quick, apprehensive glance toward his companion.
“I know Abnu.” The taller guard lowered his voice. “I have sparred with him. Only the grace of Pharaoh saved my miserable hide. The giant would have run me through with a pike had the king not spoken.” He said this proudly, as if there were substantial merit in living to tell about a bout with the giant.
“Pharaoh must think highly of you,” Menashe murmured.
The guard shrugged. “You will find Abnu in the warriors’ barracks, unless he is sparring in the courtyard. When you find him, tell him Nebu sends his greetings.”
Menashe gave the man an apologetic smile. “Where are these barracks? I have only visited the gardens and the royal house.”
The guard stooped to etch a drawing in the sand. “Here is Pharaoh’s palace,” he said, completing a rectangle with his index finger, “and here are the chambers of the queen, prince and princesses. Behind them is the royal harem. And behind the harem, in a building of whitewashed brick, are the quarters for Pharaoh’s warriors.”
Menashe studied the drawing, imprinting it on his mind. “Behind the harem?”
“Pharaoh wanted his guards kept between his treasures and his slaves.” The second guard’s dark face split into a broad grin. “The servants are housed behind the warriors.”
Menashe felt his heart skip a beat. God be praised! Jendayi would surely be found in the servants’ quarters. If all went well he would speak to both Jendayi and Abnu today.
“Many thanks, my friends.” He stood and walked between their sharpened spears as if he were taking an afternoon stroll. “And I will not forget to give your regards to the giant.”
Chapter Eighteen
A wide courtyard separated the main wall of the palace complex from the smaller residences within it, and Menashe hurried over the sand until he had passed the magnificent pavilions that housed the royal family. The shadows of the morning had shortened, fleeing from the spaces between the more humble buildings and the glorious villas, and Menashe realized the day was already half-spent.
The warrior had given him accurate directions. Three rectangular brick structures stood between the royal residences and the vast complex of Pharaoh’s celebrated stables. The building closest to the palace was dedicated to Pharaoh’s harem, the next to his warriors, and the final one to his slaves and servants. As much as his heart longed to explore the servants’ chambers, Menashe knew he should find Abnu first. The men who waited for him in the desert would need reassurance when he returned, and a Medjay warrior would cheer their hearts. And if he spoke to the warrior soon, he might have the rest of the day to spend with Jendayi.
Two guards sat just inside the doorway to the middle building, a game of Hounds and Jackals spread on a tray between them. They looked up as Menashe entered the room, then returned their eyes to the board, each man intent on the game. Menashe sighed in relief when they paid him no attention.
“Prosperity and peace to you,” he remarked to one of the players as his eyes swept through the room. The interior of the hall was cut down the center by a single aisle; at least fifty low wooden beds were lined up against the walls in straight rows. Above the beds, a profusion of spears, shields, swords, bows and daggers hung from pegs. Sleeping men occupied several beds at the back of the room, probably the guards of the midnight watch, and at least a dozen warriors clustered in small conversational groups toward the front, their hands employed with awls and leather strips as they mended the tough leather of their shields.
Menashe crinkled his nose. The air smelled as if it had been breathed too many times, and someone had definitely neglected the chamber pots. The hall was drab and ordinary, not at all befitting Pharaoh’s celebrated Medjay warriors.
“What do you want?” one of the gamers asked, not lifting his gaze from the board.
“I am looking for Abnu.” Menashe searched among the Nubians for one who might be considered a giant. “Tarik, who serves Zaphenath-paneah, recommended that I find him.”
The hall fell silent, as if every ear had decided to eavesdrop, then one of the groups near the doorway broke apart. A man who had been seated on the floor unfolded his tree-trunk legs and came toward Menashe, a stalking, purposeful intent in his walk. The shining skin atop his shaved head nearly brushed the nine-foot ceiling and his muscled, built-for-action body moved with an air of authority. His face bore the expression of a man who demanded instant obedience.
Menashe was almost sorry he’d come. He wanted a man to serve in his army, not command it.
“Who seeks Abnu?” The man’s rumbling voice shattered the silence.
Menashe floundered before the brilliance of the man’s gaze. Wit
h difficulty he coughed out an answer. “Menashe, elder son of Zaphenath-paneah.”
The warrior frowned and placed his hands on his slim hips. “Why do you seek me? I have nothing to do with the king’s vizier.”
Menashe took a hasty half-step back. “I came to bring you greetings from Tarik, captain of the vizier’s guard—”
“Tarik!” As swiftly as a chameleon changing colors, the man’s face broke into a lazy smile. “That old son of Nut! How is he faring?”
“He is well,” Menashe answered, blinking. “He and his wife are happy.”
The giant scratched a faint growth of hair on his chin, then pinned Menashe with a long, silent scrutiny. “Tarik was your teacher?”
Menashe gave him an abashed smile and cleared his throat. “Years ago, he taught my brother and I how to fight. We learned to wrestle and to throw a spear…and to manage a bow and sword, of course.”
The giant smiled again, but his expression held only a ghost of its former warmth. “Did Tarik teach you well?”
“Very well. He is an excellent teacher.”
Without warning, the giant turned and yanked a copper sword from the wall. He hefted the sword in his broad palm as if weighing it, then he tossed it toward Menashe. Too late, Menashe thrust his hands into empty air. The blade clanged on the tile floor at his feet.
“I hope you are more skilled than you are alert.” Abnu pulled a heavier sword of iron from a peg. He wound his thick fingers around the grip, then shot Menashe an impenitent grin. “We will see just how good a teacher my friend Tarik is. If he did not teach you well, I shall visit the vizier’s house and scold him thoroughly. After, of course, I convey my condolences about your demise.”