by Angela Hunt
Menashe’s heart leaped to his throat as he bent to pick up the copper blade. “Tarik taught me ably. But I am not a warrior by trade. My skills are certainly not as finely honed as yours.” His stomach churned and tightened as he faced the man, the sword dangling at his side. “I have no wish to fight you.”
“No wish to fight?” In three steps the giant moved close enough for Menashe to appreciate the muscles rippling beneath the skin of his abdomen. “Listen to me well, son of the vizier, for I shall not repeat myself. You have, I fear, already made the crucial mistake of believing that strong men are stupid. If I were not in a generous mood that mistake would have already cost you your life. But because I am not stupid, I know this—if Tarik sent you to see me, he wants me to help you, and that can only mean you are somehow involved in a fight. Whether you want me to battle one man or twenty remains to be seen, but if a man expects me to pick up a sword on his behalf, he had better be ready to pick up one on mine. If you have no heart to fight, you are doomed already.”
Menashe swallowed hard and squared his shoulders. Though panic rioted within him, he could not help feeling exhilarated by the ferocity of the giant’s passion. What a force he would be against the Canaanites! His size would intimidate any who came against them, and with God’s power behind his weapon, the land would be quickly be restored to Yaakov’s sons.
Menashe lifted his eyes to the giant’s rigid face. “If I go a round with you—” he swiveled his blade until it pointed upward toward the warrior’s jugular “—will you consider my request?”
Abnu’s eyes flicked at the sword, then glared back at Menashe. “I will listen to you,” he answered, a slight trace of cynical humor in his tone, “if you draw first blood. But if at any time you retreat or flinch, I will kill you, for a coward is a shame to his teacher.”
“I am not a coward.” Menashe kept his gaze locked with the giant’s. “And I will prove it.”
As if a signal had been given, the loitering warriors stood from their places, eager to watch what would surely be more entertaining than a game of Hounds and Jackals.
“You must fight outside,” one of the men called. “And be quick about it! The captain does not tolerate disorder within our company.”
“Don’t worry,” Abnu snarled, his rapier glance passing over Menashe again. “This will not take long.”
Afraid to take his eyes off his adversary, Menashe turned and allowed the giant to pass by him. Outside, the sun had vanished behind a cloud bank that left the courtyard in shade. As he advanced, he wrapped his hand around the sword. The ill-fitting copper sword in his grip felt slippery and alien.
A dozen impatient hands shoved Menashe toward the empty space where Abnu shifted from foot to foot, his long arms hanging empty below his belt, the iron sword wavering in the sand a few feet in front of him. Menashe thrust his blade into the sand, too, then stepped back as the circle around them thickened.
Even over the uncontrolled sounds of the zealous crowd he could hear his heart battering against his ears. Never in his most far-fetched imaginings had he anticipated that he would have to fight in order to win an audience with this man. He was accustomed to people who obeyed his wishes, bowed before his name (or at least his father’s title), and laughed at his humor, no matter how dry the joke. He had expected help, even affection, from an old friend of Tarik’s.
But lately all his expectations had vanished like pebbles dropped into the Nile.
Through the roaring din, he breathed a prayer. “God Shaddai, help your servant now!”
Then, as the challenger seized his sword and lunged with an earsplitting cry, Menashe dove for his blade and rushed toward destruction.
Jendayi paused on her walk back from the palace kitchens. Warriors’ cries echoed from the courtyard, battering her delicate senses with animal coarseness. She took a deep breath and plunged toward the safety of the wall that would lead her to her own quarters, far away from the rowdy warriors.
Pharaoh’s men were at it again. She hated the soldiers’ roughhousing; their grunts and cries and curses often echoed long into the night. But this fight seemed different, for a tremulous ring of clashing metals punctuated the crowd’s cries in a recurring, steady beat. This was neither a wrestling match nor a drunken brawl. This sounded like a duel.
Her fingers found the wall that would lead her home, but she halted beside it, paralyzed by her aversion to violence. She heard a deep growl, a hoarse taunt and a gasp from the crowd. A deep thud vibrated beneath her feet, as though a heavy object had fallen.
Her blood rose in a jet when a familiar voice touched her ear. “Lie still, giant, and let me mark your cheek with my sword,” a man demanded, his words punctuated by deep gasps. “You will grant me what you have promised.”
Jendayi’s mind swirled in a crazy mixture of hope and fear. That was Chenzira’s voice. But why would he be fighting in Pharaoh’s courtyard? Unless he had begun a brawl while his master met with the king—
Her breath caught in her throat. Was Efrayim visiting the palace?
She whirled toward the gathering and lifted her sightless eyes toward whatever confrontation had taken place. The crowd moaned in sympathy for the displaced champion, and several observers muttered soft curses as bracelets and armbands clinked and changed hands. Jendayi stepped forward, hoping to find someone who could tell her about Efrayim.
“All right, you slippery fish,” a deep voice growled from the midst of the commotion. “I am yours to command…for a time.”
“But you serve Pharaoh.”
Jendayi felt a thrill of hope run through her as she confirmed Chenzira’s voice. Her ears had not deceived her.
“I am a free man. I can serve whatever master I please,” the defeated man answered, the depth of his voice lifting the hair at the back of Jendayi’s neck. “And by trickery you have hired me. Where and when shall I report?”
“Meet me two days from today, at sunset, outside the vizier’s villa. Do not approach the gate and do not announce your presence.” A short silence was followed by the sound of two hands slapping in agreement. “And I will thank Tarik for teaching me that escape move. Only with his help could I have outrun your blade.”
“Tarik is a better teacher than I knew.” A smile echoed in the older man’s voice. “Give him my regards, and tell him I will see him soon.”
Jendayi put out a hand to make certain no one blocked her way, then edged closer to Chenzira. She was about to call a greeting, but he saw her first. “Jendayi!”
She couldn’t stop a smile. “I recognized your voice and could not believe I heard correctly. What are you doing in the midst of a fight? And why are you here at all?”
“I—” He paused as his fingers grasped hers. “Let us go someplace where we can talk.”
“I know a place.” She kept a tight grip on his hand as she turned. “Stay close behind me.”
“I would not lose you for the world.”
She led him to a private garden, hidden from the rest of Pharaoh’s palace by high walls. From the confident way her sandals moved over the path Menashe suspected she came here often. She did not hesitate, but moved with catlike grace, not in the least impeded by her blindness. His heart swelled with compassion as he followed. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself in her situation, but his feet immediately grew heavy and unsure of themselves.
“What has happened to you?” she asked, a mischievous note in her voice as she chided him for lagging behind. “Hurry, I want to show you a special place. But you must tell no one of it—except perhaps Efrayim.”
“I will tell no one,” he answered, opening his eyes. Golden sunbeams laced the branches of the flowering acacia trees; the foliage around them hummed with insect life. The pebbled path pointed a curving finger through beds of massed flowers, but Jendayi plunged off the trail and moved through the plants toward the garden wall.
“No, Jendayi.” Menashe resisted the pull of her fingers. “You have left the path. This is not the ri
ght way.”
“That all depends,” Jendayi answered, tossing a smile over her shoulder, “on where you want to go.” She stopped in a small clearing near the wall and released his hand. “Look around, will you? It is somewhere near.”
She pressed forward, insinuating her way through the lush greenery growing against the wall, then she crouched and ducked behind a stand of flowering trees. He lost sight of her, then heard her urgent whisper. “Here! Come closer, Chenzira!”
Plunging through the plants, he reached the wall and found her kneeling before a door not more than three feet tall. “It is the door of escape,” she said, her eyes squinting with amusement. “Akil showed it to me soon after we came here. If ever the palace comes under attack, we are to slip down to the canal through this little gate.”
A brass ring had been set into the door; her fingers found it and tugged the door open. Without signaling her intent, she slipped through the rectangular opening and disappeared. Menashe crouched in front of the doorway, then crawled after her on his hands and knees. He scrambled through the thickness of the wall, then climbed out onto a rocky bank. The canal flowed twenty feet away, gleaming like copper as the bloodred sun streamed across the waters.
Jendayi was sitting on a stone, her face to the sun, her elbows tucked at her sides in a childlike posture of wonder. “Is it as lovely here as I imagine it to be? I know the sun is there—” she lifted her hand toward the blazing orb “—and the canal is before me. I come here nearly every night, for it is quiet and peaceful. And though odd wind-borne sounds sometimes reach my ear, I feel I am quite alone. Except now, of course.”
“Why do you come here?” Menashe sank to the rock beside her. “It is a lonely place. The life of the palace is behind us.”
“My life does not lie within those walls. It lies here.” She pressed her fingers to her heart. “I live only in my imagination, Chenzira. There I can make music so fleet that my fingers cannot play it…and in my imagination I can visit Efrayim.”
Menashe resisted the urge to groan as she fell silent. What had Efrayim ever done to deserve this beautiful creature’s affection?
Her cool voice broke into his thoughts. “Are you going to tell me what brings you here? I was surprised to hear your voice, and amazed that you escaped the warrior you fought. Does your master know you have foolishly risked life and limb this afternoon?”
“No,” he answered, managing no more than a hoarse whisper. He paused, desperate to confess the entire truth, but doubted she would be as willing to open her heart to a nobleman as a servant.
“I am here because the vizier is unhappy with me,” he said truthfully. He bent one knee and rested his elbow on it, grateful for the opportunity to unburden his soul before a compassionate heart. “And I escaped the blade of Pharaoh’s giant because God Shaddai brought an ancient wrestling move to my mind. Abnu was not expecting it, so I managed to trip him.”
She hugged her knees to her chest. “Then you worship the same god Efrayim does.” Resting her head on her knees, she was a picture of gentle innocence. “When I lived in the vizier’s house, I heard much talk of the invisible god. Of course—” she shrugged “—all gods are invisible to me, for I can see none of them. But I can feel them. In the temples, the priests allow me to run my hands over the gods’ carved faces. I can smell the sweet scent of their incense and hear the hymns of praise.”
Menashe stared at an ibis that waded in the canal, prodding the shallows with his curved beak. “I can feel El Shaddai. Not with my hands, but with my heart. I can see His design in the way of an eagle in the sky, and His goodness in the bounty of a loaded fishing boat on the river.” He turned and fastened his gaze to Jendayi’s lovely face. “And I see His passion in the way a man looks at the woman he loves.”
A shy smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I suppose you are right, my friend. I have yet to discover that feeling. But soon I will.” Her tone hardened. “I must.”
“Why Efrayim?” Menashe couldn’t keep a note of impatience from his voice. “Why have you set your heart on him? He is cocky and arrogant. He gives too much attention to too many different women.”
“You do not speak very respectfully of your master.” Her tone had chilled.
Menashe swallowed an angry retort. “Efrayim is not my master, the vizier is. But I know Efrayim, and I must tell you, Jendayi, you are foolish to waste your feelings on him. He is not worthy of you.”
Across her pale and beautiful face a dim flush raced like a fever. “Not worthy of me? No, I am not worthy of him! Do you think I hope to marry—that I want—Oh, how could you? I am not in a position to choose. I would never be so presumptuous. I am a slave. I hope only to enjoy the smile of a caring master again. Pharaoh is indifferent. I am one of thousands who answer to his command. But Efrayim cares for me, and if I can return to his house—”
Menashe pressed his hand to her arm. “How do you know he cares for you?”
“Because I have received a message from him.” The fire left her voice as a gentle blush colored her cheek. “And years ago, in the garden of the vizier’s house, Efrayim kissed me. Though he is a nobleman, and though I will never be more than a slave, he is the only person in the world to ever show that kind of affection for me.”
“What sort of message?” Menashe choked on the words.
“I received it from my handmaid while we journeyed to Canaan. Efrayim promised to approach Pharaoh and ask that I be returned to the vizier’s house.” She lifted one delicate shoulder in a shrug. “He has not yet done so, but I am certain he is waiting for the right time. Perhaps he will take me with him when he establishes his own house.”
Menashe sat back, numb with astonishment. The message she referred to was obviously his; somehow she had misunderstood. But Efrayim had kissed her. Jendayi had staked her hope and future on one brazen act of an impetuous, vain, spoiled boy.
Menashe clenched his fist as the bitter gall of jealousy burned the back of his throat. Efrayim had Jendayi’s love, which he had not sought, and the right hand of blessing from Yaakov, which he had not deserved. Menashe had striven hard to please his father, his tutors and his god, all for nothing, while charming Efrayim had smiled at Yaakov and kissed Jendayi. And both of them had fallen in love with him.
So kiss her now. The thought came from out of nowhere, careening through his heart like an out-of-control chariot. If a kiss had given Efrayim the right to Jendayi’s heart, might not another one, filled with tenderness and sincere affection, usurp that claim? Menashe could easily claim her lips now; he could crush her to him and make her hear the thudding, insistent drum of his heart. He could tear Efrayim’s memory from her mind and overwhelm her childish devotion to an undeserving scamp…
But if a kiss alone could win her, she was not truly won. Menashe had not seen many examples of dedicated selflessness in his life, but he knew love involved more than physical attraction. His uncle Shim’on and Mandisa exhibited an almost wordless understanding of one another’s moods; Tarik and Halima would have neglected the entire world rather than each other. Physical affection, it seemed to Menashe, was like the limestone casing on a pyramid—pleasant and attractive, it had little to do with the solid blocks that formed the building’s foundation and structure.
He would not attempt to win her the way Efrayim apparently had. He would win her heart and mind and soul by proving his dedication. And he would wait for her to come willingly into his arms.
“Jendayi—” He paused, struggling to interpret the turbulent emotions buffeting his heart.
“I understand, Chenzira, you don’t have to tell me. I can sense that you are troubled.” She turned her face toward the flowing water. “I asked you to talk to Efrayim for me, and you weren’t able to do it.”
“No, I wasn’t.” He lifted his eyes toward the heavens. Sunset was beginning to stretch glowing fingers across the sky, but Jendayi could not experience the sense of exhilaration it elicited. She dreamed of slavery in a more pleasant house, y
et he yearned to release her from bondage, to shower her with love and elevate her to a position of authority in his own household. How could he teach her to dream of higher things? How could he show one who had never seen love that it encompassed far more than a token kiss?
“Jendayi—” his words poured forth in a rush “—you should forget about Efrayim.”
“Forget him?” She turned on him with the fury of a tigress. “How can I forget the only kindness I have ever known? He alone has shown mercy to me. I ought to serve him the rest of my life in gratitude for that alone! If you are my friend, Chenzira, you will talk to him for me. Remind him of his promise, tell him I am waiting.”
He gritted his teeth, straining against the choice he had to make. The truth would wound her, but she would never open her heart to all he offered if she were bound to a counterfeit affection. “Jendayi…Efrayim does not love you.”
She halted, shocked. Her mouth opened as she drew in an audible breath. “How would you know?”
Menashe closed his eyes, unwilling to see the hurt that would soon cross her face. “He plans to marry Princess Sitamun. Apparently the queen, Pharaoh and the vizier approve. I suspect the marriage will take place within the year.”
She took a wincing little breath, then turned her face away. For a moment woven of eternity she said nothing, then he heard her voice, flat and final. “A political marriage does not matter. He could still take me into his house. As long as he cares a little, it is enough. I am a slave. I have never hoped to be more than that.”
Menashe released a choked, desperate laugh. “By heaven above, do you love him so much? Would you be happy settling for crumbs from his table? If you will forget Efrayim, someone else might come into your life—”
“Love him?” She pressed her hand over her face. Her voice was muffled as she spoke through her fingers. “Ah, Chenzira, if you only knew.”
Swallowing the sob that rose in his throat, Menashe studied the sand at his feet. If she cared for Efrayim so deeply, what right had he to persuade her not to love his brother? He wanted her to be free; he could not deny her the freedom to choose the man she would love.