by Angela Hunt
Menashe took a quick, sharp breath. “No one else? Not even your mother, a friend, a sister—”
“I have no mother, at least not one I can remember.” Tears glistened on her delicate, heart-shaped face. “No friends, no sisters. Akil assigned me a handmaid, but Kesi serves me only because she would be beaten if she did not obey.”
“Your master, then,” Menashe suggested, though something in him recoiled at the thought of the old chironomist planting his pruned lips on Jendayi’s face. “Surely he has shown some affection for you.”
“Akil is a hard taskmaster.” She palmed tears from her cheeks. “He cares for me only to please Pharaoh.” She sniffed, then wiped her wet hands across the neckline of her gown in a helpless gesture. “But Efrayim kissed me once, so he must love me. And if my heart does not learn to love, I will die a thousand deaths. I will be eaten by the monster in the Underworld. I dream of it, and I know it will happen.”
“Jendayi, hear me.” Menashe moved to her side in one swift step. Though she tensed at his sudden approach, he gathered her into his arms and held her in a gentle embrace. “My dear girl,” he said, one hand stroking her cheek while the other held her close, “you are loved. Forget Efrayim, he loves another. I love you, Jendayi. I would risk my life before Pharaoh himself in order to win your freedom.”
She stiffened in his arms, and for an instant Menashe felt as if he held a statue of the most fragile glass. “You love me?” In spite of her sorrow a tinge of exasperation entered her voice. “Chenzira, I am not asking for pity.”
“I don’t pity you. I think you are the most beautiful, the most talented woman I have ever met.”
“You feel sorry for me. I am heartbroken, and alone—and blind.”
“I love you. I have loved you since the day I first saw you.”
“Two months ago?” Firmly she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him away. “Your kindness is touching, Chenzira. But you belong to the vizier, I belong to the king. Neither of us has the power to change our fates.” Her polite smile faded. “Efrayim once sent word that he was willing to ask for me, but he obviously preferred to ask for the king’s daughter.”
“That wasn’t Efrayim!” Menashe clenched his fist and took a deep breath. If ever God had sent an opportunity to tell her the truth, this was it. “This message from Efrayim came while you were in Canaan, after you played for the vizier’s guests, right?”
Her brows lifted. “Why am I surprised you would know that. You serve in the vizier’s house. You were probably in Canaan with us.”
His lips trembled with the need to laugh. “Yes, I was there! But the message you received came from me.”
“But Kesi said she spoke with the captain of the vizier’s guard.”
“She did.” Menashe firmed his voice. “I sent the message. I did not carry it. Jendayi, I am not the vizier’s servant, but his elder son. And you must believe me when I say I have loved you for years.”
She backed away without speaking, one hand over her lips, the familiar mask of aloofness descending like a shadow on her face. She was retreating inside herself, a frightened slave scurrying away from a nobleman. If he did not catch her—
He rushed on. “I told you my name was Chenzira because I did not think you would confide in me if you knew the truth.”
“You were right.” She turned and faced the river, her head bowed. “It is not right for a slave to share her heart with a master. But you lied.”
He edged forward until he could see her troubled face. “I am not your enemy, Jendayi. I would not hurt you for the world.”
She lifted her chin, but kept her face toward the water as if she could see a world of mystery in the canal beyond. For a brief moment her face seemed to open, and Menashe saw a whirl of spinning emotions: bewilderment, a quick flicker of fear, pure and simple agony. Then the mask of detachment descended again.
“You are the vizier’s son.” She wrapped her arms around herself as though a chill wind had just blown over her. “Like Efrayim, you will marry a noblewoman whether you want to or not. This love of yours is not real. It is a childish fancy. I will not risk this life and the eternal one on the fickleness of a nobleman’s heart. I should not even be speaking to you—”
“I am no longer the vizier’s son,” he said, moving toward her as though being closer would help her understand. “Tonight I left my father’s house and everyone in it. My father will disown me, if he has not already. I have no family, no possessions, no support. I came here tonight to tell you the truth and to offer you my love. I must go to war, but when God Shaddai brings me back, I will stand before Pharaoh and give him a portion of the captured spoils as a bride-price. I will redeem you from Pharaoh, Jendayi. My god will arrange it. You will be free to choose your own path.”
“You expect a lot of your god,” she whispered.
“He loves to provide.” Menashe moved to stand between her and the meandering canal. Carefully, he reached out and placed his hands on her arms, drawing her to him. She did not resist, but neither did she relax except to put out a hand to steady herself against his chest.
Her light touch unfurled streamers of sensation that left Menashe light-headed. “I will return for you.” His pulse skittered as he felt the movement of her breathing against his skin. “As Pharaoh lives and God Shaddai provides, I will return.”
Her face lifted to his then, and beneath the aloof loveliness he saw a suggestion of movement and flowing, as though a hidden spring were trying to break through. “Chenzira—Menashe, it is hopeless.” Disbelief echoed in the tone of her voice. “I have seen my future. There is no love for me, not here, not anywhere.”
“Yes, there is.” Menashe locked her in his embrace. “Give me the opportunity to show you, Jendayi. One chance. That’s all I ask of you.”
“And if you do not return?” Her chin quivered and she lowered her head, her thick, dark lashes fringing her cheek. “If I trust you, believe in you, and you do not return for me, what shall I do then?”
Menashe cradled her head against his shoulder, not certain how to answer. “I will return,” he said finally, releasing her head so he could study her sweet countenance one final time. “And if you will trust me, your heart will begin to live. Defeat your dream now, Jendayi. Have faith in me…and in my god Almighty.”
Despite the sorrowful bend of her posture, the corner of her delicate mouth lifted in a half-smile. “You sound so confident. I could almost believe you,” she whispered, just before leaving the circle of his arms.
And while the stars sprang out, one by one, from the cobalt dome of the heavens, Menashe watched her slip back into the palace garden and thought that nothing on earth had ever seemed more breathtaking than the simple grace of his beloved Jendayi.
Chapter Twenty
Akil frowned as the musicians finished their final song for Pharaoh’s banquet. Fortunately the king had not noticed that the oboe and harp consistently clashed in the final cadences of Hathor’s hymn of praise, but several of the guests had unconsciously cringed at the dissonant sounds.
A group of female acrobats took to the open floor now, leaping, twirling and undulating to the beat of their own drummer, and Akil nodded to his instrumentalists, granting them permission to retreat from the king’s banquet chamber. He fixed his gaze on Jendayi as she slipped her arms around her harp and lifted it. A frown had occupied the space between her delicate brows for the past several nights, and he wondered again if she had received some message from the vizier’s son. All of Thebes buzzed with rumors about Menashe’s failure to appear at a recent palace ceremony with his father and brother Efrayim; Pharaoh had been much displeased. But Queen Tiy had caught Akil’s eye and lifted a confident brow, and he knew she had matters under control.
But perhaps Jendayi was privy to information even the queen would not know. If Akil could bring that information to the queen’s ear, her estimation of him would rise even higher. Perhaps she would award him with a golden chain, or a special suite of
rooms within the palace…
The flutist and oboist pattered out of the chamber. As Jendayi followed with her maid, Akil followed them into the hallway, then caught Kesi’s arm. Placing his fingers across his mouth to signal silence, he pulled her away from the harpist and drew her into a private alcove.
“What seems to be troubling your mistress?” he asked, painting on the warmest smile he could muster. “She is not herself these days. Tonight she played with less than her usual brilliance.”
“I—I don’t know,” Kesi stammered. She paled before his questioning gaze. “I haven’t done anything to displease her, I’m certain of it. Please, master, don’t send me away.”
“Hush, foolish girl.” Again he forced a smile. “Something is troubling Jendayi. I know her too well to miss the signs of discontent. You must find out what is bothering her.”
“Master, she does not often talk to me. She rarely confides in anyone.”
“Make her trust you.” His breath burned in his throat; were all slaves as stupid as this girl? But he must control his temper, or like a chattering bird she would fly and warn the harpist. He took a deep breath. “Speak to her tonight, draw her into your confidence about something. If you tell her a secret, she will want to confide in you. It is the way of women.”
“I don’t think it will work, master.” The girl’s eyes clouded with doubt. “She is most withdrawn lately. She does not talk about herself. I never know what she is thinking.”
“Then find out.” Not bothering to smile this time, he ripped the words. “Find out, or I will send you to the overseer, and he will beat you into obedience. Need I say more?”
“No, Master Akil.” A familiar weakness settled about her eyes, the way all women looked just before they cried. “I will try to get her to talk.”
“Don’t try.” Akil released his hold on her arm. “Do it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
A shaft of sun angled down from a clerestory window in Pharaoh’s chamber, trapping slow convections of dust. Feeling as distant as the stars from the priests who intoned the ritual blessings before Pharaoh, Yosef watched the dancing particles and considered the unsettling matters of his own household.
For two weeks Yosef had said nothing to his servants about Menashe’s defiant departure. No one dared mention the young man’s absence to him, correctly sensing that the subject was a delicate and difficult one. Ani, who made it his duty to know everything and everyone who passed through the vizier’s villa, went about his work a little more quietly than usual, his face longer and his step slower than it had been in weeks past. And Tarik, that most inspiring of warriors, briefed his men every morning in a voice so dull and dry the words seemed to come from him after a lengthy journey through a desolate wilderness.
But his servants had been wearied by the extra demands of the settlement at Goshen, Yosef told himself. The sons of Yisrael were busy building proper houses, and Ani had been employed to help the Hebrews procure the necessary workers to form bricks and bring lumber from Lebanon. And Tarik had not only the safety of the vizier’s household to worry about, but now also responsible for overseeing the caravans which traveled from Thebes to Goshen and back again.
Yosef went about his work as best he could, knowing the situation with Menashe was a threatening cloud that would hang over his head until it burst. A week after Menashe left, Yosef had sent out patrols to report the movements and makeup of the Hebrew force. But though Tarik’s men had scoured the area between Tura and Goshen, the patrols had not been able to find Menashe’s recruits. Pharaoh had not yet asked how the situation with Menashe had been resolved, but if the phantom force still existed, the king would soon hear of it. Knowing his stubborn son, Yosef was certain the rogue army remained alive and well.
On his last visit Yehuda reported that one hundred fifty young men were missing from the Hebrew camp. Even a few of the younger women, Yehuda noted, had wondered aloud if a move back to Canaan might not be in the family’s best interest.
“But we, your brothers,” Yehuda hastened to add, “believe in your leadership, noble vizier. If you want us to remain here, we will stay. We wrested your dreams of honor and glory from you many years ago, but God Shaddai, all praise to His name, restored them. Who are we to doubt you? Besides, we are content and prosperous. You, noble Yosef, have bountifully provided for our needs. We do not worry about drought, crop failure or sickness. If disaster strikes, we know the vizier Zaphenath-paneah stands ready and willing to provide for us.”
Now, as Yosef sat across the room from Pharaoh and listened to the priests praise the king, he wondered if he had not spoiled his brethren. He loved them, he wanted to make up for the many years they had been apart, and he knew God had brought him to Egypt in order to provide for them. Menashe was right about at least one thing—Yosef had been set apart. The hand of God had woven Egypt into the fabric of his life; he could no more wrest himself from the palace on the Nile than he could divide his soul from his spirit.
Yet a cloud of doubt hovered over his conscience. Years ago, while Yosef lived and worked in Potiphar’s house, pride had been the seismic fault of his life. Had that most subtle and poisonous of evils returned to infect his soul when he least suspected it?
The priests finished their hymn of praise to the divine king, and Pharaoh extended his crook, bestowing blessings on his faithful servants. The worship concluded, Amenhotep stood in one regal motion and uncrossed the crook and flail from before his chest. The crook, a symbol of his duty to shepherd his people, seemed less prominent to Yosef today than the flail, a symbol of the ladanisterion, a type of whip used by agricultural workers to gather ladanum, the aromatic shrub that yielded resin when beaten. As Yosef stood and followed his king from the bedchamber, he wondered if Pharaoh had used a sort of ladanisterion on him. Ever since Amenhotep had confronted him with news of Menashe and the alleged uprising, Yosef had felt limp with weariness and defeat.
When they left the king’s priests behind, Yosef lengthened his stride, falling into step beside the king. “A large crowd awaits your judgment today,” he remarked, trying to discern the royal mood. “They are gathered outside in the courtyard.”
The king’s eyes seemed to study the tile floor where they walked. “And after a tiring morning. I don’t know why they come to Malkata. Why do they not approach you? Why do they insist on bothering me?”
Yosef folded his hands and struggled for a tactful reply. If Pharaoh had been younger, Yosef would have reminded him that kingship offered both privilege and responsibility. But the time for character lessons had passed. Amenhotep’s temperament and personality, for good or ill, had already been formed.
“The men who wait to see you are noblemen, and deserve an audience with their king. I have rendered judgment on hundreds of cases in Thebes within the past month. But these men serve you with their lives, they hold important posts throughout the kingdom—”
“They know I will agree with you,” Pharaoh interrupted. His smile flashed, dazzling against his olive skin. “You are my teacher, my right hand. How could I not agree with you?”
Yosef smiled, glorying in the intimate moment. Surely there was no better time to bring up a disagreeable subject. Pharaoh was feeling nostalgic and anticipating the pleasures of his harem…
“My king—” Yosef dipped his head “—I have been considering something of great importance and would like to know your thoughts on the matter.”
Amenhotep stopped in the passageway. A flash of humor crossed his face as he turned. “It must be a troubling matter indeed, since you know everything except for the one subject in which I am expert.”
Yosef lifted a wagging finger. “The matter has nothing to do with women.”
Pharaoh released a throaty laugh as he crossed his arms. “Speak, then. What is it?”
“My people, the Hebrews.” Yosef’s gaze swept over the king’s face. “You have said you do not approve of a military force to reestablish our home in Canaan, and in those words you ha
ve again revealed your wisdom. But if my brothers and their families could return to Canaan in peace, would you allow them to go?”
Amenhotep’s eyes widened in concern. “Are they unhappy? Have I not made every allowance for them?”
“Yes, my king, you have been more than generous, and they are prosperous.” Yosef smiled. “But this is not their land, it is yours. And some of the younger ones are hot-headed. They hear stories of the old days and yearn for glory. Their hearts desire to live in their own promised land.”
“You must remind them that glory lies in Egypt.” Pharaoh nodded. “No king has been greater than I, no king has fought fewer wars or seen greater contentment among his people. No one has starved during my reign, the land has bountifully brought forth food. The temples I have built shall last throughout eternity.”
“Yes, my lord, but the younger ones—” Yosef halted, aware that his king was not listening. Pharaoh stood silent, gazing into private space, and his eyes were those of a bewildered, vulnerable child. Yosef felt his heart constrict in guilt. He had tried to prepare this fatherless boy for the throne, yet his work might never be finished.
“You taught me about life, Zaphenath-paneah.” A momentary look of discomfort flitted across Amenhotep’s face. “My mother and father both loved you. How could you think of leaving me?”
“I could not consider it,” Yosef answered. He bowed to reinforce his sincerity. “As long as I live, I will not leave you. You have my solemn oath.”
Though Pharaoh did not answer, the gratified expression on his face spoke for him. He moved ahead toward his throne room, humming the tuneless hymn the priests had sung earlier.
And as they continued through the passageway, Yosef knew he would not leave the Black Land alive. God Shaddai often spoke in miraculous ways; Yosef himself had heard God’s voice in dreams and visions. So why could He not speak through the voice of a king?
The conversation with Amenhotep restored Yosef’s confidence in his own reasoning, and with a lighter heart he approached the queen’s apartments in the palace at Thebes. An urgent message had been waiting for him when he returned from Malkata, and the queen’s messenger said Tiy would wait for the vizier’s appearance, no matter how late the hour.