by Angela Hunt
Oh, the ingratitude and incivility of the young! Amenhotep’s father would never have behaved so rudely; the king’s mother, Queen Tuya, would rise up in fury if she had any idea her son had treated his vizier so cavalierly. Yosef had done nothing to deserve being tossed away like a worn and faded garment. Though he was older than most of the king’s counselors, he possessed the health and longevity of Yaakov. With the blessing of God Shaddai, he would undoubtedly live to see Amenhotep himself entombed, and yet this stripling king had the gall, the unmitigated audacity, to cast aside the one who had been his protector and tutor, counselor and father…
In a silent fury that spoke louder than words Yosef crumpled the royal message, then a wave of remorse swept over him. He was still subject to the king, and he had just demonstrated a spirit of rebellion in front of Pharaoh’s messenger. Amenhotep barely tolerated differences of opinion in his counselors, and with ordinary common citizens—which Yosef now was—he had no tolerance at all.
Ani, intuitive soul that he was, understood. As Yosef lowered his gaze he heard Ani commanding Pharaoh’s slave to depart. The messenger bent to bow, then caught himself. His face and neck turned a vivid scarlet as he bobbed awkwardly before Zaphenath-paneah, noble citizen, and fled the room.
God of my fathers, help me. Yosef smoothed the crumpled papyrus against the linen of his vizier’s robe as his blood ran thick with guilt. How could he justify his anger? God Shaddai had elevated him from prison to a throne overnight; he had been promoted and demoted before. But though Yosef’s previous tribulations had been difficult, at least he had come to understand the reasons for them. By provoking his brothers to jealousy, he had opened the road for their betrayal. By tolerating the dangerous affections of a powerful woman, he had initiated his confinement in prison. In the past he had ignored dangerous thunderclouds on the horizon, but in the past few years the horizon of his life had been as clear as a sunny sky.
Or had it? Had he been too involved with Pharaoh’s work to even look up?
He looked up now, but his eyes would not focus. Through a blur of tears he saw Ani standing silently, his hands folded at his waist, his head bent.
A heaviness centered in Yosef’s chest as he met his steward’s gaze. “I think I would like to be alone,” he said, reaching for the solid arm of his gilded chair, the throne from which he had ruled the Black Land for nearly thirty years. That chair seemed the only solid reality in a shifting world, but it, too, was aging…
Yosef sat, wondering for the first time if he had more yesterdays than tomorrows. Had God finished with him? Was this parchment the Almighty’s way of removing Yosef from the work that counted for eternity? Perhaps he had made mistakes; pride had always been his chief weakness. But he had tried to do his best for Amenhotep; he had placed Pharaoh and Pharaoh’s house above even his own. Yosef had tutored the young prince while his own sons learned under Ani’s patient teaching; he had spent hour after hour listening to the young king’s problems while his own wife pined in lonely silence, feeding the insecurity that ultimately took her life.
Such joys he had sacrificed, all for Pharaoh! He had not withheld one precious thing from the altar of duty. And now his God-given work was done. Finished. Gone.
Ani gave him a bleak, tight-lipped smile, ruefully accepting the terrible truth.
Yosef lowered his head into his hands and kneaded his temple; his head pounded with memories. Ani did not speak for a long moment; he did not need to. The two men had been master and servant for so long they understood one another.
The older man held out his hands. “If you truly want to be alone,” he said, his dark eyes brimming with compassion, “I will go.”
Just then the double doors burst open. Tarik hurried into the room and flung himself onto the floor, unaware that he was no longer required to prostrate himself before his master. “Most noble vizier,” he called without stopping to evaluate Yosef’s mood, “my scouts have returned. Menashe and his men had been discovered in the wilderness. By sundown tomorrow I could have a squadron of men at their camp.”
The captain broke off when his gaze met Yosef’s, and the jubilant look of satisfaction left his eyes. He faltered, floundering in confusion as his gaze shifted to meet Ani’s, then he finished with a question. “Shall I bring Menashe home?”
Yosef heard him through a vague sense of unreality. “Do what you will with the young men,” he murmured, rising from his now-insignificant chair. “I do not care.”
Rather than return to Thebes immediately, Tiy lingered in her chambers at Malkata, summoning her coterie and personal servants from Thebes to Pharaoh’s pink granite palace. Surprised by her unexpected visit, Pharaoh’s chamberlain stood in her chambers now, barking out commands as a host of slaves hastened to freshen the water basins, air the linens, light the tall cones of incense.
Wrapped in a cocoon of indifference, Tiy paced in the center of the hubbub and patiently counted the hours until she might command an audience with one who quite possibly knew more about Pharaoh’s palace than Pharaoh himself—Akil. She knew Amenhotep had spent the morning with the musician, fruitlessly trying to appease the creative god who had laid the suggestion of a song on his pleasure-fogged brain, but the day was half-spent and Pharaoh would soon be calling for his dinner. Abruptly, she sent a slave to summon the musician, then she dismissed the chamberlain and settled back to wait.
Tiy’s appreciation for Akil had grown since the chironomist approached her with news of the rendezvous between the vizier’s son and the little harpist. A stiff, nearly bloodless individual whom she suspected of being even more clever than she, Akil was a valuable ally because Pharaoh tended to forget that his musicians had ears and wagging tongues. And Akil adored her; she had discerned that much when the chironomist traveled all the way to Thebes to tell her, not Amenhotep, of Menashe’s treachery.
With Zaphenath-paneah out of the picture, Akil could serve as her eyes and ears. If he served her well, she would elevate him as Hatshepsut had exalted her steward Senenmut.
Feeling relaxed and invincible, Tiy smiled when the embroidered curtain to her chamber lifted. The musician entered and prostrated himself on the floor. “Rise, Akil.” She pointed to a chair. “You and I are alone, so let us forget protocol. You will sit to talk with me, but you must swear that what I tell you shall never pass your lips.”
“You may cut off my tongue if it does.” The man rose and moved toward her with abrupt, purposeful strides, then took the seat she offered and clasped his hands on his knees. Out of long habit, he bowed his head, but kept his olive-black gaze affixed to hers. “How may I serve you, O Mother of Egypt?”
She gave him a mirthless smile. “I am sure you have realized that Pharaoh is about to appoint two new viziers.”
One of his finely plucked eyebrows shot upward. “It is not for me to question the divine pharaoh, but I wondered why he was so intent on creating a hymn of praise to honor our noble Zaphenath-paneah.”
Tiy made a soft sound of disgust. “Come, Akil, speak plainly. I know you have never liked the vizier. I have read your feelings in your eyes.”
The chironomist lifted his shoulders and shrugged, though a suitably shamed look crossed his face. “Alas, the queen knows me too well. And I cannot hide what my heart tells me. The vizier is an opportunist. Can anyone deny that all he has done for Egypt has been accomplished to provide for the rabble living in Goshen?”
“You have guessed my concern.” Tiy leaned forward. “Since you brought me news of this rebellious Hebrew army, my sleep has not been pleasant. I fear for our people, and particularly for my daughter. The sons of Zaphenath-paneah are like their father, attractive and charismatic, and yet we dare not trust them. But my daughter Sitamun has lost her heart to Efrayim, and several of Pharaoh’s Medjay warriors have surrendered their loyalty to Menashe’s flattery and cunning.”
“The Hebrews are a formidable force,” Akil agreed. “But they are not as formidable as Pharaoh’s house.”
“Tha
t remains to be seen.” Tiy rested her chin on her hand. “I am concerned. Pharaoh has hidden himself away with his harem, and my son—well, the crown prince’s will is not as strong as it should be. He is too romantic, he spends altogether too much time with the priests of Aten.” She released a nervous laugh. “If Pharaoh had other sons, I might allow him to become a priest. But aside from Neferkheprure’ Wa’enre’, my womb has brought forth only daughters.”
“It is unfortunate—” Akil pressed his hands together “—but since your daughters are heiresses of the royal line of pharaohs, a marriage between Sitamun and the vizier’s son might result in a Hebrew rising to the great throne of Egypt. But of course you have considered this—”
“Of course I have,” she snapped, cutting him off. She frowned, disturbed that a mere servant had expressed her deepest fear. She was the Great Wife, the highest-ranking queen, and therefore Sitamun, as the eldest daughter, would carry the line of succession. If something happened to the crown prince, Sitamun’s husband or child would inherit the throne of Egypt.
Zaphenath-paneah’s grandchild as Pharaoh? The thought galled her.
She pressed her hand to her lips. She had advanced the idea of a royal marriage and even encouraged Menashe’s idiotic flirtation with a slave in order to win influence with the vizier’s sons, but they had failed to sway Zaphenath-paneah in her favor. Apparently the opinions of the sons mattered little to the father and, judging by Menashe’s actions in the northern wilderness, the convictions of the father were of no consequence to at least one son.
Ignoring Akil’s death-bright eyes, she sat and toyed with a strand of her wig. An idea had begun to form in her mind, an elusive notion which might prove unpopular in Sitamun’s eyes but which would be acceptable both to the priests and to the people. And Sitamun, creature of comfort that she was, would be convinced of the plan’s wisdom if the attendant benefits were adequately emphasized. Efrayim might rage, but who would care? If he behaved inappropriately, he would furnish yet another reason for Pharaoh to banish Zaphenath-paneah and his troublesome sons from court. The three influential Hebrew men had already proven themselves a danger to Egypt’s welfare.
“Akil.” She turned toward him. “Would you do anything for me?”
His eyes filled with fierce sparkling. “You have but to ask.”
“I want you to be my spy within the house of Zaphenath-paneah.” Her eyes locked on the musician’s. “You and your orchestra shall return to the vizier’s house. The annals shall record that you are a gift from Pharaoh to the former vizier, a tribute to his work and devotion.”
She heard his quick intake of breath. “You would have me leave you?” He managed a tremulous smile. “But Pharaoh—”
“Pharaoh can employ any musician he wishes,” Tiy answered, recognizing the sharp light of attraction within the man’s deep eyes. As the chironomist’s expression tightened, she placed her hand on his arm. “Do this for me, Akil, and all will be well with you. Go to the vizier’s villa, make yourself one of the household, find a weakness I may exploit. Send word to me, and then I will bring you back to Pharaoh’s palace and shower you with blessings. You will not regret leaving Malkata.”
He smiled in relief. “As you wish, my queen. My only desire is to serve you.”
With careful dignity he rose from his chair and slipped to the floor in a bow.
“Rise and go.” Tiy tilted her head as she watched him obey. His eyes did not lift to hers before he turned to shuffle away, and she bit her thumbnail, hoping she had trusted the right man.
“Who is going where?” Jendayi lifted her head from her bed, not certain she’d heard Kesi correctly. She had been enjoying a nap, and Kesi had burst into the servants’ quarters babbling about someone moving to a villa.
Kesi’s voice brimmed with excitement amid the soft sounds of garments being pulled from their woven storage baskets and flung onto an empty bed. “We are to pack at once. The master says we will leave Malkata before dark. Can you imagine? We are going to live with the vizier!”
Jendayi dropped her head back onto the pillow of her arms, convinced she was experiencing a lucid dream. But then Kissa and Sakmet rushed into the chamber, chattering like excited monkeys. Jendayi lifted her head again and strained to sift through their babble.
“Will someone please tell me exactly what is happening?” She pushed herself to a sitting position. She felt the bedclothes beneath her, the breath of the wind from the open door. This was no dream.
“According to Pharaoh’s chamberlain, Zaphenath-paneah has earned a time of rest,” Kesi explained. “Pharaoh will choose two new viziers tomorrow, one to govern Upper Egypt, the other to govern the nomes of Lower Egypt. And to show his gratitude for years of gracious service, the king is returning Akil and his orchestra to the vizier’s house.”
Jendayi caught her breath as the shock of discovery hit her full force. Could this news possibly be true? Zaphenath-paneah had been the one and only vizier since before she had been born; legends reported that he had bounced the toddling pharaoh on his knee. Paintings of the vizier graced at least a hundred buildings and granaries in Thebes and the people of the Black Land revered him as Giver of Plenty and the Bread of Life. Zaphenath-paneah was a living legend! He had been blessed by the gods; some people insisted that the spirit of a god rested on him…
So how could he no longer be vizier? The sun could not stop being the sun, nor could the river pull up its waters and refuse to refresh the land. And just two days ago the women had played at a banquet for the king and his vizier. The voices of both men had echoed with concern and mutual respect. It was neither natural nor logical that Pharaoh should suggest that the time had come for his vizier to go away.
But Pharaoh could be influenced by stronger voices.
Kesi’s broad hand fell on Jendayi’s shoulder. “Wake up, little sister!” she whispered, the sweet scent of beer on her breath. “Did you not hear me? We are going to the vizier’s villa! You will sleep tonight under the same roof as your beloved Efrayim!”
Menashe will not be there. For some inexplicable reason that unsettling thought ricocheted through Jendayi’s mind. Confused, she blinked up at her maid. “I suppose this is good news.”
“Of course it is.” Kesi sank to Jendayi’s side and gripped the harpist’s arm with her hot hand. “Do you remember how Efrayim kissed you in his father’s garden? Perhaps the gods have answered your prayers. You will live in his house again, he will kiss you again. His affection for you, already in bud, will blossom in full. He no longer needs to ask Pharaoh to sell you! He must only ask his father’s permission to make you a concubine, and surely the vizier would not withhold such a favor from his son. The gods have smiled on you, my lady.”
“Efrayim is going to marry Princess Sitamun,” Jendayi remarked, wondering why this unexpected miracle did not thrill her. For months she had hoped and prayed for such a turn of events, but now she could only think of the vizier’s house as an incomplete, empty place.
Kesi placed a finger to Jendayi’s cheek. “Those reports of Efrayim’s marriage to the princess are only rumors.” A teasing tone filled her voice. “Akil says the princess will be married soon, but not to the vizier’s son. Our master has already begun to write a song in honor of the wedding.”
Jendayi clutched the maid’s arm. “Efrayim will not marry?”
“Akil says Efrayim will not marry any of Pharaoh’s daughters.” Kesi patted her mistress’s hand with confident pressure. “And Akil is never wrong.”
Jendayi turned her face away to consider this new development. Menashe had been wrong. He had tried his best to convince her to forget Efrayim. He had lied about his name, lied about Efrayim’s marriage. Had he lied about everything?
Kesi hopped up to continue her packing, and Jendayi sat motionless while her head swirled with doubts. Why would Menashe tell her Efrayim did not love her? Did he hate her so much he was driven to break her heart? Surely not, she was a slave, she meant nothing to him. But
if he did not hate her, then why would he attempt to—
She pressed her hand over her lips as her mind blew open. Menashe hated Efrayim. She had heard bitterness in his voice when he spoke of his brother—twice, the time he remarked that Efrayim would not join him in the desert, and another time when he’d said that Efrayim was cocky and arrogant, that he gave too much attention to too many different women. And there had been rumors on the caravan from Canaan, stories about a rivalry between the two brothers, something about a family inheritance which should have gone to the firstborn but which went instead to Efrayim.
Of course! Menashe was jealous of his brother, and bitter enough to sabotage the tender slip of love that had begun to grow in her heart. Menashe certainly cared nothing for a slave girl. His clumsy efforts to capture her heart had been part of a simple ploy to undermine Efrayim’s attempt to redeem her from Pharaoh.
Like a weed among barren desert stones, hope sprouted in her breast. Somehow, through magic or divine influence, Efrayim had won. Menashe had been defeated, and Efrayim had managed to arrange for her transfer to his father’s house. He, not Menashe, had sent her the message in Canaan, and now he waited at his father’s house to reclaim the love his lips had sealed so many years before.
She stood and reached toward the wall where her harp rested. Let Akil write songs to praise the princess and her future husband. She would write a song herself, one unlike any she had ever written before. It would resonate with hope and love and the sweetness of a fulfilled dream. And when Efrayim heard it, he would know she had come home to him.
Night had spread her sable wings over Malkata by the time Tiy’s spy arrived from the vizier’s villa. She received him in her innermost chamber, anxious for any news from Zaphenath-paneah’s house. To her surprise, however, the spy did not bring word of the vizier’s reaction to Pharaoh’s decree, but news of a different sort.