by Angela Hunt
“We found the rebel camp to the west of Tura,” the man reported, pausing to wipe a trickle of sweat from his brow. “They move every night, but have circled back to an area just east of Pharaoh’s quarry. The captain of the vizier’s guard expects Zaphenath-paneah to send us to apprehend them on the morrow—”
“I think not,” Tiy interrupted. Resting her chin on her hand, she gave the Medjay warrior a bemused smile. “Remember that you do my bidding, and not the vizier’s.”
“Yes, my queen.” If she had not known him to be as hard as flint, she would have thought he flushed, for two dark spots appeared on his cheeks.
“Besides—” Tiy ignored his discomfort “—as of today, the vizier no longer has authority to arrest men in the king’s name.” She curved her long fingers around the armrest of her chair. “I doubt he is currently in a frame of mind to do anything.”
The Nubian frowned, and Tiy snapped her fingers at the pair of slaves plying her with ostrich fans. They whirled and left the chamber, then Tiy propped her chin on her hand and considered the warrior standing before her. He was not the most handsome man she had ever seen, but there was a restless energy in his movements and strength in the shoulders and arms that gleamed in the soft lamplight. His legs were as brown and firm as cedars, and in his strong features she saw traces of a certain sensuality. His face was as hard as granite, like his eyes.
She raked his body with her gaze, then smiled as he peered at her with the wary gaze of an untamed animal. This one, she knew, would not be immune to her charms.
“So you are the notorious Hondo?” she asked, folding her hands at her waist.
Lethal calmness filled his eyes. “Yes, my queen.”
“Even your name means war.” She observed him through lowered lashes. He tilted his brow, studying her, and she knew he sensed the ripple of excitement flowing in her blood. Unlike Zaphenath-paneah, this man would do anything to please her.
She stared at him until he lifted his brows in a silent query, then she spoke again. “Hondo, I must take you into my confidence. Can you be trusted?”
The grooves beside his mouth deepened in a smug smile. “Implicitly, my queen.”
“Good.” She rose from her chair and moved toward him, compelled by her frustrated passion and the knowledge that Amenhotep frolicked with his harem only a few paces away. “I need a reliable warrior, a man who will be discreet. Most of all—” she moved so close that her breath warmed his face “—I need a man who is willing to die for me.”
He stiffened, but began to melt when she lifted her finger to trace the shadow above his upper lip. “Of course you will not have to die,” she said, noticing that the light of desire now illuminated his tumultuous dark eyes. “I ask only that you are willing to do so.”
“I do not fear death, for a man may live forever in a queen’s favor,” he whispered, dropping his hand to her shoulder.
“You are a brave one.” She lifted her hand and pressed it to the burnished mahogany of his cheek. “For the liberty you took in touching me just now I could demand your life.”
“But you won’t.”
“No.” She regarded him with a smile. “You, Hondo, will not die for touching me, nor for anything else your heart desires tonight. But if you do not do exactly as I tell you regarding Menashe, elder son of Zaphenath-paneah, you will most certainly die at Pharaoh’s command.” Her hand caught his and brought it to her lips. “A most painful and torturous death.” Tilting her head, she gave him a sleepy-cat smile. “Do you understand?”
“I understand,” he murmured in the instant before his mouth covered hers.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Efrayim moved through the villa with a loose-boned, easy gait, intent on finding his father. A full month had passed since Pharaoh had discharged his vizier, but Efrayim had seen no more of his father in the past month than he had when Yosef had been at Pharaoh’s constant beck and call. His father used to fill his days and nights with work; Efrayim suspected that he now filled them with regret.
And to think he used to long for the day when his father would no longer be vizier.
Ani had said Zaphenath-paneah would doubtless be found in the garden, and Efrayim knew the vast walled sanctuary was one of the few places in the villa that brought his father any pleasure. The grand reception hall seemed to mock the vizier’s former lofty position; and Yosef’s own chambers, though spacious, must have seemed confining and claustrophobic when compared to the wide spaces of Pharaoh’s palace. A master had no business in the servants’ quarters, stable or kitchens, so Yosef had begun to haunt the garden. Among the mandrakes, acacia trees and lotus blossoms, Efrayim suspected Yosef was assuring himself that he and Pharaoh would stand as equals under the sun.
The time of mourning should soon come to an end, however, and Efrayim was determined to pull his father from the cloud of gloom that surrounded him. He did not know exactly what had transpired between Pharaoh and Yosef, but Efrayim knew the two younger men who had been appointed to fill the vizier’s position were already showing signs of strain. Though they were bright and capable, the effort of carrying half the load of Yosef’s job had left them haggard and drawn. Efrayim had heard from a dozen nobles that Amenhotep had already expressed reservations about the capabilities of his new viziers. But a great deal of responsibility had been placed in Queen Tiy’s capable hands, and if she did not complain about her additional duties, the dual-vizier system would probably remain in place.
The rising sun painted a golden glow over everything in the garden, and Efrayim felt his spirits lift as he strolled along the paved path and nodded at the slaves who maneuvered the towering shadufs and watered the plants. Catching sight of his father’s dark head beneath the pavilion at the far edge of the garden, Efrayim hurried toward him. He had an idea he thought his father would approve, a plan to unite the best Egyptian artists and Hebrew builders in order to create a trading center in Goshen, a signature city that would pave the way for others like it. If Yosef warmed to the idea, the work would fill his days, occupy his thoughts and please both Pharaoh and Yosef’s Hebrew brothers.
Yosef sat motionless in his chair, his elbows planted on his knees, his eyes drawn into slits as if he concentrated on some vision nearly lost in the past or future. An aura of melancholy radiated from his handsome features, and for an instant Efrayim slowed his steps, caught up in the fearful reverence that had marked all his childhood meetings with his powerful father.
But he was a child no longer. The tide had turned, he was now the stronger one. Hadn’t Yaakov foretold this? The old patriarch must have known that Yosef would be incapacitated and Menashe distracted by dreams of battlefield glory. The mantle of leadership had fallen squarely on Efrayim’s shoulders.
“Father,” he called, breaking the spell of silence. He rested one foot on the first step of the pavilion and leaned forward, held back by the old formality he and Menashe had been bound to obey since the beginning of their formal education.
His father’s lids fell over his eyes as if guarding a secret, but after a moment he turned to measure his son with an appraising look. “Do you no longer bow before your father, Efrayim? Or have you joined the thousands who no longer respect me?”
Forever in control, he was still granting favors, making judgments, reading the will of both God and Pharaoh.
Refusing to prostrate himself on the tile, Efrayim inclined his head in a deep gesture, then looked up and gave his father a warm smile. “I will always respect you as my father.” He took another half-step forward. “And I want to talk to you.” Clearing his throat, he made an effort to lighten his voice. “You have avoided me these past weeks, but we ought to talk about Pharaoh’s decision.”
Yosef’s gaze turned again to a faraway place. “It is not a subject I want to discuss.”
“Why would you avoid it when everyone in Thebes knows what happened? It is not a story, Father, that can be hidden. But neither is the tale of Pharaoh’s new viziers. Both of them have
already encountered the royal wrath. The king cannot abide them, and the nomarchs are complaining that these men are not able to handle the details of taxation, the temple properties, the rituals of marking boundaries after the flood—”
“Pharaoh will find someone else, then.”
“Perhaps.” Efrayim lifted his brows, encouraged that his father was still listening. They had never been close, but in the past month Yosef’s indifference had extended even to Ani and Tarik, the two most trusted servants in his household. Both men were more like lifetime companions than servants, but Yosef’s grief had cut them off.
Efrayim decided to be blunt. “I have an idea to build a trading center in Goshen. We will need your knowledge and influence with the governor and merchants of that area. It will be a good work, and I am certain you will enjoy it. Pharaoh will be pleased, and when Sitamun and I are married, I will use my influence with Pharaoh to convince him to forgive whatever trouble arose between you.”
“There was no trouble.” The statement rang with reproach. “None whatsoever. If you have heard otherwise, you are listening to liars.”
“So you say,” Efrayim answered. The conversation had spun out of his control, and his father’s contemptuous tone sparked his own cynicism. “Of course Pharaoh had no problems with you. That’s why he dismissed you without warning. That’s why he gave your duties to incompetent men.”
When Yosef did not answer, Efrayim’s mood veered sharply to fury. Would his father never understand that his sons were capable of helping him? Yosef was so arrogantly self-sufficient, so infernally capable! Could he not admit that he had somehow failed Pharaoh? Counselors frequently disagreed with Amenhotep; if the confrontations were not too severe, they were brought back to court after an apology and a sacrificial offering of praise to the divine king. Why could his father not admit he was human?
“Almost—” Efrayim held tight to the bridled anger in his voice “—I am beginning to understand why Menashe left.”
Yosef looked up. “Do you understand? Then explain it to me. I do not know why my elder son would rebel. He says he must obey God, and so he disobeys his father and breaks Pharaoh’s law. And I, who have struggled always to obey, am the one who is punished.” He looked away. His hand, trembling slightly, reached out to nudge a butterfly from the arm of an empty chair. “When I was young, I was told to grow up, to act like a man. Now that I have grown old, I am looked on as a child, even by my own son.”
“Father, I only want what is best for you.”
“Then leave me.” When Yosef met Efrayim’s gaze again, his wise, dark eyes had filled with a curious deep longing. “You are not as old as I am, Efrayim, but I was once as young as you are. You cannot know what is best for me. Only God knows…if He has not abandoned us.”
Efrayim stepped back, shaken by his father’s honesty. Whether he spoke as Yosef the Hebrew or Zaphenath-paneah the Egyptian, his father’s proclamations had always been as certain as the sunrise, as sure as the force which pulled objects from the sky to the earth. But the uncertainty in his expression now shook Efrayim to the core.
Without another word, he slipped from the pavilion and retreated through the garden.
Jendayi took her seat on the stool against the chamber wall and strummed the harp strings to test the tuning she’d just given them. Almost perfect. One string was a little sharp, but she could adjust the pitch by pinching the string at the proper time. The men at this banquet probably wouldn’t have noticed a slight dissonance of tone, but everything had to be perfect in Jendayi’s ear, especially when Efrayim was present.
Dinner was Jendayi’s favorite hour at the vizier’s villa. With dependable regularity she and the others of the orchestra were summoned to the central hall where the aromas of rich foods mingled in a delightful symphony of smells. As her fingers fell into the independent motions forged through long hours of practice, her ears sought the smooth sound of Efrayim’s baritone.
Today, like always, she found him. Over the past month she had managed to identify most of the major attendants at Zaphenath-paneah’s midday banquet, and she was quietly astounded that so few visitors came to socialize with the esteemed nobleman who had been so illustrious a vizier. She remembered that as a child she had been overwhelmed by the vast crowds who came to consult with the vizier—every day the banquet hall had echoed with new voices, strange accents and lilting languages from all over the known world. But now she regularly heard the voices of only four men: Tarik, captain of the guard; Ani, the aged steward; the vizier himself; and Efrayim.
As long as Efrayim was present, she tended to ignore the other three. They did not speak much anyway; Efrayim held, controlled and enlivened the conversation. His sparkling wit, the rich timber of his laughter, the subtle crescendo of his voice as he strove to make a point when debating with the steward or the captain—all these things she noticed. And though she could not see him, she was certain that in moments of strained silence when only her harp spoke, he looked at her…and remembered.
The memory of Efrayim’s kiss was now stronger than her recollection of Menashe on the riverbank. The elder son had vanished like a dream, no one at the vizier’s house even spoke of him. She could not discover exactly why his name had been obliterated from all conversations, but though the four men spoke of many things, they never referred to Menashe’s past, present or future.
She once asked Kesi if she found it odd that the members of the household behaved as if Menashe had never existed. “Grown men leave home and lead their own lives,” she answered flippantly. “You imagine too much, Jendayi.”
But Jendayi could see with other than physical eyes, and her spirit could not help but sense the thick cloud of disapproval that filled certain breaks in conversation, unexpected lulls in the laughter, conspicuous gaps in the questions of friends and relatives—all were empty spaces where Menashe’s name should have been.
Perhaps he deserved to be ignored, she told herself. After all, he had lied to her, and he was obviously engaged in serious wrongdoing if the noble Zaphenath-paneah had disowned him.
Yet though she still felt anger for the lies he had told her, another part of Jendayi’s heart squeezed in anguish as time passed and the obvious public omission of his name opened the door on memories she’d tried to lock away. How could the vizier pretend Menashe did not exist? How could any parent ignore a child? Had her mother, whomever she was, blotted out all memories of the daughter she birthed and then abandoned? Did she ever stop to sacrifice in the temple for Jendayi’s health or prosperity or light a lamp on the anniversary of Jendayi’s birth? Did she dream of standing in the Hall of the Two Truths and being eaten alive for her lack of love?
Jendayi heard the irritated snap of Akil’s fingers; she was rushing the beat. She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to slow down, and commanded her fingers to divorce themselves from her feelings. Just as she had ordered her heart not to think about Efrayim.
Efrayim had promised to arrange her release from Pharaoh’s house, and he had. But a month had passed and he had not spoken to her or sought out her company. She often took her harp into the garden alone, hoping he would seek her there, but he did not. Though Jendayi followed his voice every day in her blind darkness, she was no closer to being loved than she had been in Pharaoh’s palace. Yet here she had to endure the sting of jealousy, for the other female servants talked constantly of Efrayim, praising his charm, his wit, his attractive face and form. They twittered when he walked by while Jendayi sat in silence, awaiting some word of confirmation that he had acted on her behalf.
But in the uncomfortable silences and dirgelike conversations of the household she discovered one possible reason for Efrayim’s reluctance to approach her: Zaphenath-paneah’s household mourned. No one had to tell her that the former vizier had not accepted his fall from grace, for often the atmosphere within the villa was as heavy and desolate as a tomb. And while the father agonized, she assured herself, the son could not speak of love.
So s
he would have to wait, even though waiting demanded every ounce of patience Jendayi possessed. Since her return to the vizier’s house her nightmares had intensified; nearly every night she dreamed of standing before the scales of truth and watching her granite heart sink like a stone opposite the feather of Ma’at.
Just last night the ebony eyes of the jackal-god had blazed fire on her. “You are a waste of flesh and blood!” Anubis’s voice ripped through the Hall of the Two Truths like a screaming cyclone. “Why did we give you life? You are nothing, you have loved nothing, you have done nothing but waste the gods’ gift.”
“What did you want me to do?” she cried. “How do you expect me to find love as a slave? You may as well tell me to count the waves of the Nile!”
Anubis did not defend himself, for he was a god, and Thoth did not offer a word in reply. As Jendayi nervously tested the hold of the treacherous floor on her bare feet, Ammit crept forward, his crocodile head gleaming, his lion’s paws thick and heavy on the shining floor. Iron-willed and hard as steel, he bore down on her. She thrust her hands before her eyes, coveting her mortal blindness, while a high, shrill, piercing ring deafened her ears—
Her own scream. Kesi had awakened her, prying her from the terrible dream.
Now, in the scented banquet hall where blessedly mortal voices wrapped around her, Jendayi caressed the familiar strings of her harp and urged them to speak the secret language of her soul, soft sounds that would draw Efrayim to her side. And more than once, as she played with unusual brilliance, she felt a flush steal over her cheek…and knew he was watching.
While the other female musicians spent the hot afternoons in sleep or gentle conversation, Jendayi preferred the solitude of the walled garden. The spot was a favorite of Zaphenath-paneah’s, but he avoided it during the heat of the day so she did not worry about disturbing him. After dinner every afternoon, as the engorged guests retreated to their work or their chambers, she picked up her harp and slipped away from Kesi to find her way to the garden.