by Angela Hunt
One of the servants had described the garden’s design, so she knew the reflecting pool lay beyond the portico, and behind the pool stood the master’s pavilion. Around the pool, the servant told her, date-palms and dom-palms had been arranged with clumps of papyrus, while figs and sycamore mingled between those plantings. A host of flowers grew in planters near the water’s edge, red poppies and blue cornflowers, purple irises, white lilies and yellow chrysanthemums.
Jendayi could smell the biting scent of the chrysanthemums as her sandals clapped against the tile of the garden pathway. The servant had not told her that blue lotus blossoms floated in abundance on the surface of the pool; those beauties announced their own sweet presence. The lotus, long a symbol of rebirth and beauty in Egypt, was the Queen Mother’s favorite flower. Whenever the orchestra had been summoned to play for the regal Queen Tuya, the sweet scent of the flowers seemed to linger with Jendayi for days.
Her questing feet found the pavilion; she carefully managed the stairs and fumbled for the armrest of a chair. After seating herself, she paused a moment to listen. Water splashed near the pool, but those sounds came from the slaves watering the thirsty flowers. Except for the servants, she was alone.
Sweet silence. Nodding to herself, Jendayi pulled her harp to her chest and began to play a tune that had surfaced in her imagination during dinner. Two fanciful melodies had played themselves again and again in her head, and Jendayi knew they were meant to be played together, one voice complementing the other, one rhythm serving as a dynamic contrast to its mate. Like you and Efrayim, a little voice spoke in her head. He will teach you to love and you will teach him to…what?
Her hand slipped and she frowned, curling her mutinous fingers into a tight ball. Her body wouldn’t cooperate, one hand refused to play its melody independently. As a child she had easily managed the old trick of simultaneously patting her head and rubbing her stomach, but commanding one hand to play smoothly while the other plucked out a sharp, bright countermelody seemed as impossible as scratching her ear with her elbow.
“Why the frown, my dear?”
Jendayi flinched, startled. She must have been deep in concentration not to hear the old steward’s approach. But though he had surprised her, she was not afraid. His voice, as always, brimmed with concern.
“I’m sorry, master.” She ducked her head. She tried to rise and bow, but the harp stood in front of her.
“Do not bother with formalities here.” The old man sank into the empty chair beside her. His voice sounded tired. “What I heard of your song was lovely. So why do you frown?”
“It wasn’t all I meant it to be.” She slapped her hand against the strings, risking a small display of temper. “I hear the tune in my head and know how it ought to come out of my fingers, but they will not obey. If I can create it in my head, I ought to be able to play it.”
“The gods create us, but they cannot always bend us to their wills,” Ani answered, a surprising degree of warmth in his voice. “But they have given you a great gift. Except for the enchanting melodies you put there, no music would dare enter my weary head.”
The steward fell silent, and Jendayi felt her polite smile fade. He had not sought her out to talk about music. So why had he come to her?
Her whole being concentrated on sounds that might give her a clue, but she heard nothing but whispers of foot traffic drifting over the high walls of the garden and the soft lap of irrigation buckets scooping up the pool’s calm water.
Ani’s hoarse whisper finally broke the silence between them. “I thought you might like to talk about my master’s son.”
“Efrayim?” Anxiety spurted through her. Had Ani’s legendary insight uncovered her hopes? Had she, in an unguarded moment, allowed her face to reveal too much of her heart? She might have looked adoringly at Efrayim; the others might have seen and cast knowing looks toward one another. Perhaps the entire household was laughing at her! One of the worst things about blindness was missing the myriad ways people communicated through glances, gestures, expressions…
“Why would I speak to you of Efrayim?” The old steward spoke in a neutral tone, without inflection, but a warning voice whispered in Jendayi’s head. Was this a test?
“He is the only son here in the villa,” she answered, her adrenaline level beginning to rise. “And what I have heard here leads me to believe he is the only living son.”
“Bah! You and I both know the vizier’s elder son lives.” She heard the steward sigh. “Misery weighs on my heart like an iron weight, for Menashe has been like my own son for many years. He has often shared his heart with me, even more than with his father. The vizier, you understand, has always been busy with Pharaoh’s affairs.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, wincing at the tortured sound of his voice, “what this has to do with me.”
“Don’t you?” His short bark of humor lacked laughter. “Menashe told me of your…friendship with him.” The cold edge of irony crept into his voice. “He also told me you fancy yourself in love with Efrayim—on account of a kiss given years ago.”
Her cheeks burned. “I told him those things in confidence. He should not have told you.”
“I am his friend,” the old man continued as casually as if he discussed the grain harvest and not the critical state of Jendayi’s heart. “I know him better than anyone in this household. And because he considers you his friend, I thought perhaps I could help you.”
Fueled by hopeless anger, a ripple of mirth bubbled into her voice. “You are an old man,” she answered, trying to be respectful. “And though you love Menashe, he is gone, and you cannot bring him back. Apparently you could not even change his mind about leaving. So how can you help me?”
“I had thought to prevent your heart from being more blind than your eyes.” A thread of warning laced his voice. “If you truly love Efrayim, I cannot hope to command the passions of your heart. I love him myself. But because I have been like a father to both Zaphenath-paneah’s sons, I know their natures. And Efrayim will not make you happy, little harpist, no matter what your heart may tell you.”
“He will!” she blurted out. “He loves me, he can teach me to love.”
“Ah, my child.” The aged man’s hand came to rest on the top of her head, and Jendayi fought the impulse to jerk away. “Perhaps you live in an imaginary world. Certainly you hear things I cannot. But you are alone there. If you want to find love, you must seek it as resolutely as Isis sought the coffin of her beloved Osiris.”
How? She wanted to scream, but her pride kept her from crying out. She resisted, not speaking, and after a moment the pressure of his hand lifted and his sandals shuffled away over the marble tiles on the garden path.
How could she seek love? She was as helpless as a plant without water. She owned nothing, not even her freedom. She shuddered as the floodgates opened and her torment found its way out through her tears. She was a waste of flesh and blood. Nightly the gods railed at her, foretelling her destruction, and Jendayi could do nothing but agree that they had judged correctly.
Ani strolled slowly, watching his sandals fall on the smooth tiles of the garden path, his thoughts far away. Menashe had been foolish to lose his heart to such a faithless young girl, but love was often as unexpected as a midnight assassin.
In spite of Ani’s long-standing resolve not to dwell on the past, his mind returned to his youth. Long before he came to Zaphenath-paneah’s villa, he had fallen in love with a young slave called Salihah. A slim, graceful beauty, she had stolen his heart in just one look. They worked together for weeks, each one shyly loving the other through tender words and teasing glances, until the master took Salihah to his chamber. She resisted his advances and in his anger he cut her face, marring her loveliness forever. As a helpless, primitive grief overwhelmed Ani, the steward of the estate took Salihah away and sold her as damaged goods at a slave auction.
Ani never saw or heard from Salihah again. Yet even now, when he had time for introspect
ion, his vision colored with memories of the woman with whom he had shared only a few words, a score of stolen smiles and one brief caress as their hands touched. Through the shadow of memory, one terrible, gnawing thought haunted him: had he unwittingly been the instrument of her destruction? Did she resist the master for Ani’s sake?
A slave, he decided after many restless nights, should not risk loving anyone. And because he adored both Efrayim and Menashe, he did not want either of them to hurt the little harpist and suffer the guilt he had borne for a lifetime.
At the sharp smell of burning wood, Ani lifted his head. The odor of burning wood usually meant that a clumsy kitchen slave had allowed a grease fire to get out of hand. He sniffed the air and frowned. The scent was not coming from the area of the kitchens, but from the front of the villa.
In a zigzag crouch Ani raced to the courtyard. Tarik’s guards would certainly have the situation under control, but Ani wanted to vent his displeasure. The household could not afford to squander valuable materials now…
He rounded the corner and stared wordlessly across the open space of the courtyard, his heart pounding. The fire was not accidental. Ani had never seen anything like the sight which greeted his bleary eyes.
Zaphenath-paneah stood in the center of the courtyard before a towering formation of lumber piled waist-high. Thirsty flames licked the base of the dry wood, tonguing high into the shimmering air. Behind the master, a host of wide-eyed guards stood at attention. A line of slaves stood to one side, their linen kilts stained with blood, their biceps bulging under the weight of loaded bowls and trays.
Ani was barely able to control his gasp of surprise when he realized that the servants carried the butchered remains of a bull. The last bowl, he noted with distaste, brimmed with blood.
Surprise siphoned words from his tongue. Had the master lost his sanity? Though the Egyptian cult of Apis venerated the bull, the priests accomplished all things decently and in accordance with the prescribed order of rituals, not in the center of a courtyard and certainly not in the most extreme heat of the day. The sacred bulls—those with a white crescent on one side of their bodies or a black lump under their tongues—were considered the offspring of Ptah, born of virgin cows and destined for a life of service in the temple. The priests of Ptah cared for the bulls for twenty-five years, then quietly drowned and embalmed them.
A rise of panic threatened to choke Ani as he stared at the bloody scene. Never would a priest of Ptah consider such a violent act. And Zaphenath-paneah, who devoutly worshipped the invisible and almighty god of the Hebrews, had never spoken of Ptah. In all the winding length of Ani’s memory, Zaphenath-paneah had never, ever offered a sacrifice—particularly one as gruesome as this.
“What should we do?”
Startled by Tarik’s voice, Ani glanced up. Intense astonishment was also inscribed on the captain’s tanned face.
“He gave you no warning?” Ani whispered, sneaking another glance at his master. “There was no hint of what he had in mind?”
Tarik jerked his chin toward the vizier. “This morning he asked for a bull, free from blemish,” he answered, locking his hands behind his back. “Then he instructed the kitchen slaves to butcher the entire animal, reserving no part of it for themselves or for dinner. Even the blood has been caught.”
“I noticed,” Ani remarked, his voice flat.
Tarik lifted an eyebrow. “Have you ever seen anything like this? You are a wise and learned man, you should know what he is doing.”
“It may be a Hebrew custom, but I know nothing of it.” Ani’s voice faded to a hushed stillness as the master stepped back and lifted his hands.
A tense silence enveloped the courtyard; even the nesting birds on the rim of the villa’s walls ceased their warbling. Zaphenath-paneah closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the blue vault of heaven. “El Shaddai, god of Avraham, Yitzhak and Yaakov,” he prayed, his voice breaking. “Forgive, I beg you, the sins of this household, of my sons. For You have taken Your blessing from us, and we are lost without You.”
Ani searched for the meaning behind the words. Zaphenath-paneah was the wisest man in the kingdom, the spirit of a god rested on him always, everyone said so. So how could he believe his god had deserted him?
Lowering his hands, the vizier opened his eyes, then took two sizable hunks of raw, wounded meat from the first servant’s bowl and tossed them into the flames. “Without the shedding of blood there is no pardon for sin.” His eyes remained on the flames as his hands moved again from the bowl to the fire, offering other portions of meat to the sizzling inferno. “And just as I have ordered that the entire bull shall be offered unto You, with nothing held back, know that my entire household shall be dedicated to You, O God Shaddai.”
The line of servants continued forward, each man bearing his burden in silence as Zaphenath-paneah emptied each tray or bowl onto the altar. The pungent aromas of roasting meat and sizzling fat permeated the air. Finally, as the last servant offered the bowl of blood, Zaphenath-paneah took it and held it high above his head, then moved around the fire, spattering the lower logs with the crimson liquid.
When the last drop of blood had been spilt, the master clasped his bloodstained hands in front of his once-spotless robe and bowed his head. “The sacrifice has been offered as Noah and Avraham and Yaakov offered it,” he said. “May God forgive those of my household who have sinned.” After a moment of silence, he lifted his head. His powerful dark gaze raked the gathering until he found Ani and Tarik.
“See that no one disturbs the offering,” he commanded, moving toward them. “Absolutely nothing is to be eaten, all is to be consumed by the fire.”
Tarik lifted his arm in salute. “Yes, my lord.”
The master nodded and moved through the crowd, but the nagging fears in the back of Ani’s mind refused to be stilled as Zaphenath-paneah stalked away.
Three days passed with snail-like slowness while Yosef waited for word of Menashe’s repentance and return. He had offered his sacrifice with every expectation that God would honor a public confession and humiliation, and yet there had been no sign that his erring elder son had experienced a change of heart.
Breakfasting in the garden, Yosef waved away the slaves who lingered with fresh wine and steaming loaves of sweet lotus bread. He had not touched the dainties on the tray before him; his appetite had disappeared days before. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone with his thoughts.
The king’s disdainful dismissal had left him reeling, but Yosef was now certain the situation was God’s call for him to set his house in order. Efrayim had pointed out something Yosef had been too upset to see—trouble did exist between Yosef and Amenhotep, and that trouble was Menashe. This ignoble discharge had to be a direct result of Menashe’s rebellious actions, and once Menashe had seen the error of his ways, things would certainly be set right. And so Yosef had humbled himself and offered a sacrifice like those of his forefathers, doubtless shocking his household and the nobles of Thebes, but worth every rumor and uplifted eyebrow if God worked and sent Menashe home to repent…
Tarik’s frantic voice nudged Yosef out of his musing.
“Hail to the Mother of Egypt,” the captain of the guard called, his voice hoarse with surprise and urgency. “She who is the Most Favored Lady, the Graciousness of the Nile, the Beginning-of-the-Divine-King desires an audience with you, Zaphenath-paneah.”
Yosef took a quick breath and turned toward the portico where Tarik had fallen prostrate on the tile. Two of the palace guards stood there facing each other with the tall, graceful figure of Amenhotep’s mother, Queen Tuya, between them.
For a moment the sight did not register on Yosef’s dazzled senses. The Queen Mother had gone into seclusion after her son’s marriage, forfeiting her own enormous popularity in order to allow her son and his wife to hold first place in the people’s devotion. She rarely left her apartments in the palace, and never went about in the streets of Thebes. But here she was, her lumi
nous eyes fastened to Yosef’s face, regarding him with a look that drove his breath from his body.
Tearing his gaze from hers, Yosef rose from his chair and slipped to the floor, a wave of despair crashing over him as he felt the warmth of the sun-warmed tiles on his hands. By heaven above, what had she heard? She must have thought him near death if urgency had compelled her to come to him.
“Rise, Zaphenath-paneah.” Her voice rang with an infinitely compassionate tone, and Yosef’s soul shrank from the sound of it. Pity? He had never accepted pity from any man, and would not welcome it from a woman, even one he had loved.
He rose and stared at her. She wore a short, full wig, a surprisingly youthful style for a woman of over fifty years, and her graceful figure had ripened to a womanly fullness. Uncommon delicacy and strength mingled in her lovely face; color lingered in her sweetly curved lips. On her pale face she wore the fine lines of age with a serene elegance; time had not diminished her beauty.
“Leave us, please,” she said. Instantly the pair of warriors moved from the shade of the portico into the house and, after an instant’s hesitation, Tarik followed them. The lingering slaves who carried the remains of Yosef’s breakfast took their cue from the departing men and scurried away like rodents.
Yosef searched for words and found none. Reading the surprise on his face, Tuya smiled and strolled from the portico to the garden pathway. “I am afraid I have put you at a disadvantage.” She folded her hands as she glided over the walkway. “Perhaps I should have sent word that I would come.”
Yosef inclined his head. “My villa is always open to you.”
“I appreciate the welcome,” she answered. “Though I am not sure you are happy to see me.”