by Angela Hunt
She had reached the pavilion, and Yosef extended a hand to the empty chair at his side. “I am thrilled you have come.”
“Liar,” she whispered, sliding into the carved chair. She leaned back, allowing the heavy fullness of her wig to tip her chin toward him. “You never could lie, Yosef, that’s why Tuthmosis valued you so.” One corner of her mouth dipped. “I’m only sorry Amenhotep doesn’t value you in the same way. He is a good king, but he is not the man his father was.”
Yosef lowered himself to the edge of his chair. “Is that why you are here? To tell me what we both know about Pharaoh?”
“No.” She crossed her legs and leaned forward, one elbow resting on the arm of her chair. “You were at my side when Tuthmosis passed into the Other World, but I was unable to stand by you when your wife died. You were a very public figure then, and I couldn’t risk the rumors.”
“No need to explain.” Yosef cut her off with an uplifted hand. “I know the dangers of palace gossip.”
She nodded almost imperceptibly. “But I believed you did not need me. You had your sons to comfort you, and you had God Shaddai. But now, Yosef, you grieve and I wonder if you have either your sons or your god.”
Yosef’s jaw clenched as he rejected the softly spoken statement. “What do you mean? One son has left my house, just one, and God Shaddai would never leave me.”
Tuya’s face emptied and Yosef felt a sudden icy silence surround her. He had hurt her, but he didn’t care. Like a scolding mother, she had stepped out of her pristine palace to rebuke and comfort him when he did not need comforting or rebuking.
“God has not left you,” she went on in a strangled voice, turning her gaze toward the lotus blossoms in the pool, “but is it possible you have left Him? This is not like you, Yosef. I have never seen that look on your face, that anger in your eyes. I have heard about Menashe, I heard about your sacrifice. I thought perhaps you might feel as alone as I often do.”
A weight of sadness lay on her elegant face, and Yosef shuddered at the thought that he had put it there. “I am sorry, Tuya, to have caused you pain. Menashe has done much to hurt all of us, but I believe God will bring him home. And when Menashe returns, all things will be restored to the order of God’s will.”
“God’s will…or yours?” Tuya’s dark eyes brimmed with unquenchable warmth. “Think, Yosef, before you believe your own words. And know that I will not cease to pray for you.”
She straightened her shoulders, then stood and moved with regal elegance toward the house, leaving Yosef alone with his thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The desert sun stood proud in the white-blue sky, baking both man and beast in its heat haze. Efrayim shifted on his camel and slipped the reins from his sweaty left hand to his right. He and a bodyguard had taken one of his father’s boats from Thebes to Tura, then led two cantankerous camels from the ship and set off for Menashe’s rebel camp. Tarik’s last report placed it somewhere in the wilderness beyond the jagged mountains; Efrayim suspected he would find his rebellious brother and kinsmen at an oasis five miles south of his father’s house at Tura quarry.
Menashe was the root cause of their lives’ upheaval, and Efrayim was determined to confront him and end the havoc of the past few weeks. Because Menashe had defied the king and returned to war, Yosef had been dismissed from royal service. And lately it had become clear that because Zaphenath-paneah was vizier no longer, Efrayim would never be allowed to take Sitamun as his wife. Though there had been no formal announcement that Efrayim would not be accepted as a suitor, he knew such a match was inconceivable as long as Menashe remained outside Pharaoh’s will. But if the rebel would come back to Thebes and apologize to Pharaoh, everything could be made right.
The camel’s jolting gait had reduced Efrayim’s muscles to jelly, but he shifted in the saddle again and continued sorting through his thoughts. Menashe had to come to his senses; the fate of Egypt and the sons of Yisrael rested on his decision. The future had begun to unfold the way Efrayim thought it would—his father had withdrawn from leadership, leaving Efrayim in charge, just as Yaakov had foretold. Of course Efrayim hadn’t realized how quickly his father would falter, or how publicly he would lose his grip. Only four days before Yosef had demonstrated his deteriorating reason to the entire household; in broad daylight he had ordered the butchering of a perfectly healthy bull, then had offered a sacrifice that blackened the skies over Thebes and attracted every stray dog and cat within ten miles of the villa.
Efrayim had been at a party during the unprecedented event, but Ani, Tarik and a host of other servants had been quick to tell him of their concerns when he returned. Before the day ended he knew the slaves had spread the story at the wells, in the markets, on the streets. All of Thebes, probably all of Egypt, would soon know that the mighty Zaphenath-paneah’s wit had broken, and before long people would be praising the divine pharaoh for having wisdom enough to anticipate the tragedy.
And everything was Menashe’s fault.
Urging his camel into a trot, Efrayim forbade himself to lose his temper. He had not set out to quarrel with his brother, but to reason with him, to help him see the far-reaching folly of his actions. Perhaps news of the little harpist’s arrival at the villa could persuade Menashe to return to Thebes. If that enticement would not work, then a report of their father’s gory sacrifice might spur him homeward. Menashe imagined himself the deliverer of the Hebrews, after all, but he was doing little to help their cause and reputation by driving Yosef to outmoded sacrificial rites.
Menashe had to be turned away from his intention of making war. Rumors were rampant, Pharaoh was unhappy, the family was falling apart.
“There, master!” The guard behind him shouted and pointed toward the horizon. Just above the slope of sterile golden dunes, Efrayim caught sight of movement. The tents had been cleverly camouflaged to blend in with the sand, but in this heat the dancing image of huddled men proved impossible to ignore.
Efrayim kicked his heels against his mount’s side. “Onward, then.”
“You are fortunate my men didn’t kill you.” With his hands on his hips, Menashe paced back and forth, blocking the opening of his tent. “If you insist on coming, you must send word.”
Efrayim clenched his jaw to kill the retort in this throat. Locking his arms across his chest, he stared at his brother. “It is easier to come than to send a messenger, and my purpose cannot wait.”
“Your purpose?” Menashe stopped pacing, and amusement lurked in his eyes. “What new purpose could send you flying across the desert after me? Nothing has changed. You want me to ignore God’s call, and I will not.”
“You are flaunting Pharaoh’s wishes and breaking our father’s heart. He is not himself—”
“So I have heard.” Menashe spoke more quietly, and a muscle quivered at his jaw.
“Then come home.” Efrayim moved toward his brother, extending his hands in a desperate plea. “The way to peace and prosperity is through Egypt, can’t you understand? We are at peace here, and the Egyptians leave us alone. We can learn from each other, and in time we shall be like them—”
“That is the problem!” Sudden anger lit Menashe’s eyes. “You are blind to the truth, Efrayim, and so is our father. God Shaddai brought us here during the famine so we might be preserved, yes! But not only did He protect us from famine, He brought us to Egypt in order to keep us as the unique people of El Shaddai! We were torn from the idol-worshipping Canaanites—”
“A senseless argument, for the Egyptians worship idols,” Efrayim interrupted, clenching his fists.
“Not in Goshen,” Menashe countered. “Our people are isolated there, or at least we were until we began to plan cities and build brick houses. If we persist in remaining, it is only a matter of time before we adopt Egyptian gods. Today our uncles are building brick houses, tomorrow they will build brick temples and shrines. We must leave before we bow before idols, before we forget God Shaddai altogether.”
&nb
sp; Efrayim shook his head. “Well-spoken, Menashe, but you forget you are a son of Egypt, not Goshen, whether you like it or not. You have not forgotten our father’s god. And why would God Shaddai call you to lead the sons of Yisrael? He set our father aside to bring them to safety, and as long as our father lives, they shall be part of Egypt.”
“For an Egyptian, you sound very much like the Hebrews in Goshen.” Menashe raised his voice in a mimicking cry. “As long as Yosef lives, we shall remain here where the grass is rich and the river blesses our fields.” He paused, running his hands through his hair in a detached motion. “If they are comfortable, they will never leave. When Father dies, they will cling to someone else—you, perhaps. And after you, they will find someone else. And soon they will forget why they are remaining here, and they will hold fast to prosperity and comfort—”
“They will become powerful if peace is made,” Efrayim interrupted. “And if you will forget this nonsense and return to Thebes, I will be allowed to marry Sitamun—”
“You will never marry Sitamun.” Taking a deep, unsteady breath, Menashe lifted a warning finger. “You never will, not even if I surrender and crawl on my knees to declare myself Pharaoh’s slave. Can you not see how Queen Tiy fears us? She trembles in Father’s presence. She knows a mightier god than Amon-Re has blessed us. She would never allow a Hebrew to marry into the royal family, for the people adore Zaphenath-paneah. If the Egyptians grow disenchanted with Amenhotep’s dynasty, they might yearn for Father’s descendants to be their leaders. Tiy knows this.”
Efrayim snorted. “You are dreaming again.”
Menashe crossed his arms. “The Egyptians don’t care who rules over them as long as they are fed and not overtaxed. When the eastern Hyksos overran this land during the fifteenth dynasty, the Egyptians welcomed them with open arms. As long as the river flooded and the crops grew, they accepted the foreign kings as the gods’ will.”
Not knowing how to answer, Efrayim fell silent. As always, Menashe had prepared his arguments. But one truth, at least, he could not dispute. “Father wants you to come home. And because a good son honors his father, you must obey him.”
Menashe gave him a quick, denying glance. “I am doing my best to honor my father.” Turning to face the open door of his tent, he placed his hands on his hips. “I am honoring him by following his god. God Shaddai began a work in Yosef, and He calls me to continue it.”
Menashe’s words froze in Efrayim’s brain; from them a thought grew and flowered. “Then all this—” Efrayim gestured at the spears, shields and battle-axes piled around him in the tent “—is to prove yourself a worthy son. You are not here to win Canaan. You care nothing for those miserable Hebrews out there in the heat.”
“God called me,” Menashe answered.
Efrayim stepped closer as conviction took root within him. “You have always tried to prove yourself. You were always the show-off, the one who had to demonstrate your lessons, to prove you could throw a spear farther than me—”
“You are mistaken.”
Efrayim fingered the stubble on his chin. “It is all clear to me now. Yaakov gave me the blessing of his right hand, and now you feel you must prove yourself. Why else would you claim to have heard the voice of God? Your dream was not inspired by the Almighty. Your holy call was nothing but an invention of jealousy.”
“You…are…wrong!” Menashe spoke in a thick and unsteady voice, and Efrayim knew his words had struck his brother’s heart. Nothing could be gained now by pressing the issue; he would only drive Menashe to a fury that might prove dangerous for them both.
“War demands a high price of a man,” Efrayim whispered, moving close enough to place his hand on his brother’s back. Menashe flinched beneath his touch, but he did not pull away. “Think twice before you risk your life. You may think you are gaining Father’s respect, but what will you accomplish if you lose your life? The little harpist will have genuine cause for weeping if you do not return to Thebes. And more’s the pity, because she now waits for you in our father’s villa.”
He caught an expression of mingled wonder and fear on Menashe’s face, then Efrayim left the tent and mounted his camel for the long ride back to the river.
Alone in his tent, Menashe slapped his hand to his forehead and railed against Efrayim’s timing. Surely his visit was a trick of the Evil One, for on the morrow their band was to make its first foray into enemy lands. They were now a force of four hundred—two hundred Egyptian mercenaries and an equal number of Hebrews. Each man had his own reason for joining the force, but most had come for gold, glory or God.
As Menashe left his tent and walked among them, every eye gleamed with eagerness, every warrior’s belt held a winking sword that had been polished and honed to the sharpest possible edge. Imposing an iron control on his countenance and his emotions, he returned their salutes with a resolute nod. He could not afford to allow Efrayim or his father to upset him. When next the gold-veiled sunrise crept over the desert, he and his men would no longer be sons and brothers, but warriors on a divine mission, urged forward for God’s people and His purpose.
“Sons of Yisrael and our Egyptian comrades in arms!” Menashe shouted, climbing atop a smooth rock in the midst of the camp. “Tomorrow is the day! At sunrise we reenter the land of Canaan, we fight at Gerar, we begin to retake our homeland!”
“Listen to him!” Jokim yelled, hurrying to Menashe’s side as others spilled out of their tents. The men who had been sitting around the cookfires stood and folded their arms as Jokim continued. “The sons of Yisrael know their true place! The Hebrew homeland is Canaan, the land promised to Avraham, Yitzhak and Yaakov!”
The Hebrews cheered; the Egyptians and Nubian warriors looked nonplussed. Menashe caught sight of their confused expressions and smiled. “Never fear, my warrior friends,” he said, catching Abnu’s eye. That giant had been invaluable to their cause, for a mere glimpse of his assuring strength had silenced the quailing of many an anxious heart. “For when we attack on the morrow, the men of Gerar will flee as if before a bear out of the woods! They will run to Gaza with news of our strength, and the men of Gaza will run to Ashkelon and Ashdod, till all of Canaan knows we are coming back to live in the land God promised to Avraham and his descendants. And for you—” he extended his hand toward a knot of mercenaries standing nearby “—because your valiant hearts have not feared to join us in this endeavor, you shall be granted first choice among the spoils and captives. The bounty and plunder of Gaza, Ashkelon and Ashdod shall be yours. Then you shall return home to bedeck your wives and your concubines, and all who see you shall marvel at the riches won by your bravery.”
The Egyptians slapped each other on the back, enjoying their imagined success. Even the reserved faces of Abnu and his Medjay cohorts spread in wide grins, thoroughly enjoying the danger-excitement of the moment. Menashe had been surprised and a bit alarmed that so many Nubians left Thebes to join them, for Pharaoh’s captains must have noticed an obvious thinning of the royal troops. But if the king could not hold his warriors, he did not deserve them. As long as Amenhotep remained in his pleasure palace at Malkata, the valiant Medjays were as restless as penned bulls. They lived for battle, and probably considered this venture a mere exercise to sharpen their skills.
Menashe paused, waiting for the riotous merrymaking to cease. “When the battle is won, all of us shall know we heard and obeyed the voice of God Shaddai. It is His will that we be holy, and we have kept ourselves pure as we trained here. No women, no idols and no thievery have been allowed in this camp.”
Shouts of agreement rang from the hills; even the heathen Nubians nodded in earnest accord.
“It is the will of God that we be submissive,” Menashe continued, “to all the authorities except when they conflict with the voice of God Himself. And we have harmed no peaceful citizens of the desert, we have not stolen from the Bedouin in his tent or the temple priests who gather the offerings at the river shrines.”
The hurrahs
returned with a deafening surge of sound.
“But though Pharaoh and his vizier have asked us to abandon this holy cause,” Menashe went on, “sometimes God wills that we suffer.” Silence met this statement, followed by a murmur of dissent. Menashe softened his expression as he looked out on his men. “Yes, my brothers,” he said, his gaze meeting that of Zimri, the gentle youth who had learned how to throw a spear and wield an ax under Jokim’s tutelage. “When we obey God rather than men, we shall have to pay the price. On the morrow some of us will be injured. Some of us will give our lives in the fields of Gerar or, in days to come, in the streets of Ashkelon or Ashdod. But God is faithful. He will reward our suffering by bringing our wives and children into a green land flowing with milk and honey. That is the unchangeable, unshakable will of God. And all men, be they Hebrew or Nubian or Egyptian, will be blessed if they honor God Shaddai, the Holy One of Yisrael.”
The cheering began among the Hebrews first, then lifted from the throats of every man present, rising in great waves until the dunes rang with the sound. Menashe lifted his hands toward heaven in anticipation of victory, then led his men in a dance of praise. He twirled slowly at first, then increased his tempo, hoping to exhaust himself. He knew he would not sleep through the night to come.
With wary eyes, Hondo watched his dancing companions. Let them cheer and rant and rave. Let them expend their precious energy; they would not live long enough to restore it.
He and the twenty men he had recruited had been living with the rebel force for over a month. Though Hondo had kept to himself, quietly hiding his face from Abnu and the Hebrew leaders, no one had questioned his motives, timing or skill. He was a Medjay, so they supposed him faithful to Abnu; the foolish Hebrews had not stopped to think that he might actually be loyal to Pharaoh…and his queen.
His brow wrinkled with contemptuous thoughts as Zaphenath-paneah’s son trotted by, out of breath and delirious with adrenaline-fueled energy. That young imbecile should have known Hondo’s face and name, for he was one of the most skilled assassins in the entire Egyptian army. Zaphenath-paneah certainly knew of Hondo’s reputation, but apparently the vizier had never discussed the king’s special weapon with his son.