by Angela Hunt
“Hear me, sons of Zaphenath-paneah!” a voice called from outside the house. “We are the warriors of Pharaoh’s guard, and we have surrounded this place. There is no avenue of escape, no hope of recourse unless you return with us to Thebes and face your queen.”
Menashe shot Efrayim an inquiring look, his mouth tight and grim under his beard. “This is not your fight,” he said. “Let me go out to them. I will surrender, and you can help the others escape after I have gone.”
“He said the ‘sons of Zaphenath-paneah.’” Efrayim moved to his brother’s side. “They know we are together. They know we will defend each other.”
“Will we?” Menashe asked, one eyebrow lifting.
“We will.” Efrayim pulled his own dagger from his kilt. It was an ornamental blade, not very practical in a duel and even less useful in a situation of war. But if his instincts proved true, Menashe would not allow this confrontation to end with blows. He would not put the harpist in harm’s way.
Menashe squinted, then turned to look at Jokim and Jendayi. The wounded man lay as still as if he already slumbered in death’s embrace, and the young woman trembled. Only the Nubians and Ani, distracted by his ministrations, seemed unaffected by the situation outside.
“We cannot risk a fight.” Menashe lowered his sword. “They would kill the others, and I cannot have the blood of Ani and Jendayi on my hands. I would give my life for either of them. I cannot ask them to die on account of my stubbornness.”
“That is the wisest thing you have said all day.” Efrayim sheathed his own blade, then walked to the doorway and lifted his hands. A dozen warriors waited outside, their swords drawn and their eyes narrowed.
“Hail, you of the royal guards,” Efrayim called, stepping out into a bright rectangle of sunlight. He frowned, finding it hard to believe that a few weeks ago any one of these men would have given their lives for him. “My brother and I surrender to you. Take us to your queen, only let the others in this house depart in peace.”
The commander jerked his head toward Efrayim. As half a dozen men came forward with ropes, Efrayim heard labored breathing behind him. Menashe had joined him on the portico.
Efrayim flinched as a pair of warriors tied his bonds too tightly in enthusiastic zeal. “Are you doing this for her?”
“For her, for Ani and for you.” Sweat beaded on Menashe’s upper lip as the same energy was applied to his wounded flesh.
As soon as the brothers were bound, the commander climbed the steps of the portico and looked into the chamber. “Bring the others, too,” he told his men.
“Not the girl!” Menashe thrashed in the grips of two burly guards. “My brother and I surrendered. You must let the others go!”
The commander shot a bright grin of amusement over his shoulder. “I made no such promise.”
A barge transported the prisoners to Malkata instead of the royal house at Thebes, and Efrayim felt the nauseating sinking of despair as the boat turned into the royal harbor on the western bank of the Nile. He had not spoken to Sitamun in several weeks. All his messages had been ignored or returned, and he doubted she would be allowed to leave her royal apartments at Thebes if the queen was truly intent on keeping them apart.
But a constant hope burned in his heart, for surely love could find a way to unite them. With a single private word in Sitamun’s ear he could assure her of his devotion and steadfast heart. Did she still think of him? With a woman as bright and flirtatious as Sitamun, one could never be too sure of oneself, but perhaps even at Malkata he could bribe a guard or servant to carry a message to his love.
He bit his lip as he surveyed the royal harbor. As he had suspected, the queen’s barge was tied to the dock; her royal standard fluttered and snapped from the highest mast. Farther down the dock, like an ostracized relative, stood the gilded barge which had once hoisted the regal standard of the vizier. His father’s boat.
Turning his back to the docks, Efrayim crossed his arms as a new anguish seared his heart. The realization that Yosef would have to observe his sons’ trial and disgrace wounded Efrayim as deeply as the thought that he might have to surrender his hope of marrying the love of his life.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Their father waited at the palace gate. Menashe’s steps slowed when he recognized Yosef’s somber profile and proud bearing, and even Efrayim seemed to stutter on the path. Memories opened before Menashe’s eyes as if a curtain had been ripped aside, and for a moment he and Efrayim were small again, compelled by Ani or Tarik to face their father and suffer the consequences for some mischief they had committed. Menashe’s knobby knees knocked with fear; Efrayim’s chubby face twisted in a spasm as he bent forward and declared that he would have to relieve himself before he could go one step farther…
The memory vanished in a sepia haze. If only they could go back.
Menashe lifted his eyes to his father’s face. The past weeks had carved a new series of lines about Yosef’s eyes and forehead, diminishing the impression of strength. A muscle clenched along that chiseled jaw as Yosef’s gaze met Menashe’s. He did not speak, but hurt and longing lay naked in his eyes.
“Zaphenath-paneah.” One of the guards stepped forward and bowed his head in a perfunctory salute. “Your sons are commanded to appear before Pharaoh.”
“I know.”
Menashe winced. His father’s voice, which had once rung with the power to command ten thousand men, now seemed empty and deflated.
Yosef moistened his dry lips. “My sons will appear, but the old man and the girl are of no interest to Pharaoh. The two slaves are mine. Release them so they may return to my house.”
Menashe looked at the ground, knowing what the guard’s answer would be. “I can’t,” the guard snapped, leaning on the security of his spear. “The slaves are runaways. They must be tried with the two malefactors.”
“No,” Menashe groaned through stiff lips.
His protest was useless. The palace gates opened, and without a further word or gesture, Yosef folded his hands and turned, walking forward with a steady and even tread, clothed in his spotless vizier’s robe and the rags of his dignity.
The guards who had escorted Menashe and Efrayim untied their prisoners’ hands and fell back, knowing the captives could not run. Efrayim followed Yosef while Menashe limped beside him. Behind the brothers, a pair of guards pulled Jendayi and Ani forward. As Menashe moved toward the throne room he bitterly reflected that his stubbornness might yet result in the destruction of everyone he loved.
Throngs of nobles, supplicants and visiting kings waited outside in the vestibule, but the sea of sycophants parted as Zaphenath-paneah approached the gilded double doors. A pair of trumpets blared, a chamberlain announced the former vizier’s presence, and the doors swung open. As one, the waiting supplicants fell to their knees and bowed, lest some ray of the divine pharaoh’s presence fall on them. Tense with anticipation, Menashe stumbled forward, walking in the wake of bewildered and curious looks directed at his father.
The long, narrow throne room, pillared by columns painted to resemble lotus blossoms on luxurious stems, was lit by high clerestory windows that allowed bright light, not heat, to enter the stone sanctuary. Pharaoh’s artists had painted his throne room with scenes of Amenhotep and Queen Tiy in scenes of familial bliss: conversing with the gods, entertaining their many children, cavorting in the garden. As he progressed toward the dais at the end of the room, Menashe let his eyes roam over the paintings, wondering if he would see some representation of Jendayi among the dancers, musicians and slaves depicted in service to the royal family. He sighed in relief when he did not find a harpist pictured on the wall. Perhaps Pharaoh had forgotten—and would forget—all about the girl.
Surely the enormous throne room had never been more crowded. As Zaphenath-paneah and his sons passed by, men and women stood silent and as still as portraits, their black eyes glittering like polished obsidian. Armed soldiers, nobles, priests and scribes stared, watching the Hebre
ws like a snake watches a rabbit. The muscles in Menashe’s arms tightened involuntarily when he thought of those stares fixing on Jendayi, who followed behind him. Silently he thanked God that she could not see their darkly accusing eyes.
Finally they reached the platform where Pharaoh perched on the edge of a chair covered with gold, his expression petulant and bored. At Pharaoh’s right hand sat Neferkheprure’ Wa’enre’, the crown prince; Queen Tiy sat in the gilded chair at his left. Members of the king’s bodyguard stood at attention behind the thrones, their spears at the ready. Behind the queen’s guards sat a bevy of her daughters and handmaids; a similar group of counselors and priests lingered behind the divine king.
Menashe had stood in the throne room a dozen times before, but today the position of the royal family members had changed. Sitamun, whose former place had been behind the queen with the other royal daughters, now stood immediately behind the king’s chair, her hand resting on his bronzed shoulder. Haunted by the suspicion that Tiy wanted to foment trouble, Menashe squinted toward the queen. What could this mean? Had Sitamun been brought forward in order to provoke Efrayim?
Menashe cast a quick look at his brother. The significance of Sitamun’s new position was not lost on Efrayim, for his brows drew together in an agonized expression, then a congested expression settled on his face. He must have felt Menashe’s gaze, for he turned and tried to smile, but his features only flinched.
“She has done it,” he whispered in a voice so low only Menashe could hear. “The queen was too afraid of us, frightened of the people we might become.”
“What has she done?” Menashe asked, frowning.
Efrayim stared at the queen, amused resentment evident in the slight curl of his upper lip. “You have been away, you have not heard. Pharaoh took another royal bride a few days ago. The marriage was arranged on Pharaoh’s behalf by the Mother of Egypt herself.”
Menashe shook his head, his thoughts confused. “Who is the bride?” he asked, searching for an unfamiliar face among the royal women.
“Don’t you see? Tiy is afraid Amenhotep or the crown prince will lose the throne if one of her daughters marries an outsider. She’s afraid of us. Sitamun is Pharaoh’s new bride.”
Menashe blanched. Though it had long been reported that Egyptian royalty approved incestuous marriages in order to avoid diluting the divine royal bloodline, he knew of no such marriages within his lifetime. Until now.
His heart twisted as he looked at Sitamun. He might not live through the day, but at least he had been able to tell Jendayi of his love. But Sitamun, now a royal consort, would never taste anything of the world beyond the royal harem and the palace walls.
The crowd caught its breath in an audible gasp as Pharaoh lowered the ceremonial crook and flail. At this signal, Yosef stepped forward and prostrated himself before Pharaoh.
“Rise, Zaphenath-paneah.” There was a note of regret that went beyond nostalgia in Pharaoh’s voice.
Yosef stood and met the king’s gaze, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes silent pools of appeal. The Gold of Praise, the ornate chain symbolizing Pharaoh’s favor, hung about his neck, a visible reminder that he had once been a valuable counselor.
As the king lifted the crook and flail, silence fell on the stirring crowd like a dampening cloak. “I have no quarrel with you, Zaphenath-paneah.” Pharaoh frowned. “It is your elder son who must answer to my will.”
As if on cue, the high priest of Amon-Re stepped forward. “Menashe! Your king the divine pharaoh summons you!”
Menashe lowered himself to the floor as quickly as his bruised body would allow.
“You, Menashe, son of Zaphenath-paneah, stand accused of treason,” the priest recited as Menashe lifted his head and shoulders. From lowered lids, Amenhotep shot a commanding look at him, and Menashe found it hard to believe he knelt before the same man he and his family had dined with so many times. There was nothing of the genial father and host about Amenhotep now. In this room he was king, Pharaoh of Egypt, and nothing else.
“You have conspired to commit acts of war,” the priest went on, reading from a parchment scroll. “You have defied the authority of your father, Zaphenath-paneah, Egypt’s noble vizier. You lured the king’s warriors from their places of service. You have waged war and brought death on loyal Egyptian warriors.” The king’s glare burned through Menashe as the priest looked up with one final question. “Have you anything to say in your defense?”
Menashe licked his swollen lips and looked up through his half-closed eyelids. He wanted to rise but feared he would fall, so he remained on his knees.
“Life, prosperity and health to you, mighty Pharaoh!” He felt himself wavering, and put a hand out to Efrayim’s shoulder for support. “If it please the king, know that I did conspire to return my people to their homeland, but I acted in accordance with a command from God Shaddai, the Almighty God of Yisrael, whom I must obey before any man on earth. I did ask one Medjay warrior to assist me, and others followed him in hope of spoils. But we did not wage war on Egyptians. Another enemy rose up in the night and slaughtered half my company. My god and my comrades know that as of this hour I have not turned my sword against any man, not even in self-defense.”
The king’s painted eyes remained as expressionless as a hawk’s while the queen regarded Menashe with impassive coldness. Menashe inclined his head, knowing they had not finished with him.
Tiy lifted an imperious finger toward the priest. “Read the other charge.”
The bald man shuffled for another scroll and cleared his throat. “Efrayim, younger son of Zaphenath-paneah,” the priest droned. “You stand accused of rushing to aid your brother as he did rise up in treason against this throne. You have also taken liberties with a princess of the royal family—”
Sitamun flinched.
“—and conspired with ruthless ambition to take the throne of Egypt for yourself and your posterity.”
Efrayim’s eyes glowed with a savage inner fire. “Not true!”
“Did you not tell my daughter that Egypt could grow great under the influence of Avraham’s offspring?” Tiy hissed, leaning forward.
“But I never did conspire to take the throne! And I journeyed to meet my brother in an attempt to stop him, not join him!”
“Silence!” Pharaoh held up his jeweled hand. Behind him, the two young viziers watched, their faces clouded with anxiety.
A murmur of voices, a palpable unease, crept through the room as the king considered his judgment. Menashe understood Pharaoh’s predicament. If the king condemned him for obeying the voice of God Shaddai, Amenhotep would face severe criticism from the priests who claimed that the gods could and did speak to men. Furthermore, Menashe had not actually injured any Egyptians, nor had his men participated in a battle. Finally, Pharaoh could not forget that Menashe was the elder son of Zaphenath-paneah, the Bread of Life, who still enjoyed enormous popularity with the people.
The accusations against Efrayim were as worthless as chaff, but his fate would rest on Menashe’s. By marrying his daughter, Pharaoh had eliminated the danger posed by Efrayim’s wooing of Sitamun. And if Pharaoh decided that Menashe had not committed treason, the charge of conspiracy would be a moot point.
But Menashe’s heart sank with swift disappointment as he considered an undeniable and dreadful question. How could a divine king acknowledge that a mightier god had the right to command men to disobey the Voice of Egypt, the physical incarnation of Horus and Amon-Re? Pharaoh could not. Admitting that a mightier god than himself existed would be tantamount to admitting Amenhotep was no god at all, only a puffed-up godling with dreams of divinity…
Queen Tiy’s voice, velvet-edged but strong, broke the silence. “If I may speak, my king—” she inclined her head toward him in a stiff gesture “—your decision seems to rest on motive. Did the sons of Zaphenath-paneah act out of a sincere desire to follow their god, or did they choose to indulge in war for the sake of rebellion?”
Amen
hotep glared at Menashe from beneath his paint-lined eyelids. “You are right.”
“I know you have already discerned the truth, for you are god.” The queen continued in a voice as cool as water. “But if this god of the Hebrews has the power to command men to disobey Pharaoh, why not let Him reveal His will in a physical manifestation? Amon-Re rides across the sky every morning, Hapi pours her floodwaters forth to bless our land. Surely this God Shaddai can do something to reveal Himself to your people.”
Menashe stared at the queen while the chamber buzzed with whispers. What sort of insanity was this? Even Pharaoh’s face was as blank as a slab of marble.
Realizing that the king did not understand, Tiy continued. “Your game of Hounds and Jackals,” she said, her eyes bathing him in admiration. “The tiles out in the garden. Let the brothers play against each other. Menashe says he had to obey the powerful God Shaddai, Efrayim says he was trying to stop Menashe. How could this god send one brother to make war and the other to stop it? One of them lies, so let them play the game. At the conclusion, all who are assembled here will know the winner spoke the truth.”
Pharaoh’s face brightened. The idea of sparing one of Zaphenath-paneah’s sons obviously appealed to him.
“What shall the winner win?” Sitamun’s high, silvery voice rang through the anxious whispers in the room, and Menashe glanced toward her in surprise. Her wide eyes, filled with longing regret, had fixed on Efrayim as if she had just realized she might lose her flattering suitor forever.
“The winner shall save his life,” Pharaoh answered, voice rumbling through the chamber. “And as an added prize—” He glanced about the room, his bright eyes bobbing for some treasure within his power to bestow, then he pointed past Menashe. “The winner shall have her!”