by Angela Hunt
You have not loved! She had developed an uncanny sense of hearing; now she heard Anubis’s accusation as if it came to her on an inner pulse that had nothing to do with the anxious crowd around her.
“I tried to!” she whispered, wringing her hands. “And I will! If given the chance, I will love him who first loved me!”
Stupid girl! The darkness enveloping her congealed and shifted; Anubis’s shadowy face took on shape and thickness. The jackal looked at her with narrow, glinting eyes. You are too late! Menashe will die here today, and you will be lost. And so we must surrender you to Ammit.
“No,” she whimpered over her choking, beating heart. “Menashe will not die. You have no power over him. And he loves me.”
He lies.
“No! He does. I don’t know why, but he does.”
He will die here, Jendayi. Already he is losing the game. The archers stand ready, they will shoot at Pharaoh’s command, and you will be given to the one who does not love you.
“No!”
The jackal’s curling fangs seemed to lift in a smile. Perhaps there is a way you and Menashe can be together. Run, Jendayi, toward the queen’s chair. Pharaoh wears a dagger in his belt, take it and strike the queen. You cannot hope to harm her, for the guards will strike you down as soon as they guess your intention. But you will die in the same hour as your love, and together you shall enter into the Other World. If you love, prove yourself. And thus you may save yourself from Ammit.
Hideously alluring, the jackal’s suggestion fluttered through her thoughts. She knew where the royal couple sat; she could hear Tiy’s shrill nasal tones through the voices of the gathering. Anubis was right—the guards would be on her as soon as she neared the dais, and she would be helpless to fend off any blow…
And Menashe was losing. She could tell by the low murmurs of the crowd that followed Tarik’s toss of the knucklebones. He would die today, so she could precede him into the Hall of the Two Truths.
Quietly, she let her hand fall from Ani’s cloak. He didn’t seem to notice.
She turned to face the royal pavilion. Her questing fingers felt the cordoning rope, but it was merely decorative; she could slip under it in a heartbeat. If she ran, she could be on the steps of the pavilion before Tarik had to take another turn.
A tight knot within her begged for release; was this not the answer she sought?
Her thoughts turned toward Menashe, whose name echoed in the stillness of her mind. She recalled the rhapsody of being held in his strong arms, the comfort his words had brought her troubled heart. “If you will trust me, your heart will begin to live,” he had promised. “Defeat your dream now, Jendayi. Have faith in me…and in my God Almighty.”
Menashe would not want her to die. Menashe had urged her to defeat her nightmare, to believe in his love, to trust that he would return for her. And he had promised that he would, with the help of his Almighty God.
If she loved him, she would believe him.
“I will not do this,” she whispered, turning back to the dark image of Anubis. “Menashe worships another god. At the end of my mortal life, I choose to stand before Him.”
You are forever a fool, you are truly blind.
Snatches of cheers and the raucous sounds of laughter filled the air, noises from the progressing game, but Jendayi could not tear her inner eyes from the jackal’s face.
Menashe’s love is as invisible as the god he serves. Has he ever kissed you like Efrayim?
“No,” she admitted in a broken whisper.
Didn’t he leave you in Pharaoh’s house? He went away, not caring what happened to you!
“He went away…to obey. He would have come back for me. He did come back.”
As a traitor. Surrender your life to his god, and you are lost to us forever. You shall not again enter the Hall of the Two Truths, you will never pass through these portals into the Other World.
Suddenly all the formulas, incantations and rituals seemed a senseless and heavy burden. Why not surrender their uncertainty and falseness in exchange for faith in one who loved her?
“Go from me, I will never seek to please you again!”
An indescribable softening took place within her as she uttered the words. She smiled as a warm light permeated the dark recesses of her soul. “I will never again place my heart within the pan of your scales, Anubis. Another god shall judge my heart…and another man shall claim it.”
The darkness before her eyes swirled in a fierce churning of textures, then the figure of Anubis retreated into inky blackness. Shaken, Jendayi reached out, half expecting to find that the physical world had dissolved away, too, but her groping fingers found Ani’s thin arm at her side.
Just then the assembly erupted in a collective groan.
“What has happened?” she asked, afraid to hear the answer.
Ani paused. “Menashe has been catching up. They are both three tiles away from the Shemu square.” Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “Neither player has moved in several turns. Whichever man first rolls a three will win.”
Jendayi tightened her grasp on the old man’s arm, fully understanding what he had not said. Whichever player did not roll a three would die.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was Sitamun’s turn to roll, Efrayim’s turn to move. Smirking in confidence, Pharaoh’s newest queen picked up the bones and blew on them for luck. Bored with the lull in the action and aware that every eye had focused on her, she transferred the bones to one hand, then mimicked the vizier’s captain and lifted her head and hands as if pausing in prayer.
She heard Pharaoh chuckle behind her and several of her ladies-in-waiting twittered. Sitamun kept up the pretense, doggedly moving her lips in a nonsense incantation, the bones sharp against her palm.
The crowd began to snicker. Sitamun lifted one eyelid to peek at her father’s former vizier. Beside his steward and the little harpist, Zaphenath-paneah stood as motionless as an idol, his head bowed, his eyes closed. His lips did not move, but Sitamun knew he was praying to his god in earnest.
She tired of the game. Efrayim had been a irresistible diversion, a pleasant way to aggravate her parents and the stuffy Hebrew vizier. But now she was a queen, and no longer a child.
She would never be a child again.
“For Amon-Re!” she cried, lowering her head. She opened her hand; the bones clanged into the pan.
“Two!” called the vizier.
Bored now with Efrayim, the game and her life, Sitamun crossed her arms and frowned in bitter fury.
Menashe noticed Sitamun’s restlessness; so, undoubtedly, had Efrayim. The game was nearly over, and the thin layer of his brother’s bravado had worn away. Efrayim might be willing to accept God’s will in principle, but Menashe was certain his brother did not want to die. And Efrayim would be good to Jendayi; perhaps he would even grant her freedom.
Menashe lifted his eyes to Tarik and held the captain in his gaze. One of Tarik’s brows shot up in a mute question, and Menashe blinked, signaling his wishes. Tarik frowned in wordless protest, but Menashe nodded again and tilted his head toward the area where his father stood with Ani and Jendayi.
He would do this for them. And for Efrayim, the favored son who carried Yaakov’s best and brightest blessing.
Tarik lifted the bones and rattled them in his palm, but Menashe knew they would not fall into the pan this time. Tarik would do as Menashe wished and drop them onto the ground, effectively surrendering the game to his opponent.
Perhaps God had spared him in the desert so he could rescue Efrayim now.
Tarik’s granite chin quivered. He extended his hand over the pan, then shifted his weight and moved his hand away. Opening his palm, he dropped the bones into the sand at his feet.
Efrayim’s features twisted into a horrified expression of disapproval. “No!”
“Menashe forfeits, Efrayim wins!” the vizier cried, signaling the archers.
Tiy stiffened in shock as the captain threw the bones
to the ground. If she’d had a moment’s warning she might have forbidden the man to end the game this way, but she had never expected the captain to sacrifice Zaphenath-paneah’s elder son.
She leaned forward as the archers advanced, then lifted her hand to shade her eyes. The sun had shifted, casting a pallid light over the gathering. The crowd stirred, then an odd coldness settled over the area, a darkly textured sensation like a gust of wind from the Other World. As voices shrieked in rising confusion, a whirlwind materialized from the paling sky and towered over the garden in a sullen yellow spout, bellowing over their heads like a river crocodile in mating season.
The claws of the wind snatched wigs and ornaments from the heads of men and women alike, including Pharaoh, forcing a frantic priest to dive for a covering with which to cover the sacred royal head. Across the garden, the sharp and brittle snap of wood cracked through the roaring noise. Tiy trembled in hypnotized horror as the funnel attacked the archers’ bows and arrows, then moved on to snap Pharaoh’s beloved acacia trees as easily as toothpicks.
Windblown sand scoured her cheek and blew between her teeth; she opened her lips to scream, but a mouthful of dirt and hot air rushed in to prevent her. Whimpering like a lost child, Tiy threw her arms over her head and sank to the ground, cowering before the fierce presence of the pirouetting whirlwind. The great current of roaring air drove everyone around her to their knees, then swirled overhead like an angry, warring creature waiting to breathe death on anyone who dared stand and defy it.
But two were standing. Whether through shock-induced stamina or sheer courage, Tiy saw Efrayim and Menashe on their feet, each brother as steady on his golden tile as if he had been rooted there.
A new kind of fear shook Tiy’s body from toe to hair when the whirlwind moved toward the brothers, slowly, purposefully, like a probing finger. The pair stood less than ten feet apart, separated only by the reflecting pool and the Shemu symbol. The tip of the whirlwind nosed forward until it hovered over the Shemu, mocking Pharaoh’s cartouche. Then, in a vast explosion of noise and color, the undulating column widened. The queen let out a tiny whine of mounting dread as the edges of its hot breath expanded to envelop the two brothers.
A thunderbolt jagged through her as the funnel lifted. Efrayim and Menashe no longer stood on the tiles, nor were they broken and sprawled on the ground. The monster wind had swept them up like a gigantic hand.
The cyclone retreated into the heavens, shifting and lifting until it metamorphosed into a boiling gray cloud a few feet above the surface of the pool. The cloud hung there as if it waited for something. From a few feet away, Tiy saw Amenhotep lift his head and gaze upward; the new vizier stared, slack-mouthed, a tenuous stream of drool dripping from his lips.
Pharaoh rose to his hands and knees. When he spoke, his voice was high-pitched and reedy. “What—what would you have me do?” he asked the swirling cloudbank.
The dark mass appeared to thicken and congeal as it wheeled around its invisible axis. A wild wind hooted and two human forms fell from the black shadow, landing with loud splashes in the reflecting pool. After depositing its human cargo, the cloud whirled again, and a thousand sparks of diamond light brightened its canopy. Still on the ground, Tiy tilted her head and strained to hear the chorus of mellifluous sounds that emanated from it, voices that could only come from supernatural throats. The strangely melodic song rose and fell, then the cloud spun one final time and lifted, vanishing into a sky of perfect blue.
Wave after wave of shock slapped at her. Tiy lowered her gaze to the pool where Efrayim and Menashe were laughing and wringing water from their garments. Efrayim looked about the garden with a devastating grin on his face while Menashe wore a slow, steady smile of happiness. Though they were dripping wet, Efrayim’s wig had not been blown from his head, nor did either brother appear to be injured from the fall. In fact, Tiy noticed, peering at them, the bruises that had marked Menashe’s face only a few moments before had faded.
Pressing an unsteady hand to her head, she realized that her own wig had been ripped off, leaving her shorn head exposed. Grasping the sheared top of a plant, the only material within reach, she held the mangled greenery to her head and cringed like a scolded dog, keeping one wary eye on the sky.
Amenhotep faltered and ducked as if he would prostrate himself before the sons of his disgraced vizier. But after a hasty glance upward to make certain the funnel cloud had disappeared, he remembered his own divinity and forced himself to rise.
Pinching his lower lip with his teeth, he turned to the younger, more easygoing son. “What does this mean?”
Efrayim thrust his hands on his hips. “Ask my father. He will know.”
Amenhotep lifted his chin and turned to Zaphenath-paneah. He and his party had taken cover on the ground, too, but like Efrayim and Menashe, their clothing and wigs had been no more than ruffled by the claws of the wind.
“I ask you, Zaphenath-paneah,” Amenhotep called, uncomfortably aware that his temples had begun to throb. “What has happened here? What does this mean?”
“It means,” the former vizier answered, a faint look of amusement on his face as he paused to brush debris from his robe, “that the players reached the oasis at the same time. God Shaddai declares that they have both won and both must be exonerated.”
“But the whirlwind—” Amenhotep gestured toward the sky, then pressed his hand to his throbbing head and surveyed the damage to his precious garden. “Such power!”
“It is a fearsome thing to trifle with the Almighty God.” Zaphenath-paneah folded his hands and dipped his head in a sign of proper respect. “You wanted Him to adjudicate your game, honored Pharaoh, and so He has.”
Amenhotep cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, crossing his arms. He frowned at the sight of so many nobles and warriors still cowering on the ground. This was not good. If he did not handle this situation properly, the story would spread like the plague. Rumors would soon have the mighty king of Egypt cowering before a simple desert whirlwind…
He gave his vizier a forgiving smile, determined to be done with the matter. “Your god has decreed that both men are innocent, as I knew He would. But what would He have me do with the prize? The winner was to take possession of the little harpist, and she cannot serve two masters.”
“No, my king, she cannot.” Zaphenath-paneah turned to the slave girl, who stood behind him, her arm linked through the old steward’s. “Jendayi,” Zaphenath-paneah asked, his voice gentle, “you may choose your master today. Who will you serve most willingly? Menashe or Efrayim?”
Menashe heard his father’s words as if through a thick fog. The events of the past hour had trampled him like a runaway horse, and he needed time to absorb them. But a few feet away the love of his life was being offered the opportunity to choose her future, and he had not had a chance to share his heart with her since that long-ago afternoon at Malkata. She would certainly choose Efrayim, but before she did, he wanted to tell her he would always love her.
He staggered forward, his eyes intent on Jendayi’s bright face. But she would not give him time, for she dropped Ani’s arm and stepped forward. “Thank you, master.” Unusual determination rang in her voice. “I am ready to make my choice.” Her face lit with affection and delight—the expression she always wore when speaking of Efrayim.
Menashe braced himself for disappointment. It was enough that God had spared his life and Efrayim’s. He would be asking too much if he expected God to also fulfill his fanciful dreams.
“If God Shaddai wills,” Jendayi said, the warmth of her voice sending shivers down his spine, “I choose to serve Menashe.”
Menashe tensed, surprised and more uncertain than ever. She had chosen him? Why?
He did not have time to ponder the question, for Efrayim slapped him on the back while Yosef gestured for him to come forward and claim his prize.
“I wish you every happiness, brother,” Efrayim said, sunshine breaking across his face. “Every happiness in
the world.”
And then Menashe was standing before Jendayi, and her small hands were on his arm, her smile beaming for him alone.
Efrayim turned away, unable to bear the sight of his brother’s joy while his own heart still ached. He looked toward Pharaoh’s dais and caught Sitamun’s gaze. Had she gone willingly to the wedding canopy with her father? Had she been given a choice? He would never know the answers, for now a great gulf stood between them. The girl he had hoped to wed would never be his.
Time to face the future.
“Great Pharaoh.” His voice echoed above the sounds of the bewildered crowd. “I beg a favor of you.”
“Ask your favor,” Pharaoh answered, his arms folded across his bare chest. Queen Tiy, uncharacteristically silent, rocked behind him on the ground, a handful of greenery pressed over her face.
“If you will,” Efrayim said, looking back at Menashe, “allow me and my brother to dwell with our brethren in the territory of Goshen. Though we have grown up as your loyal servants in Thebes, perhaps it would be best if we raised our families with our kinsmen.”
Pharaoh’s eyes narrowed, and Efrayim knew the shrewd king would understand many of the reasons behind his request. If Efrayim left Thebes, he would not have to see Sitamun, he would not dwell in her thoughts. And if Menashe wanted to train another military force, at least he would be doing it in a far-off region.