“This man,” the translator said, “will remain.”
Simeon cried out in alarmed astonishment.
Reuben put a hand on his arm. “Brother—”
Simeon jerked his arm away.
“You will begin your journey today,” the translator announced, even as one of the guards unbarred the small door that led out of the cell, “and return with this youngest brother you claim. It is not the vizier’s wish that you or your family should starve.”
Outside the cell, Amon, who had been sent out of the room on an errand before the conversation with the foreign prisoners began, returned, approaching his master.
“I have given the orders to have their grain sacks filled, Excellency,” he said, “and their animals will be brought and prepared for the voyage back to the Deshret.” He paused. “Tjaty?”
His master nodded abruptly and cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
Two of the guards were moving in among the prisoners, shouldering their way past the bearded men who stood around the prisoner singled out for ransom.
Then Amon heard something that he did not quite understand and glanced back toward his master.
Zaphenath had turned his face away. “Tell them they are free to go,” he repeated.
Amon gave the order for the translation.
As Judah moved out of the cell, he looked toward the vizier. At the same moment, the vizier turned and met Judah’s gaze with rich, dark, haunted eyes—such eyes, Judah thought, as he had not seen since—
But then one of the guards held up an arm, and the great man moved past without another word, leaving the prison and the men from Canaan behind.
Chapter 10
Abraham 3:3, 11–12, 15 Genesis 37:9–11
And I saw the stars, that they were very great, and that one of them was nearest to the throne of God; and there were many great ones which were near to it; and the Lord said to me: These are the governing ones . . .
Joseph, son of Jacob, sat on the floor of his father’s tent. His young head, covered in abundant dark curls, bowed over the scroll held open on his lap, with the bobbling, dripping illumination scattering the space with shadows and making it difficult to read the foreign characters in the dim light.
And he said to me: My son, my son, I will show you all these. And he put his hand on my eyes, and I saw those things which his hands had made, and they multiplied before my eyes, and I could not see the end . . .
Joseph’s own dark gaze darted over the strange and wonderful words, inked carefully onto the pounded papyrus scroll by his great-grandfather’s own hand. His lips moved quietly over the foreign sounds.
And the Lord said to me: Abraham, I show you these things before you go into Kemet, that you may declare these words . . .
The writings had been passed first to Abraham’s second son, Isaac, and Isaac had passed them to his second son, Jacob, and now Jacob had begun to teach his own son—the eleventh of his body but second in line for the birthright, even as Jacob and Isaac had been before him—what these writings contained. When Joseph asked his father who among his brothers had seen the scrolls, Jacob acknowledged that Reuben had seen them, “but,” he added darkly, “he failed entirely to understand them.” Besides Reuben, only Joseph had been allowed to read the most sacred writings for himself. Although Jacob instructed all of his sons in the strict way of the covenant inherited from his grandfather Abraham and all the boys could read the basic words of the writings, the actual handling of the scrolls, the learning and study by heart until the words were so deeply ingrained as to be beyond the power of any earthly being to remove, was a task for a birthright son. These words were his inheritance.
“What do you understand from this?” Jacob asked, sitting beside Joseph, waiting until his son had finished reading the passage.
Joseph thought for a moment, and Jacob could not but see, as he so often saw, how closely the boy resembled his beautiful mother: her dark curls, her large, inquiring eyes, the gentle symmetry of her face. But the resemblance was greater than the boy’s appearance—he tended, at times, toward Rachel’s slight, almost shy, aloofness with his brothers, even as Rachel had seemed forever reluctant to challenge her older sister’s jealously guarded eminence as Jacob’s first wife and mother of so many of his children. Instead, Rachel had quietly raised Joseph while his brothers fought and wrestled together under the desert sun, and Joseph was drawn to her company over any other, knowing, with his mother, that he was the oldest and only and most beloved and that they were more a part of one another than any other two people in the camp.
Joseph also had his mother’s quiet powers of keen and compassionate observation, and—this was what stabbed at Jacob the most—he saw in Joseph’s interactions with his brothers the same sense of exclusion he had watched Leah exert against her sister, an isolation decreed in revenge for not being the favorite. Yet Leah and Rachel had been sisters, and their sense of blood devotion had managed to transcend the rivalry that they had inherited with their marriage to the same man. Rachel almost always remained gentle with Leah, somehow able to feel Leah’s sadness rather than her anger, and Leah, in spite of her jealousy, could be extraordinarily protective of her acutely sensitive younger sister. Theirs was a relationship into which Jacob had never been fully admitted, and it seemed to him that was as it should have been.
But Joseph, who had been born to Rachel after Leah had already given Jacob seven children, was not a full brother to any other child in the camp save little Benjamin, the last of Jacob’s children. And Benjamin, who looked much more like Jacob than he did his mother or his older brother, was really Leah’s child—Leah, who had lost a baby of her own so shortly before Benjamin’s birth and had wept at the thought of her sister bearing a healthy child in her place; Leah, who had nursed and nourished and doted on Benjamin, her love for him the penance she sought for such selfish thoughts before her sister’s death. Aside from his sister Dinah, who pitied him, Joseph had never found another friend so loyal as his mother.
Jacob, too, had never found any friend greater than his beloved Rachel.
And so, while Joseph sought out his brother’s friendship whenever it was dangled, tantalizingly, before him, in a very true sense he was an only son, a lone child in the midst of a family, even as Jacob’s own father, Isaac, had been.
Just what, Jacob sometimes wondered, has this boy inherited from us?
“It appears,” Joseph said at last, his voice still oddly unfamiliar after having so recently shifted into the depth of a young man, “that the Lord governs all things, though sometimes”—he glanced at his father—“he uses representatives to govern.”
“He governs,” Jacob agreed, “yes. He creates governance and order for all things but never compels his creations.” Joseph nodded. “And as he chooses governors among the stars”—Jacob put a hand on Joseph’s shoulder—“so too does he choose governors among men. This is why there is so much for you to learn, before you become a governor within our family. It is a heavy inheritance. But,” he smiled, “one for which you will be eminently capable.”
Joseph bowed his head, accepting the compliment, and smiled as he glanced back up. “When it says, ‘that you may declare all these words,’” he asked, “does it mean that Abraham was meant to tell these things to the people in the Divided Land?” The Divided Land was the name among the desert people for the country of Abraham’s foreign sojourn—a northern and southern kingdom united tentatively under a single powerful ruler, prone to dissolution and revolution and ever seeking to tame the wildness of the elements and the darkness within men.
“The Lord often means for us to teach what he has taught us.” Jacob smiled. “This scroll comes from the record Abraham made while he was there.”
Joseph looked at his father. “But why did he go to the Divided Land when this was his promised land?”
“A terrible famine,” Jacob said gravely. “He could not have survived here.” He paused, then said, “The Lord’s promises do not alwa
ys come in our time.”
Joseph looked back down at the manuscript, but he did not continue reading. After a moment, Jacob asked, “Do you have another question?”
Joseph pointed at a particular passage. “The Lord said to me,” he read, “this is the sun. And he said to me, this is the moon. And he said to me, these are the stars, or all the great lights.” Then, raising his eyes, he said, “It’s like my dream.”
In the flickering shadow light, Jacob’s face looked deeply lined. “Which you had the sense to tell your brothers about.”
Joseph looked back at the text. “But it was just like this.” He swept his hand over the words. “And I’ve seen it more than once—the stars, all around me, and the sun, and the moon, passing over each other—”
“And bowing to you,” Jacob said. Joseph’s cheeks flushed, and he looked down. “Your brothers are the stars, and your mother and I the sun and the moon?”
“No. I . . . I don’t know.” Joseph glanced at his father. “It’s just . . . always been the same, even after she . . .”
Then he grew quiet.
Jacob reached out, pressing his hand to his son’s arm. “Come with me,” he said and rose to his feet. Joseph, nearly as tall but not nearly so broad, stood up after him, and Jacob held out his hand for the scroll, which Joseph carefully rolled up and handed to him. Jacob moved toward the entrance of his tent, scroll in hand, and pushed the outer flap aside, stepping out into the desert night. Stepping out after him, Joseph raised his eyes, staring up at the great wash of stars. At first, he could hear the laughter coming from the other tents and the intertwined voices of light-hearted conversation. But as he stared up, all else in the world began to fall away, and he simply stood, gazing and open to the night sky.
“The heavens,” he heard his father say, “possess different degrees of light—the sun brighter than the moon, the moon brighter than the stars.” Jacob turned to his son. “My father told me he believed that men also express different degrees of light, whether it be in understanding, or compassion, or intelligence, or faith.” He looked back up. “But see how they are all arranged together, each giving light in its own way, each respecting the course of the other because each is bound to the others—traveling and returning together, in and out of the seasons.” He looked back at Joseph. “I like to think that you and your brothers are like these stars, formed and bound together on your course.”
Joseph stood with his head tilted back, following his father’s gaze up into the sky.
“As we come to understand our place in the world,” Jacob murmured, “we also find our place in the worlds to come.” He swept his hand across the horizon in a broad gesture. “As we ascend through the understanding of the stars, the moon, even the sun—as we acquire that same level of light and all that it entails—we return ever closer back to God.” He nodded and then said quietly, “We pass through burnings as great as we can stand.” He put a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “You will have to teach and guide your brothers, Joseph, when I am gone—you will be the head of our family.” Joseph looked up at his father. “But you must do it carefully.” Jacob looked down at his son. “The strength of the sun obliterates the light of the stars, doesn’t it?” Joseph lowered his eyes toward his sandaled feet, feeling his father’s hand tighten in an affectionate squeeze on his shoulder. “You have many gifts, Joseph, and great capability. But whatever dreams come to you in the night, I trust you understand why it is not . . . helpful is one word . . . to tell your brothers.”
Joseph sighed. “Yes.” He shook his head. “But I think—they think I’m your heir because you favor me.”
“On the contrary,” Jacob said. “They fear their own light is not as bright as yours.” His face seemed suddenly sad. “And there are those who think that diminishing another will make them brighter.” He was quiet before adding, “It was what my brother thought of me. And my father’s brother thought of him.”
Joseph looked up. “You had to leave your brother to save your life.”
Jacob looked back at his son, and his face was serious. “And then we were reconciled,” he said. “You are always a part of your brothers, and they are part of you, even if it takes all of you many years to see it.” He looked up once more. “Knowing that the stars are all bound together is more important than their precise arrangement. And until you understand that”—he glanced once more at his son—“you cannot think to go beyond them.”
Joseph nodded, and stood still, and looked up at the sky.
A moment passed, and Jacob touched Joseph’s shoulder. Joseph glanced toward his father. “Come,” Jacob said, holding out his arm, and Joseph turned, walking beside him. “I have something to show you.”
Joseph ducked back inside his father’s tent and waited, watching, as his father crossed to the far side of the flickering interior. Jacob bent down, kneeling beside a wooden box that Joseph had seen before and that he assumed, like any other wooden box, carried inconsequential clothing or supplies. So he watched closely as his father pushed back the lid and carefully, almost reverently, lifted out an airy, cream-colored bundle. Jacob placed Abraham’s scroll inside the same box; then he rose, turning.
“Joseph,” Jacob said, moving back toward his son, “this robe”—he held out the almost transparent cream-colored cloth—“was given to me by my father, who received it from his father.” He began to unfold the delicately spun garment, and Joseph watched as Jacob revealed an open, flowing robe with long sleeves, the kind to be worn over a man’s tunic. The robe was embroidered with delicate, linear patterns running the full length of the material, and as Joseph looked closer, he saw what appeared to be a series of two interlocking squares forming an eight-pointed, star-like design, with a circle enclosed within the interlocked space. “Now,” Jacob said, “I believe you are ready to receive it.” He held up the robe as Joseph slipped his arms into the waiting sleeves. “It is a symbol of your birthright,” Jacob continued, speaking quietly, “and of the authority possessed by the birthright son by virtue of the knowledge and wisdom he inherits.”
Joseph reached down, pressing the material between his fingers—as fine a consistency of cloth as he had ever imagined, light and almost papery, different from the woolen robes he and his family wore, different from any material he had ever known—and he turned, watching the robe ripple with his movements.
“It is linen,” Jacob said. “From the Divided Land.”
“And this?” Joseph asked, pointing to the interlocking square design.
“Ah,” Jacob said. “That is the symbol of Melchizedek.”
The boy’s eyebrows raised. “The king?”
“The king,” Jacob smiled, “and the priest.”
Chapter 11
Senet
Ushering the tjaty into the royal palace complex, part living quarters for the royal family and part administrative offices of the state, the guards bowed and allowed the vizier to hurry down the elegant corridor that led toward the private rooms of the king. He moved alone, unaccompanied by either young Amon or the usual armful of scrolls, and was followed only by the echo of his own solitary footsteps. Another pair of guards stood outside the entrance to the king’s rooms, and Zaphenath waited while one of the men entered to confirm that the Son-of-Ra, God on Earth, wished to hold this particular audience. Once approval was received, the guards pulled back the imposing wooden doors, painted in bright red to repel the advances of any untoward demons, and allowed the vizier to pass through.
“Ah,” he heard, “Zaphenath,” and he inclined his head respectfully. The king was wearing a fine-spun linen robe, his eyes lined and his bald head uncovered. He was sitting on a long, low wooden couch, comfortably cushioned and held off the ground by four delicately carved, lion-like feet, facing another reclining couch of similar workmanship. Set on a low table between the two couches was a long, rectangular box covered in gold and inlaid with three rows of gleaming squares. Small ivory playing pieces were positioned variously across the board. Senusre
t gestured to the reclining couch opposite his own. “Sit.”
Zaphenath sat. “It appears that you have a Senet game in progress,” he said, looking down at the table.
Senusret waved a hand. “My son felt disinclined to finish his turn.”
“Ah.” Zaphenath studied the placement of the pieces. “I recall that Senet has never been much to his liking.”
“Mm.” Senusret murmured his agreement. “He seems to have trouble striking the delicate balance between skill and chance that the game requires. Well.” The king’s hands were clasped lightly together, his lips pursed as he studied the board. “He will learn.”
Zaphenath leaned down and picked up one of the slim sticks lying beside the Senet board, one of a handful tossed upon the table to determine the moves of a player’s turn.
“This is partly why I would like Asar to become involved in our project,” the king said. Zaphenath raised his eyes, placing the stick back on the table. “He desires very much to be a good servant of the kingdom.” Senusret shrugged. “His skills are not as strong as his older brother’s. And so he pretends not to care and covers himself with bluster.” He picked up one of the ivory pieces, tapping it thoughtfully against the board. “I am hopeful that he may be able to learn from you.”
Zaphenath pressed his fingertips together, looking down at his hands. “You know,” he said at last, “my only desire is to serve you and your kingdom.”
“There is no one of greater ability in all my kingdom,” Senusret told him, “than yourself.”
“Your words are very generous, Majesty.” Zaphenath paused. “Nevertheless, I am not sure that I—that is, there are others who—”
“Zaphenath,” Senusret said, a little shortly, setting the Senet piece back down, “I haven’t placed you in your position simply because I think you are competent, or clever, or honest.” He looked up, pressing one hand against his chest. “You have a connection to all that is most important. And you let that connection guide you. That,” Senusret raised a finger, “is why I have made you my most trusted official. And that is what my son needs most to learn.”
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