The Eleventh Brother

by Rachel S. Wilcox

  Zaphenath kept his eyes focused on the Senet board. The game was modeled, it was said, after the reversals and glories and spins of fate that might govern a man’s life, with different squares offering various rewards or requisitions to the player who obtained them. One square alone glowed with the stately ankh figure—a single vertical line with a horizontal platform and looping circle on top—symbol of life in this world and the next. At last, Zaphenath said, “I will strive to be worthy of your trust.”

  “You always are.” Senusret gathered up the throwing-sticks, tapping the wooden ends against the tabletop to even them out, and extended them toward his vizier. “Throw, if you wish.”

  Zaphenath watched the king for a moment, as if trying to ascertain whether the offer was serious; then, taking the sticks, he rubbed them briskly between his palms and dropped them onto the table. Senusret smiled as his vizier moved the nearest ivory piece onto a safely neutral square.

  “Very good.” The king held out his hand, and Zaphenath gathered up the sticks and handed them back. “I am hopeful that this is something else my son can learn from you. To listen.” Now Senusret rubbed the sticks between his hands and let them fall. “Ah,” he said, “excellent, an extra turn,” and moved his piece. He glanced at his vizier, then spoke as he gathered up the throwing-sticks. “Something has been bothering you, Zaphenath.”

  Zaphenath was watching the board. “There are many responsibilities, Majesty.”

  “I have seen when responsibility weighs upon you.” Senusret raised his eyes. “Or are you telling an old man that his discernment is beginning to fail him?”

  Zaphenath smiled slightly. “I would not dare.”

  The king dropped the sticks and moved another piece. “So.” He looked up again. “What is it?”

  Zaphenath gathered up the sticks but then merely sat, holding them in one clenched hand. Senusret remained as he was, leaning forward, waiting. At last, Zaphenath looked up. “I have never sought to deceive you,” he said, “about my life.” Senusret waited. “Where I was born.” Zaphenath glanced back at the board. “Or how I came here.”

  “Zaphenath,” Senusret said, waving a hand as if to clear the air of smoke, “I know how you came here.” Zaphenath nodded, looking down, one hand still clasped around the throwing-sticks. “Has something been said to you?”

  Zaphenath shook his head.

  Senusret kept his focus on the vizier’s face. “Then it seems an odd time for a bout of self-reflection.”

  Closing his eyes, Zaphenath said, “Some men from Canaan came to buy grain. I accused them of being spies.”

  Now Senusret raised both of his eyebrows. “Spies? From Canaan?” He chuckled. “Are the desert tribes planning an invasion?”

  “Of course not.” Zaphenath sighed. “The men were—are—my brothers.”

  Senusret sat back from the table, and Zaphenath looked down at the Senet board in the silence that followed.

  “How long has it been?” the king asked at last.

  “Twenty years.” Zaphenath set the sticks down on the table.

  Senusret was quiet for a moment, then, looking at his vizier, asked, “Twenty years? And you couldn’t come up with anything better than spying? High treason, at least?” Zaphenath looked up at that, and Senusret smiled. “You will force me to lecture you on the abuses of power, Tjaty.”

  “I didn’t know what to do,” Zaphenath admitted.

  The king waved a hand. “You are a more merciful man than I might have been. I suppose they know who you are now?”

  But Zaphenath shook his head. “I let them go.” The king looked at him. Zaphenath didn’t raise his eyes. “All but one.”

  Senusret’s eyebrow inched up. “What do you intend to do with the one you kept?”

  “I’ll use him to make the others bring my younger brother back.” Zaphenath paused. “Our father is still alive. Once he dies . . . my brother will be unprotected.”

  Senusret was quiet. “You believe they would harm him?”

  “I know the danger of trusting,” Zaphenath said, “where trust is not merited.”

  Senusret looked at him. Then, reaching out, he placed the tip of his finger on top of one of the Senet pieces, tilting it. “Where is your captive now?”

  “In the prison.” Zaphenath paused. “I won’t keep him there long. Just . . . long enough.”

  Senusret looked at his vizier. “Long enough for what?”

  “He will not be a burden on the state, Majesty.”

  “It is not the state,” Senusret said quietly, “that I fear may be damaged by the burden.”

  Zaphenath did not reply.

  After a long pause, the king rose to his feet, and Zaphenath, glancing up, rose as well. “You seem very weary,” Senusret said. He reached out, putting a hand on his vizier’s shoulder, and waited until Zaphenath met his eyes. “Your grandfather understood a great deal about the unity underlying all things.” He looked at his vizier. “And he knew the value of kindness where no kindness is deserved.”

  Zaphenath looked at him and then bowed. “Good night, Majesty.” And he took his leave.

  Chapter 12

  Genesis 37:8

  Closing his eyes, Zaphenath drew a great gulping breath and plunged beneath the water, his wake rippling out in wobbling arcs. He surfaced again with a splash, whipping his head back and scattering droplets like stars across the sloshing murmurs of the pool. Running his fingers through his hair, tiny streams trickling down his skin, he sank into the water again up to his neck. The private outdoor pool was guarded within the garden of his walled estate, situated near the gray-barked fig trees, with their great outstretched branches quivering in the slight evening breeze.

  Dipping his head back into the water, Zaphenath closed his eyes. The deadening weight lapped into his ears, magnifying the world beneath the ripples. In his mind, he could hear the king’s voice, as if in echo.

  You seem agitated, Zaphenath.

  He let his body sink beneath the surface.

  “You take it too personally,” Judah said.

  His younger brother Joseph walked beside him, arms crossed in brooding contemplation. “Shouldn’t I?”

  “Simeon is jealous.” Judah shrugged. “That’s just his way.”

  The brothers were strolling back toward the edge of their father’s camp, the open plains glowing gently in the fading light. The other brothers had returned to the camp earlier, but Joseph stayed behind to help Judah round up a pair of lambs that had wandered away from the flock and were bleating piteously when the brothers finally came upon them. Now the lambs scampered out ahead, kicking up tiny clouds of spreading dust with each hoof strike against the dry earth, eager to be reunited with their mothers.

  “We’ll have to move the flocks before long,” Judah mused when Joseph didn’t respond.

  Joseph glanced over. “Father won’t want me to go.”

  Judah shook his head. “It’s not that. He needs one of us to stay here.”

  “But if I never go,” Joseph said, “I don’t see how anyone will ever—”

  “They’ll respect you when they have to,” Judah said. “They’ll have no choice.”

  Joseph looked down, smoothing the front of the robe their father had given him, Jacob’s decision of who would be his heir made visible to all. “They think Father means to make me something I wouldn’t be without this.”

  Judah glanced at his brother. “The rivalry is older than you are.” He looked back toward the setting sun. “It’s a lot of years to undo.”

  Joseph watched the two scraggly lambs, trotting now, slowing as one swished his tail. “Do you think it would be this way if my mother were still alive?”

  Judah shrugged. “Reuben and Simeon and some of the others may go their own way eventually.”

  “You think they’d leave us?”

  “The way Father’s brother, Esau, did.” Judah shrugged again. “Why not?”

  Joseph shook his head. “Reuben was the birthright son before
I was.”

  Judah smiled tightly. “Father doesn’t trust him.” He kicked at the dirt, scattering a loose cluster of pebbles. “However much Father loves any one of us”—he watched the breath of dust rise up from the ground—“he loves this family most of all. He wants to protect his people.” He glanced back at Joseph. “You were raised apart from us in so many ways—I can see why Father would choose you. You’re—different from the rest of us. It’s better.”

  Joseph was quiet for a long moment. “Did Simeon expect the birthright? Is that why he hates me?”

  “He doesn’t hate you.” Judah seemed to hesitate. “I don’t know what he expected. He told Reuben that Bilhah would be Reuben’s wife one day anyway and that he deserved her. Even if Father was still alive.”

  Joseph looked at him. “I didn’t know that.”

  “You were younger.” Judah crossed his arms. “You wouldn’t have known.”

  “Did he mean for Reuben to be disinherited?”

  Judah shrugged. “If Father had married Rachel first, like he meant to, you would have been his heir to begin with. The birthright was never meant to belong to Simeon.” He shook his head. “You shouldn’t be blamed.”

  “But my mother was blamed,” Joseph said. “Leah was angry with her. Jealous. I do think some of the brothers see that, in me.” He shook his head too. “It was their father who arranged it. It wasn’t my mother’s fault.”

  “And it wasn’t my mother’s fault, either,” Judah said. “But they made a life for themselves in spite of it, didn’t they? They stayed together. They cared for each other. Even at the end . . . my mother was the one with Rachel.”

  Joseph nodded, looking down, then turned his face back up toward where the cooking fires glowed, beckoning them onward. Judah smiled a little weakly. “We’re all still brothers,” he said. The chattering voices of the camp were starting to drift out across the open ground. “The blood bond is not a light thing. Simeon will respect that.”

  They passed back into the camp, with the bleating of the sheep ringing around the periphery. As they walked, passing the tents, Joseph suddenly heard a scampering of little feet. He turned and smiled at the curly-haired boy running toward him. Though he was only five, it was already evident that Benjamin looked less like their mother than Joseph did and had more of his father’s broad cheekbones and shoulders. The child had a certain distinctive gentleness around his eyes, though, and the same rich, curly hair.

  “I’ve been helping Dinah,” Benjamin reported with breathless self-satisfaction.

  Joseph chuckled, bending down to speak with his brother at eye level. “I’m sure you were a good help.”

  Still smiling, Benjamin looked up at Judah. “Why are you both late?”

  “We had to find some lambs,” Judah told him, ruffling Benjamin’s hair.

  “And you brought them back?”

  “Of course,” Judah assured him. “In our camp,” he winked at the little boy, “we watch out for each other.” He glanced at Joseph, and Joseph smiled. “That’s what makes us family.”

  Chapter 13

  Genesis 42:35

  The sun was sinking slowly below the horizon, setting the sky ablaze, as the caravan returned. First the excited voices of little children heralded the approach of the familiar line of lumbering camels led by their weary masters; then the women began ducking from the tents, some pulled along by tiny impatient feet, others talking and walking together, wrapping their woolen shawls more heavily around their shoulders to protect against the coming chill of desert night. One of the women, with silver streaks spreading through her once-dark hair, moved more slowly now, as if physically burdened by being the only woman in the camp whose memory stretched back to the days when there had been twelve brothers.

  She heard the approaching footsteps and turned, smiling, as a curly-haired man took her tenderly by the arm. His beard was still dark and full, not yet brushed with the silver that had crept upon his brothers.

  “How is Father?” Dinah asked.

  “Resting,” Benjamin told her. “I’ll tell him they’ve returned when he awakens.”

  In the dying light, the travelers were mere shadows against the darkening sky, with those who approached listing away into shadows themselves. Dinah squinted as she and Benjamin drew closer, hearing the chatter of the women and children (some of whom were young men and women now themselves), eager to see their returning husbands and fathers. Benjamin scooped up one of his sons and kept moving toward his brothers, but Dinah slowed and stood, watching the families embracing. As she stood, she saw her brother Judah, standing alone, unharnessing the provisions from his camel’s back as the animal stood, chewing lazily, with a thin wisp of spittle dangling from its mouth.

  Dinah moved toward him.

  “You’re back at last,” she said.

  Judah turned.

  And she stopped, staring at him in the darkness—seeing, suddenly, a flash of a much younger Judah’s face, the raw horror in his eyes and the hoarse confession in his voice—

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Judah reached out, taking his sister’s hand. “Simeon was kept behind,” he said, voice low, “but he’s alive. He’s alive.”

  Dinah stared at him.

  “We were accused of being spies.” Judah closed his eyes, putting his free hand up to his head. “I don’t know why. Simeon has to stay until we return.” He couldn’t look at her. “With Benjamin. We have to take Benjamin.”

  Dinah stood, eyes fixed on her older brother’s worn, weary face, and the voices around her suddenly seemed to be swirling, stumbling—

  Benjamin, who had glanced back, set down his son and moved through the gathering crowd. Judah glanced over his shoulder as Benjamin approached.

  “Are you all right?” Benjamin asked, touching Dinah on the shoulder.

  Dinah looked at him. “Simeon was kept behind.”

  “We were accused of being spies,” Judah said, already weary of telling the story. “We’ll go back for him. It’s a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding?” Now Benjamin was staring at him. “Where is he?”

  “He’ll be fine.” Judah turned to his camel, hoping his own uncertainty had not bled into his voice. “Help me unload some of this.” Benjamin reached up to help Judah balance the heavy sack of grain.

  “The officials”—Judah’s voice was dark on the word—“want some sort of proof that we are brothers, not spies. Our numbers made them suspicious.” He swung the sack heavily to the ground with a muffled thud, and though it took him a moment even to realize that he had heard the faint jangling sound, he stopped and peered down at the sack.

  “They want you to go back,” Dinah said.

  “Me?” Benjamin sounded incredulous. “Why?”

  Judah was untying the heavy rope sealing the top of the grain sack. “Someone told them about you,” he said. “They seem to think that you’ll prove whether we’re actually a family, not whatever they think we are.” The rope flopped onto the ground, and Judah ruffled the sack open. And stared.

  A smaller bag was nestled comfortably within the mouth of the sack, poking up from where it had worked its way into the grains over the jostlings of the journey. Benjamin and Dinah looked down as well, then glanced at each other. Slowly stooping, Judah clenched his fist around the mouth of the smaller bag and pulled it out, sending trickling streams of grain down the tiny creases in the material. He looked back in the direction of his other brothers, but they were all speaking to each other and their families and eagerly unloading their own sacks, entirely unaware of the strange new devilry at work.

  “So,” Judah murmured, gazing at the offending bag clutched in his hand, “he plans to torment us still.”

  “If you think I had a better choice,” Joseph said, arms crossed, facing his brother, “tell me what it was.” He was older, taller than he had been when he and Judah had chased lambs together, when Judah had assured him that in time things would get better.

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nbsp; Judah said quietly, “You’ll make enemies, if they think you’ll always run to Father—”

  “They’re Father’s flocks,” Joseph snapped, “and if his own sons are stealing from him—”

  “You know,” Judah said, stepping closer, “they don’t trust you. You have to understand how they see it, not just”—he altered his voice—“the higher moral principle involved.” He stuck a finger against Joseph’s chest, where the folds of Joseph’s robe did not cover the tunic beneath. “You have to think about the whole family. If we come apart—”

  “Unity at any cost,” Joseph said, “will destroy us, too.” He glared at Judah. “What would you have done, if Father had sent you and you saw that they were trading the sheep for themselves?” His voice was gaining a harder edge. “Ask them to stop?”

  “As the birthright son,” Judah said, “you should consider your position once Father is gone.”

  They faced each other over the barren ground.

  “It would be easier,” Joseph said at last, “if you helped me to stand up to them.” He waited, but Judah said nothing. “Our brothers respect you,” Joseph said, his voice quieter. “They look up to you.”

  “I don’t want to be involved.”

  “We’re all involved.” Joseph narrowed his eyes. “You just don’t want to help.”

  “Joseph,” Judah said and then took a slow breath before speaking. “You need to be careful.” He grew quiet. “They weren’t doing what they did because they thought it was right.” He paused. “You have to try to understand them, even if you don’t like them.”

  “It’s not disliking them,” Joseph said. “It’s distrusting them.”

  “Especially if you distrust them,” Judah said, “you have to try to understand what they want. You can’t just”—he waved a hand—“condemn them, accuse them. You can’t overpower them just by arguing, even if Father supports you.”

  “So what would you do?” Joseph crossed his arms. “Negotiate a share of the profits?”