“My responsibility,” Zaphenath said, “is to oversee all legal proceedings and disputations. That is my relationship.”
“Oh,” Asar glanced away. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I must not be the first person who has asked.”
Zaphenath looked over at Senusret, who frowned. Then he looked back at Asar. “To be frank, Prince,” he said slowly, “you are certainly the only person who has asked.” He paused, and his voice was a little terse. “May I ask if I have caused you some sort of displeasure?”
Asar glanced at his father before looking back at Zaphenath. “It’s just what you and I have spoken of before, Tjaty. The matter of appearances is important for the People. And these men are your countrymen.”
“In that way, Prince,” Zaphenath said, while Senusret looked from his son to his vizier, “I have no countrymen.” He took a slow breath. “I would hope,” he said coldly, “that my birthplace does not cause the prince to suspect my loyalty to the king or to my country. I am a man of Kemet.” He bowed slightly in Senusret’s direction. “If we are finished here, there is indeed other business that I need to attend to.”
Senusret nodded. Zaphenath bowed again, turned, and took his leave. But within moments of passing the guards and crossing back out into the corridor, he heard footsteps—the dismissed prince, following behind him.
“Tjaty—”
Zaphenath turned.
“I did hear one thing,” Asar said, voice lowered, “that I’m sure couldn’t be true, but I meant to ask you. Privately.”
Zaphenath watched the slight, almost imperceptible glimmer rise in the prince’s eyes. “About that boy who works for you—Potiphar’s son.” Asar paused and looked at him. “He is Potiphar’s son, isn’t he?”
Zaphenath’s whole body grew very still. For a long moment, he did not reply. At last he said quietly, “You may accuse me of being a spy, and you can say what you want to your father.” His voice grew sharp. “But you will never—and I warn you, Prince—cause trouble for a man as good as Potiphar.” He stepped closer and shook his head once. “You understand nothing.”
And he walked on.
Chapter 23
Scribe
Hunched over the worn papyrus, the slave whose name had once been Joseph sat crossed-legged on the ground with a thin, reed-like writing utensil, a stylus, lying on the ground beside him. He closed his eyes, straightening up and squinting hard, as if the effort he exerted would somehow clear the jumble of characters crowded together on the battered scroll. It was one thing to know enough to recognize certain words within a known context, but to have to strip this complex language down to its most primal units and learn them one by one—each character representing a sound, or a combination of sounds, or sometimes an entire expression—there were just so many of them.
Yawning, he opened his eyes again and looked back down at the papyrus sheet with its intricate markings—names and ideas and abstract concepts all transmitted through these fragile sketches on a material of flattened river plants. For some time now he had been practicing reading those fragile sketches and writing them out himself on broken shards of pottery, sitting with other young scribes in training for hours a day in the nearby temple while the priests taught them the sacred art of the Word. Great creative potential was unleashed through the act of writing, they were told, as well as the act of reading and speaking aloud the words that were written, as if the breath of the scribe imbued the copied symbols and rituals with life, blending what was written and what was real, and releasing into being that which until then was represented only symbolically as text.
As the young trainees were executors of this sacred craft, exceptional behavior was expected of them. They would be important members of the community throughout their lives, yes, but most important, they were to stay solemnly aware of the sacredness of the powers with which they were now endowed as masters of the Word.
All of which was very grand, Joseph was sure, but during the nights when he sat alone in Potiphar’s house, trying to fill up the gaps in his mastery of even the basic spoken language, he could often feel a low, pounding tension radiating behind his eyes, and he slept with the pain when he could read no longer.
He rubbed the back of his neck, straightening up again in a stretch, before focusing once more on the document in front of him. It was a story about a courtier who fled from Kemet at the death of the king only to find chaos and disorder beyond the country’s borders, out in the regions where the Asiatic tribesmen dwelt in states of various incivility. He had just gotten to the part where the exiled courtier prayed to return to Kemet, in spite of the prosperity and riches he had acquired in his foreign sojourns, when he suddenly sensed someone watching him.
He raised his eyes and smiled.
Djeseret stood, leaning her shoulder against the brick arch lining the entryway into the room. “What do they have you reading now?” she asked.
“It’s about Sinuhe,” he told her. “This is how you say it? Sinuhe?”
“Ah,” she said, “the Tale of Sinuhe,” and moved across the floor in a rustle of thin linen. She was wearing one of her long, full wigs, and golden jewelry, inlaid with green stones, bound her upper arms and wrists. He smiled as she sat down beside him. “Where are you?”
Joseph looked down at the manuscript. “He wants to go home.”
“Has he found success and riches yet?”
Joseph nodded. “But he still wants to go home.”
“He does go home,” she said, “eventually.” Then she glanced at him. “Does it . . . make you think about—?”
“This is my home now.” He didn’t meet her eyes. “Potiphar is kind to me.”
She smiled. “Potiphar thinks you’re very smart. He was telling me that the way you reorganized the field-planting project has been a huge success. He said your suggestions were brilliant.”
Joseph glanced at her. “I just saw it,” he admitted. “In a dream.”
She laughed. “Your dreams are much more useful than mine. You must have a gift.” The golden bracelets on her wrist jangled as she gestured. “Blessed by the gods. Maybe by Sobek himself, hm?” She nudged him. “Sa-Sobek, Son-of-Sobek.”
“Ah,” he said, “Sobek,” and picked up his stylus. The wooden rectangular slab where the stylus rested when not in use had two small, circular indentions carved into the wood, one of which was filled with black ink and the other with red. Joseph dipped the stylus into the small pool of black ink and, in the upper corner of the much-copied record, set to work, his wrist flicking deftly around the design. With a grin, he pointed to the tiny crocodile now crouched along the uppermost border in the corner of the manuscript. “Sobek.”
“Can you write your name?” she asked.
He nodded and drew what looked like the small figure of a goose in front of the crocodile. “Sa-Sobek,” he said. “I think the crocodile will eat the goose.”
Djeseret laughed again, and Joseph chuckled with her. “And you’re using the sacred writing, too,” she said, “not just the scribal script. Potiphar will be very impressed.” She smiled. “Can you write my name?”
He thought for a moment, stylus poised. Then dipping it quickly back into the ink, he sketched out the characters, using the space underneath the crocodile and the goose: a serpent, followed by a knot, then an open mouth, and finished by a little mound that looked like a half-risen sun peeking over the horizon. “Djeseret,” he pronounced.
“I like how you drew the serpent,” she said, and he smiled. “And what about your real name?” He glanced at her. “Joseph?” She looked down at the papyrus. “How do you write it in your language?”
Next to the crocodile, and moving faster than with the foreign characters, Joseph drew the simple strokes quickly—a few dashes, a circle, a backward-facing hook.
“Joseph,” he said.
She looked down at the foreign name. “Do you think much about your people?”
He shook his head.
She was quiet a moment. “Do you have broth
ers?” she asked. “Sisters?”
He glanced over, his head bare and his eyes lined. “One brother,” he said. “One sister.” He smiled a little. “She is kind, like you.”
Djeseret smiled too. “A small family, then.”
“My mother wanted many.” He shrugged. “But . . .”
She nodded. “I understand.” Her smile became a little sadder. “Me too.” She held up her fingers with the number. “I am married four years but no children.”
Joseph looked up toward the ceiling, thinking. “My mother—nine years.”
“Nine years,” she repeated. “Are you the oldest?”
Joseph’s expression seemed to indicate that his thoughts were outpacing the language he had to express them. Finally, he just said, “Yes.”
She was watching him. “I’m sure they miss you.”
“My mother is dead.” He swallowed. “She was very good. Very beautiful, in all ways.” He pressed a hand over his chest. “She is still . . . close to me.”
Djeseret lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He gave another shrug. She looked back down at the papyrus, and it seemed that neither wanted to meet the other’s eyes.
Finally, Djeseret said, “I felt very lonely when I first came to live here. I had to leave my family. Not like you did, but . . . I still missed them.” He glanced at her, and she gave a weak smile. “It’s hard to come to a new place. For a while you don’t fit.” She paused, trying to rethink her words. “You have no place.”
He thought about that, then nodded.
“But you’ll find a place.” She tapped the papyrus. “Maybe you’ll be like Sinuhe too and find lots of riches in your new country.”
Joseph looked at her. “Sinuhe was free.”
“Well,” she said, “maybe someday your master will make you a free man. That can happen.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”
“Of course.” She smiled again. “Why do you think Sinuhe wanted to come home to Kemet? This is the most civilized place in the world.”
Joseph set his stylus back down on its platform with the little ink pots. “So,” he asked, “you have found your place?”
“I’ve tried to.” She shrugged. “I guess . . . I don’t always know what my place is.” She rubbed one hand over her arm, jangling the golden bracelets around her wrist again. “Sometimes I think Potiphar is . . . disappointed, maybe, that he chose me for his wife.”
“Oh, no,” Joseph shook his head. “I’m sure he’s very glad. And you are lucky.” Djeseret wouldn’t fully recognize the sudden conviction in his voice, couldn’t know that he saw the shadows of his sister when he looked at her. “Potiphar is a good man.”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes.” She looked back, and Joseph, seeing the sudden sadness in her face, reached out instinctively, setting his hand on her arm, the way he so often had with Dinah. She blinked, and looked down, and then looked back up at him.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” she said, her smile wobbling. She pushed herself back to her feet, setting her jewelry tinkling softly with her movements. Joseph looked up as she stood and watched as she moved away. She didn’t glance back at him as she brushed through the entryway and out of sight, and he was left sitting alone, holding the papyrus where their names were written—hers bridging the gap between his new name and his old one, binding the two halves back together.
Chapter 24
Genesis 43:18–23
Head lowered, Zaphenath moved down the road leading to the royal prison, walking quickly, when he caught sight of the serious-faced Amon hurrying up the road toward him.
“Tjaty,” the young man panted, falling into step beside him, “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Zaphenath glanced at him. “For what?”
Amon wrinkled his nose. “Weren’t we supposed to meet to review the granary levels?”
Zaphenath thought for a moment, then rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he muttered, “you’re right. Forgive me.” He beckoned for Amon to keep moving alongside him. “Talk to me while we walk. Something else has come up.”
Amon began rattling through the numbers he could recall while Zaphenath listened. Then seemingly out of nowhere, he glanced over and said, “Amon?”
Cut off mid-sentence, Amon asked, “Yes?”
Zaphenath paused a moment. “I assume you know how I came to know your father.”
Amon looked at him, and Zaphenath could see, as he so often saw, a flash, a flicker, a haunting whisper of a face that had once been so very familiar. Then Amon nodded.
“Has anyone ever asked you about why you work with me?” Zaphenath asked. Amon glanced away and shook his head. Zaphenath saw the hesitation. “Amon.” Amon looked uncomfortably back at him. “It’s important that you tell me.” Zaphenath kept his eyes focused firmly on the young man’s face. “Do you understand what I’m asking?”
“Yes.” Amon looked away. He was small and lithe, with the sort of elegant features that Zaphenath himself possessed, the inheritance of boys who closely resembled their mothers. “But I don’t think I look anything like you.”
Zaphenath blinked. “Is that a joke?”
Amon sighed. “It was supposed to be.”
Zaphenath glanced toward the sky, so expansive and piercingly blue, and his hands shifted uneasily on the scroll clasped behind his back. Then he heard Amon say, “You don’t need to worry, Tjaty. I know what happened.” Zaphenath looked at him, and Amon smiled slightly. “My father told me.” Then he held out a hand. “Do you want me to take the scroll?”
Zaphenath, watching him, handed over the papyrus.
“Are you going to the prison?” Amon asked. “I’ll come with you.”
Zaphenath was quiet for a moment before he said, “Then there’s something else I must explain to you.” He paused. “And, perhaps, ask of you.”
Benjamin, son of Jacob, glanced up at the structure’s mud-brick ceiling, as he had done every few minutes since he and his brothers had been escorted with minimal ceremony into what appeared to be the designated place for their reunion with the man who had imprisoned Simeon. Their camels, laden with gifts from their father and quite out of place amidst the small braying donkeys that the local people used to haul their burdens, had already been led away, albeit with the promise of eventual return. The brothers themselves had been escorted from the entrance of the city to the royal prison, whose interior was really quite comfortable and cool and where, this time, they were allowed to remain outside the holding cell.
Now they stood quietly together, waiting, under the wary eyes of the guards. Indeed, the last several miles of their journey into Kemet had been marked by the particular acknowledgment of the guards at each outpost along the highway leading in through the borders of the land. Someone had known they were coming, and someone had put out the word that they were to be watched for.
“Is that where you were held?” Benjamin asked, voice quiet, gesturing with his head toward the enclosed space at the other end of the room. Judah, who was standing beside his youngest brother, glanced over and nodded. Four men, Judah had confirmed for himself, were still imprisoned there. They gazed up at his foreign face with distrusting eyes when he peered in.
“Do they not like Canaanites?” Benjamin asked, his voice still soft.
“Not these,” Judah murmured, glancing around at his brothers.
Benjamin nodded, looking up at the ceiling again, and swallowed. “So where’s Simeon?”
“Not where we left him.” Judah took another quick look toward the enclosure he had scrutinized so closely when he first entered the room—scanning the faces once, twice, and once more in disbelief—but his brother was nowhere to be seen, and Judah had no way to ask the guards what had happened to him. All he could do was wait, with his father’s most beloved son standing wide-eyed beside him, and pray that he had not made the mistake of his life in bringing Benjamin back here.
He could hear footsteps approaching and turned toward the sound, f
eeling the energy among his brothers—tense, alert, and watchful—and a sudden shakiness in his hands, revved by the pounding of his heart.
The silhouette of a man appeared in the entryway of the prison. Judah squinted, trying to see against the glare of the sun. Then he watched as the figure stepped inside, moving with a certain deliberateness, pausing in the sudden cool. The guards inclined their heads respectfully, and Judah glanced at Benjamin, who stood, watching. The official (Judah assumed he was some sort of official) was clad in a crisp linen skirt, and his lined eyes stood out sharply against the framing that his wig afforded his curiously boyish face. Judah could not help but glance down, a little self-consciously, at his own coarse desert dress and at his hands, still covered with dust from the two-week journey.
The official, whose face was entirely unfamiliar, did not speak; instead, he stood, simply looking at the bearded brothers. After a moment, they began to lower their bodies and press their knees against the hard prison floor. Lowering himself along with the others, Benjamin raised his eyes, hoping to sneak another glance. Realizing that the man was staring straight at him, he quickly focused his gaze instead toward the ground.
Seemingly satisfied, the official turned to the guards, speaking quietly, and the guards nodded. Turning back to the family, the official walked closer, stepping slowly, keeping his eyes firmly on the faces of the assembled men. He stopped when only a few remaining paces separated them. One of the guards stepped up alongside him.
The man turned to the guard and spoke quietly. The guard nodded.
“You may rise,” the guard said, his accented words indicating that some time had passed since his last use of their language. As the Canaanites shuffled their way back to their feet, the guard asked, “Where is your remaining brother?”
Judah moved forward, taking Benjamin by the arm and stepping out of the protective gathering.
“This is our brother,” he said.
Reuben moved after them. “Please,” he said, and lowered himself once more to his knees. “I do not know what caused the mistake,” he spoke with averted eyes, “but when we returned from our last journey, we found the silver we had used to buy the grain mistakenly placed”—he was picking his words carefully—“within our sacks. We’ve brought back the correct amount and more, with gifts for the vizier.” He shook his head firmly. “We are not thieves.”
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