The Eleventh Brother

by Rachel S. Wilcox

  The silence thickened, filling the open courtyard with a strange stillness.

  “Of course,” he said and stepped aside.

  She nodded and walked toward the door behind him while he looked away. When she reached where he stood, she paused and looked at him. He looked back.

  She trusts you. I’m grateful she has found a friend in you.

  Somehow, he knew what she was going to do in the moment before she did it. Yet in the instant that she moved not toward the door but toward him, and leaned in, and closed her eyes, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only sense the way she held onto him so dearly, so desperately—and he was aware of nothing, nothing in the world but standing there, as if the universe were cleaving asunder in a violent spasm as past and present rushed together in a blinding burst of light—

  He broke away, and she stumbled back. His tunic had been pulled down from his shoulder, and the fabric hung loosely around his elbow.

  When at last he spoke, his voice was very quiet. “Don’t.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Then her hand came wheeling toward him, lightning fast and stinging across his cheek. He jerked up one arm in instinctive defense. “Get out”—he felt her nails on his arm, tearing at the loose cloth—“out of my house—”

  He jerked his other arm free, and the linen slid from his skin, fluttering off his other shoulder and falling from his back, and she threw the tunic onto the ground in an angry, crumpled heap.

  He was already backing away, hardly feeling the stinging on his skin for the shock, reaching up with one hand toward where the fabric had been ripped down over his shoulder, and he turned, moving faster, and he heard her crying, as if from somewhere far away—

  And then he heard her scream.

  Chapter 32

  Genesis 44:1–12

  The brothers and their ambling camels moved along the dusty highway, keeping to themselves as they walked among the other travelers crowding the road. Most of those they passed were native to Kemet, attired in the sandals and linen kilts of the People. There were far fewer among them who would be traveling on toward the forts and checkpoints, passing beyond the roads and the borders and the boundaries, and heading out into the Deshret, the uncharted Red Land.

  A pair of soldiers passed, evidently keeping an eye on the pedestrian traffic. The constant presence of soldiers and armed guards, however peaceful, hinted at the rigorous enforcement that underlay the peace of the state. It was not so long since the time when the government of Kemet had all but collapsed, splintering central power outward into dozens of minor principalities and chiefs. It was not so different, Judah thought, from what still existed in the deserts of Canaan.

  That time had passed now, after the great-great-grandfather of Senusret, the current king, had managed to assert himself over all others, and the people of Kemet had gradually folded back together. Now, the state was organized once more under one divine ruler who oversaw the protective unity that had elevated the kingdom to the height of its prosperity. But even beneath the heavily armed, militant presence of peace, there was a deeper unity that held the people of Kemet together—a philosophy of interaction, represented most often as a goddess with outstretched, protective wings, called Ma’at.

  Judah had seen a representation of this bond, this ma’at—which bound a man to his neighbor in an interpersonal balance, ensuring that acts of goodness, kindness, and mercy would be returned to the one who had so acted and create continuing peace for the entire community—in one of the texts from Kemet that his father had inherited. The text was a depiction of a judgment scene, which his great-grandfather was said to have found particularly moving. A suppliant soul was shown standing before the gods, stripped bare of all he had been in his earthly life, while his heart was placed on a divine balance with a feather. The feather, it had been explained, was a representation of ma’at, as was the scale itself, depicted in the form of a woman with arms outstretched to either side.

  At the judgment, the suppliant’s heart was balanced against the feather, and his soul weighed against his practice of ma’at. If his heart was found to be in balance—and he had therefore lived according to just, peaceful, and merciful precepts—his soul would be rewarded with eternal life among the gods.

  Otherwise, the heart was devoured by a waiting crocodile.

  Shivering slightly, Judah reached up, rubbing a hand over the center of his chest. Trying to ignore any further thoughts of the lurking, beady-eyed creatures that patrolled the River of Kemet, he felt himself gradually coming back to an awareness of the road and his brothers and the day around him. He glanced toward where Benjamin was walking. Soon they would be outside the borders of the city, then beyond the borders of the kingdom and the final outposts guarding the road into Kemet from the desert. Then they would be free—free to return to their father, free from the strange and haunting events that had overtaken them on their journey, free from the fear of the desert’s avenging memory overtaking Jacob’s Son-of-My-Right-Hand, his beloved Benjamin.

  Just as he had the thought, Judah heard some sort of tumult—raised voices and the sound of hurriedly scraping footsteps—and he glanced over his shoulder. A rising burst of dust had been kicked up several hundred paces behind. As he looked, he saw not the usual pair of soldiers but six armed men, running along together, freshly dispatched from some unseen force. The other brothers were beginning to look back too, and so were the other travelers on the road, quickly moving to stand aside and allow the urgent flurry of soldiers to pass on toward whatever urgent business required them.

  As though watching in uncomprehending slow motion, Judah suddenly saw a figure among the guards bumping along on some kind of elevated seat balanced cleverly on the backs of two trotting donkeys, easily keeping pace with the swift-footed soldiers. And in just the same, uncomprehending slow motion, he saw the person who was occupying that seat—the young man from the vizier’s house, his cheeks flushed either with the heat or some strong emotion—extend an accusing finger toward them.

  The servants of the household had seized Potiphar’s steward, jerking his arms roughly behind his back.

  He had seen her collapse—he had turned at the sound of her scream and watched as she fell to the ground with his tunic lying lifeless beside her. He had run back to her, and fallen to his knees, and tried to take her in his arms, and lift her, and help her—

  And that was when the gardener appeared in the open doorway, and the master’s half-clothed steward looked up from where he knelt beside the mistress, lying crumpled on the floor.

  Two of Djeseret’s serving women had come hurrying down the corridor at nearly the same moment, and one of them started screaming too, as Joseph realized, suddenly, that they were all staring at him. He could hear more footsteps, as if the entire household—wasn’t the household supposed to be empty today, of all days?—had been summoned by her cries.

  The gardener was a bulky man with hardened hands, and Joseph had not tried to run from him because he could not imagine that he had any reason to run. But as he heard Djeseret’s voice and the terrible accusation that tumbled furiously, desperately, from her weeping mouth, his legs felt suddenly too heavy and too weak to move, and the gardener seized him with a growl.

  I never touched you!—Joseph could still hear himself shouting at her, and she wouldn’t look at him, she wouldn’t even look at him—you know I never touched you—!

  But the words came as if from some other body, some other world. He’d struggled against the gardener, demanding to be released, until the burly man struck him with a force that buckled his knees. Other servants were running in now, and he felt other hands seize his arms as he stumbled, and someone pushed him forward and his knees smacked against the ground in an explosion of light. She was still crying as he slumped down, gasping, and the serving women gathered protectively closer, shooting dark and disgusted glances that he couldn’t quite see because his head was spinning and he could hardly breathe for the pain in his legs. His face felt n
umb and his mouth was wet and he could taste the sharp tang of blood as he had not tasted it since—

  “You see?” Her voice, and he closed his eyes, his head suddenly too heavy to hold up any longer as he heard the words echo across the hall. “We bring in a filthy foreign slave, we trust him, and you see what he does—!” Her sobs choked off the words.

  Joseph could sense the men gathering around him, muttering and grumbling to each another.

  “Don’t worry, my lady,” he heard the gardener saying, “we’ll protect you.”

  She looked toward him only once, and he raised his face, his lip swollen and smeared, and the tender skin along his cheekbone rising into a furious, bleeding bruise.

  She looked away.

  “I’m sure there’s been some sort of mistake.” Reuben was standing out in front of the other brothers where they had all gathered together in a loose, indignant bunch on the side of the road. The vizier’s assistant stood facing Reuben, a translator beside him, and the armed guards just behind. The donkeys, still carrying the now-unoccupied chair across their backs, stood flicking their ears at flies, afforded a pleasant break by the occasion and evidently the only ones at all happy that the conversation was happening.

  Amon crossed his arms. “Nevertheless”—he shook his head, as the language was quickly transmuted to the brothers—“my master’s silver cup is missing, the one he uses for his priesthood duties. It is an item of extraordinary value.”

  Reuben could hear his brothers murmuring, and he glanced back at them before responding. “I assure you,” he insisted, “there is not one among us who would have taken your master’s cup. Especially not after the great generosity he has shown to us.”

  Judah could feel his heart beating beneath his robes.

  Reuben shook his head again. “There must be a mistake.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Amon clasped his hands behind his back. “No one else has been in the master’s house.”

  “But there are servants.” Reuben held out a hand. “Surely you are questioning the servants?”

  “Of course we are questioning the servants.” Amon puffed up his chest. “But I must insist upon searching your bags as a precaution.” His voice was gentler now. “Please don’t be offended. If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”

  “When we first came to this place,” Reuben said, and Judah looked concerned at the rise in his brother’s voice, “we were accused of being spies, with no evidence except our foreign birth. And when we found the silver in our sacks, we returned it to you with further payment and gifts.” He was taller and broader than the young man—one step closer and he would appear menacing. “Are we now to be accused of being thieves?” Judah stepped forward, putting a hand on Reuben’s arm, but Reuben shook him off. “Whoever would dare such a thing,” he said, looking back at the other brothers, “kill that man, and keep the rest of us as slaves.”

  Judah seized his brother’s arm with a tightened grip and said, quickly, “You are free to search our bags”—he glanced at Reuben—“but I am certain you will find nothing.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Amon, seemingly unswayed by either bluster or acquiescence, “I am sure you understand the necessity.” He motioned to one of the soldiers, who stepped forward, drawing a knife from a pouch at his side.

  Gesturing with his hand for Asher to step away from his camel, for it was Asher who was standing closest to the guards, the soldier ordered one of his fellows to remove the grain sack from the camel’s back. The sack was pulled to the ground, and the soldier jerked his blade up through the cord binding the mouth closed. As the rope flopped, severed, to the earth, he reached down and rifled around through the kernels for any trace of the missing item. The other soldiers moved toward the other grain sacks while the brothers stood, arms crossed, their expressions a mixture of anxiety and affronted pride.

  Judah glanced at Simeon, who caught the glance and frowned, and Judah turned away again. He could feel Reuben’s gruff, angry presence beside him, radiating wounded dignity as he, the eldest son, was forced to watch these soldiers pawing through his family’s food while he and his brothers were made to stand aside as though they were common highway robbers. Adding to the humiliation, passing travelers were warily eyeing the gathering with a variety of uncomplimentary expressions. One old man simply shook his head, as if he would expect nothing less from such foreigners.

  “Just try to be calm,” Judah murmured to Reuben. “We’ll be on our way faster if we don’t cause any trouble.”

  There was a sudden shout, and they both looked quickly over to where a soldier stood triumphantly beside an open sack of grain, holding up a glinting, silver goblet.

  Then Judah saw the brother standing beside the guilty sack.

  A terrible chill seized his entire body.

  “And don’t think you’re going anywhere,” Amosis snarled, “until the master decides what to do with you.”

  Joseph was kneeling with his bruised knees on the rough floor of the servants’ sleeping quarters. He’d been marched unceremoniously out of the panicked villa and through the gardens by the gardener and his young assistant, both of whom waited in accusing silence with the disgraced steward until Amosis could be found. Joseph’s authority was now superior to that of the stocky, bald-headed man who had selected him from the slave market and who still oversaw much of the work that went on in the grounds and fields of the estate. But that balance of power appeared to have shifted.

  When the enraged Amosis arrived, he stormed first into the villa, where Djeseret had been taken to her room and the other servants were idling around like a confused flock of birds, and then came storming out to the servants’ quarters once he learned where the despicable steward was being held.

  Now, the strong-armed overseer was pacing back and forth in front of the battered captive. Amosis had dismissed the young gardener’s assistant to go back to his duties but asked the gardener to wait outside, “in case the prisoner needs to be subdued.”

  But Joseph showed no signs of needing to be subdued.

  “I should never have brought you into this household,” Amosis grumbled, throwing a sidelong look at Joseph. “Should’ve known better than to bring in a filthy foreigner with no respect for the master, who,” he said, raising his voice and coming closer, “will soon be vizier over all the land of Kemet.” His voice grew softer as he stood before the kneeling steward. “Do you know what he can do to you?”

  Joseph’s voice was quiet. “I didn’t touch her.”

  “I do not believe the mistress is a liar,” Amosis growled, raising a hand. Joseph winced and turned his face away, instinctively protecting his bruised cheek, and Amosis lowered his hand again, mumbling a curse under his breath. Joseph’s arms were bound behind his back, and as Amosis turned away, Joseph strained once again against the growing ache between his shoulders—to say nothing of the indignity of being guarded, bound and half-naked, by friends who were friends no longer.

  Amosis turned back around, and Joseph met his eyes. “Do you know what the penalty is for adultery, Sasobek?” Joseph said nothing, staring back, unblinking. “Do you know what is done to betrayers?”

  “I would not betray him.” Joseph’s breath was coming quickly now. “Or her.”

  Amosis walked closer—he was almost calm now as he looked down at Joseph. “Oh,” he said, “I see. Did she come to you, then, steward? In the public part of the house?” The pitch of his voice rose, mocking, but Joseph kept his eyes fixed on Amosis’s face. “I hope you understand,” Amosis said, lowering his voice again, “that would be a very dangerous accusation for the mistress. Very serious slander from a slave.” He watched Joseph, waiting to see this pronouncement sink in. “Life is sacred here. Trust is sacred. You have no reason to expect mercy.” He leaned in closer, staring straight at his prisoner. “And neither would she.” Joseph looked back at him. “Do you understand?”

  Joseph understood.

  “I didn’t take it,” Benjamin b
abbled, stepping away from the condemning silver cup, raising his hands, “I’ve never seen it before. I have no idea—”

  The brothers stood as though transfixed by the unfolding nightmare. The vizier’s steward gestured, and one of the soldiers came up behind Benjamin and grabbed his arms, twisting his wrists behind his back while the other soldiers closed in around him.

  “No!” Judah cried, unable to keep his desperation silent as the guard handed Amon the incriminating cup, pulled like a demon from Benjamin’s sack. Judah tried to move toward his brother, but Amon turned, facing him, and the look on his face froze Judah to the spot.

  As silence settled over the gathering, Amon looked down at the silver item in his hand, as if contemplating the price that would be exacted in its behalf. “Well,” he said quietly.

  “Are you crazy?” Simeon shouted at Benjamin.

  “I’ve never seen it!” Benjamin insisted, looking around wild-eyed for some explanation, some advocate, but the guards stood unyielding beside him, and his brothers looked away as Amon turned his gaze toward these men who had already been accused of one crime and now had been indisputably convicted of another.

  “Well,” he said again. Then he looked at Benjamin. “This,” he said, his voice soft, “is how you repay the master’s mercy.”

  “No,” Benjamin shook his head adamantly. “No, I didn’t—”

  “This,” said Amon, raising his voice, “is how you thank the man who spared your brothers’ lives.”

  “No!” Benjamin cried out.

  But Amon met Benjamin’s imploring insistence of his innocence with an even, unflickering gaze. Benjamin tried to struggle against the guards holding him, and one of the men drew back his hand to strike the unruly prisoner.

  “Don’t hurt him!” Judah cried, and Amon, in the same moment, caught the soldier’s arm and gave a single shake of his head. The soldier lowered his hand.