Her breathing seemed to ease.
He brushed her hair away from her face. “I’m going to let you sleep here tonight. I’ll go somewhere else. I’ll find you tomorrow.”
He slipped out as quietly as he could and headed for the river, toward the rocks from which he and Ahmose had watched the frogs retreat. In the moonlight he looked toward the palace. The swarm enveloped the building like honey poured over a wheat cake.
The warm sunrise breeze in his face awakened Bezalel early. He found himself reclining against the flat side of a rock facing the river, his muscles stiff and sore. He stood, stretched, and looked west. The swarm had withdrawn.
He sprinted for the palace. The courtyard and throne room were silent and empty.
Kamose emerged from the hallway as Bezalel entered from the courtyard. Crimson spots covered every bit of the soldier’s exposed skin, and his eyes were swollen.
Kamose strode toward Bezalel, grasped his arms, turned them over. “You are not bitten. Why?”
“El Shaddai promised his people would not be bitten.” Bezalel winced and extricated his arms from Kamose’s grasp.
Kamose furrowed his brow. “El Shaddai? He is your God?”
“El Shaddai is the creator of all.” Bezalel wasn’t completely sure that was true, but he wasn’t about to admit anything different to an Egyptian. It was true that among the palace residents he, and he alone, was not bitten. And yesterday his room had remained completely free of flies. That was worth some consideration, at least.
Kamose shook his head. “That’s what Ptah says he is.”
Bezalel took a deep breath. “I have some basil. It will take the pain from the bites.” He headed toward his room. They crossed the length of the portico and Bezalel slowly opened the door to his workroom and peeked in. He didn’t want Kamose to see he had a girl—an Egyptian girl, at that—in his room.
Meri was gone.
The plate of basil sat on the table.
Bezalel opened the door wide and beckoned the soldier inside. He took a leaf and crushed it between his fingers. He rubbed the crushed leaf on a couple of bites on the soldier’s arm. Kamose’s continued stare made him uneasy.
“We use this for embalming.” Kamose took the leaf from Bezalel and continued rubbing. “I am sure we can get more.”
“I thought for now … especially for the children….”
“Thank you. I’ll see it gets to them.” Kamose took the herb and left.
Bezalel went to the door and watched as the captain walked down the hall and disappeared into the walkway to the harem then returned without the basil, save a few leaves for himself.
Bezalel collapsed on his bed, the bed she had slept on all night. His thawb lay nearby, neatly folded. He picked it up and held it to his face—the fabric smelled of jasmine mingled with the healing herb. He closed his eyes and his head spun. He had not slept much last night. The hard rock, the sight of her swollen eyes, remembering how she felt in his arms … it all kept rattling around and around in his mind and sleep had eluded him.
None of this makes any sense. And none of it is bringing us any closer to what Shaddai has promised.
He had far too many questions and not nearly enough answers. Not the least of which was when he would see Meri again. He put his arm over his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.
Seven
Second month of Peret, Season of Growing
Bezalel pulled his thawb closer around him as he entered the small house. The coolest part of the year had finally arrived. “Sabba? Imma?”
“Come in, habibi. You must join me for dinner.” Even in his old age, Sabba was tall and solidly built, like Bezalel, and like his father had been. What he remembered of his father, anyway. Sabba’s dark eyes twinkled when he smiled, which was often. His long hair and beard were completely white, and had been so ever since Bezalel could remember. He still stood straight, even after his many years in the brickfields. His strong hands placed several bowls of food onto the table. “Your mother has gone to help Sarah down the street, who just had a baby. She won’t return for a while, maybe not until tomorrow. Ahmose is with her. Hungry?”
“No, thank you, I have already eaten.” Bezalel slumped to the floor on the other side of the small table from his grandfather. He absently picked up a handful of fat, ripe dates, dropping several.
“Tired?” Sabba offered Bezalel some water.
“No.”
“Unhappy?”
“No.”
Sabba laughed. “What is wrong, Bezalel?”
“Why do you ask?” Bezalel peeked under the table for the dropped dates.
“Because you say you aren’t hungry but you eat; you say you aren’t tired but you stumble; you say you aren’t sad but you do not smile.”
“What do you think of Moses?” Bezalel frowned.
“Ah. Right to the point. As always. Well, what do you think?”
“I think he is only making things worse. Ramses is only becoming more determined to keep us here.”
“Perhaps.” Sabba pulled apart a date and removed the large seed. “But let us dig deeper. What do you think of Shaddai?”
Bezalel groaned. “Must we?”
“Must we what?”
“Must we talk about that?”
“Isn’t that really the point here? Moses is not the issue. Moses is not doing anything. It is either the work of El Shaddai, or it isn’t. It is either the Lord God Almighty, who will in fact free us at the end of these signs, or just a terrible string of calamities. You need to decide soon what you believe.”
Sabba leaned on his forearms. “He gave us the name El Shaddai for a reason. He is powerful, mighty, strong. You can cling to that, or you can be blown about like a leaf in the winds of a khamsin.”
Bezalel sat silently and chewed on his dates.
Sabba disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned he carried two cups and some juice. “It has been a long, long time since we talked about anything important.” He filled both glasses.
“I’ve been busy at the palace.”
“Oh.”
They ate in silence for a while.
“Is that all?”
Bezalel slammed down his cup and sighed deeply.
Sabba placed his hand over Bezalel’s. “Why are you so angry, habibi?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why. Because I am trapped in that palace. Everyone there thinks I am unworthy. Everyone here thinks I am a traitor. I don’t get to see my family. All because, as you have always told me, El Shaddai gave me a gift. A gift that has isolated me since I was seven years old!”
“Shaddai’s ways are not always clear to us. They do not always make sense to us. But I will always believe that He had a reason for placing you there. Someday you will see it, I am sure. I am only sorry that every day is so miserable for you now.”
Bezalel could feel a smile come to his lips. He tried to hide it, but it was no use.
“What is this smile?” Sabba bent his head to try to see Bezalel’s face. “You have met a girl?”
“She is so beautiful. Her eyes are so … amazing. I hardly know her but…”
Sabba chuckled. “See, your life is not so bad. You can have a home, a family like anyone else.”
“She’s Egyptian.”
“Oh.” Sabba raised his eyebrows. He was silent for a few moments as he finished his bread. “We do not always choose whom we love.”
“How is that supposed to help me?” Bezalel shoved his food away and put his elbows on the table. “Even if anything were to happen with her, I couldn’t bring her here. And we couldn’t live there. Besides, she…”
Sabba raised his eyebrows again. “She what?”
“She’s part of the harem.” Bezalel dropped his head onto his arms.
“Oh, my.” Sabba rubbed Bezalel’s shoulder and blew out a long breath. “Well, that does complicate things a bit, doesn’t it?”
Bezalel stood in the courtyard in the brightest part of the day. The su
n shone over his back onto the rose alabaster, highlighting the striations running through it. The head and shoulders had emerged from the stone, and he drew a fine claw in gentle waves to shape the queen’s tunic. He brushed off the dust.
Ramses strode by, flicking a whip. “What do you mean, I have no horses? I have a stable full of horses!”
“They are all dead, Father.” Prince Amun-her followed closely behind.
“All dead?” Ramses stopped in the middle of the yard and spun about.
“Yes, my king,” an officer added.
“I have hundreds of horses! How are they all dead? Why did the goddess Hathor not protect them?”
“I cannot say. Every head of cattle and every horse in Egypt has died. The oxen and donkeys, too.”
“Well, get me some more!”
“From where, Father?” His son spread his hands.
“There are men on patrol on our borders; surely their horses are not dead.” Ramses paced.
“Perhaps not, but they are many days’ ride away. It will be a while before we can call them back.”
“Then I suggest you waste no time standing here! Call them back!” Ramses’s eyes were wide and the veins on his neck stood out.
The officer withdrew.
Ramses placed his hand on his son’s elbow. “You leave too, habibi. And send Jambres to me.” He pointed his whip at a servant. “Bring me some food!”
Bezalel remained still and prayed he attracted no attention.
The servant obeyed, and within moments Jambres appeared.
“Yes, my king.” He bowed at the king’s nod.
“What can you do to get me back my horses? And whatever else died?”
What doesn’t he understand about the word ‘dead’?
Jambres stood tall. “It is an enormous request you make of your servant. I shall need time.”
“How much time?” The king leaned forward until his face was a hand’s width from the much shorter magician’s, causing him to stumble back several paces.
“Several … several days. Even then, I may not be able to do anything. Osiris does not give up his dead easily.”
The pharaoh reared back. “What kind of magician are you? You are no better than Jannes! What a pair you made!” The king’s dry laugh harbored no amusement.
The magician held up a finger. “Wait! The Israelite caused the livestock to die, yes?”
“So he claims.”
“Perhaps we should make him pay for his crimes against mighty Egypt.”
“How so?” Ramses stepped forward, apparently gaining interest.
Jambres looked around the courtyard and met Bezalel’s wary gaze. He lifted a hand toward the throne. “Shall we? There are ears here….”
The king nodded and walked toward the dais. Jambres followed, and Bezalel was left standing alone.
Pay for his crimes? What was that supposed to mean? Perhaps he should warn Moses. But warn him of what? He had no idea what Jambres meant.
Leaning in the doorway to his home in Goshen, Bezalel pondered Jambres’s threat as he braided some linen ribbons. Ramses did not pout as usual, although it had been many days since the livestock died. He seemed to be waiting for something, but what that something was, Bezalel had not been able to discover.
He was still trying to figure it out when a noise from the direction of the palace caught his attention. In just a few moments, the sound grew deafening. Figures appeared at the edge of the village.
Egyptian horsemen rode hard. He stared, unable to move, as they descended upon the village and spread out. Most headed north of the houses to the animal pens; the rest spilled onto the tiny streets of the village. The three on his lane dismounted and kicked in the door of the first house they came upon. After a few moments they reappeared and burst into the next house.
Bezalel finally pulled himself away from the doorpost. He stumbled backwards into his home, still transfixed by the soldiers. Obviously they had retrieved their horses from the border. “Sabba, come quickly! Soldiers! They’re searching every house!”
Sabba grabbed his arm. “Fast! Onto the roof! It’s the safest place. Maybe they won’t bother to climb up. Let them search down here all they want.”
Bezalel scrambled up the ladder behind Sabba. Imma already waited, almost in tears.
“Where’s Ahmose?” Bezalel glanced around and peered down the ladder.
“He’s playing down the street at Sarah’s house. He’ll be safe.” Imma pulled him away from the ladder.
Bezalel paced frantically on the roof, running his hands through his hair. His heart beat wildly and he could barely catch his breath. What did they want? Could they be after Ahmose? Could they be after him for taking the child?
“Bezalel, where are you?” A trembling voice called from below.
“Ahmose!” Bezalel jumped down the ladder and landed hard.
The soldiers slammed into the house next door. Through the shared mud brick wall, every noise the men made resounded. Tables crashed, pottery shattered, children shrieked, commands echoed.
Bezalel fell to his knees in front of Ahmose and grabbed him by both shoulders. “You must not say anything, no matter what happens. Do you understand me?”
Ahmose’s eyes were the size of spring plums. He quivered in Bezalel’s grip.
Bezalel squeezed tighter and pulled the boy closer until they were almost nose to nose. “Do you understand?” Though he was learning Hebrew quickly, the child’s accent would give him away in a heartbeat. Bezalel had to keep him from talking.
Ahmose gave a feeble nod.
Blood flowed through Bezalel’s body faster and hotter, and his heart pounded in his ears. The men left the house next door. Theirs was next.
Imma and Sabba were safe on the roof, but there remained no time to climb back up and join them.
Sweat beaded on Bezalel’s forehead and ran down his cheek. He sank to the ground and crawled into a corner, pulling Ahmose into his lap. Tears flowed from Ahmose’s eyes. Bezalel put one hand across the boy’s mouth and wrapped his other arm around his small body. A crying child would only make things worse.
What could they want? The last time soldiers came into their village, they killed every male baby without warning. Of course, that was eighty years ago. Sabba had told him about it. Weeping went on for days as women mourned their sons. The soldiers even grabbed nursing babies and threw them into the river. The blood in the Nile that day must have been as much as it was a few months ago.
The door slamming open and the sound of shod feet storming through his house brought him back to the present. Israelites wore no shoes in the house, and neither did Egyptians. Soldiers always wore them.
“Where are your animals?” The soldier pointed a dagger at Bezalel.
“In the sheep pen with the others.” Why won’t they take what they want and leave?
“You have only sheep?”
“Nothing else.”
The officer reached for Ahmose, picked him up by the arm and tossed him to the other side of the room. Ahmose cried out but did not speak.
Everything else in the room faded and Bezalel lunged at the soldier. Rage coursed through his body. But before he could land any punches, another grabbed him from behind, holding his wrists and twisting them up behind his shoulders. Fire shot through his arms and he groaned as he tried to find a position that didn’t pull on his joints. He glanced at the frightened child lying still, his back against the wall. Was he dead? Or just terrified?
“What are you hiding?” The first soldier kneed him in the stomach as he gestured to the corner where he had tried to hide Ahmose.
He crumpled but was held fast by the iron grip of the man behind him. His shoulders burned again. “Nothing! Let me go!” He tried to free his arms but could not.
“What is going on here?” A third officer entered the room. Bezalel recognized the voice and stopped struggling.
“Captain!” The soldier holding Bezalel dropped his arms, and Bezalel collapsed. “
We thought he was hiding something.”
“A horse? Behind his back?” Kamose seized the soldier and shoved him out the door. “We are here to collect livestock, not injure the slaves. Get out of here before I report this to your squad leader. Or worse, discipline you myself.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Bezalel crawled to Ahmose, his upper arms and shoulders in agony with every movement.
Kamose strode over to the tiny figure slumped against the wall and pointed to Ahmose’s quaking body. “My men did this?” He knelt beside him and lifted Ahmose’s face.
Bezalel looked at the boy, grateful to see movement. Relief washed over him and he let out a deep breath. “Yes.” Please, Shaddai, please don’t let him recognize Ahmose.
Kamose’s eyes widened as he studied the child’s features. He looked over at Bezalel for what felt like an eternity. He opened his mouth and shook his head. Then he simply rose and walked out.
Bezalel pulled the boy close. “Ahmose, they’re gone! Open your eyes. It’s me!”
Ahmose slowly opened his eyes and searched the room. Then he threw his arms around Bezalel and wept, his little body shuddering with giant sobs.
Back at work the next day, Bezalel knew Kamose would demand an explanation, and if the captain did not like what he had to say, he could easily have him thrown in any one of Ramses’s many prisons. He busied his mind with the coronation bracelets, polishing and shaping the gemstones destined for the bands.
The sun had nearly set before Kamose arrived. Bezalel’s empty stomach was a painful bundle of knots.
“Why did you deceive me?” Kamose’s voice was low, almost wounded.
Bezalel had never heard the man speak in a manner that was not forceful and sure of himself. It was almost frightening.
“I feared for Ahmose.”
“I told you I meant him no harm.”
Bezalel let out a long breath. “He was covered in welts and dried blood when he came to me. Would you have believed your story in my position?”
“I suppose not.” Kamose pulled up a stool near him. “Tell me, why is he at your house?”
In the Shadow of Sinai (Journey to Canaan Book 1) Page 8
