by Lynn Austin
He glanced at the tall, dark-skinned sentries standing guard at the door to Pharaoh’s throne room, then turned his attention back to the multicolored murals decorating the walls of the anteroom. They depicted scenes of the pharaohs’ many conquests and the glories of Egypt’s ancient past. Memories of Joshua’s own past and of the loved ones he had lost were too painful to dwell on for very long, and he stared at the forbidden Egyptian images to push those memories from his thoughts. Violence and bloodshed marred his present life as a fugitive, and he was eager to leave that life behind him. He bore the scars of it on his face, the pain and guilt of it in his heart. He was no longer certain what God wanted of him or what the future would bring; perhaps before the day ended he would find out.
Prince Amariah fidgeted beside him as they waited, looking worried. “I wish they would hurry up and summon us,” he said. “I hate being surrounded by all these images and idols. How can you even look at them?”
Joshua glanced at Amariah, then at the delegation of chief priests and Levites who had accompanied them to Pharaoh’s palace. With no place to rest their eyes without sinning, they stared at the floor, silent and nervous. “If Pharaoh allows us to stay in Egypt, we’ll be living among these gods all the time,” Joshua told the prince. “You’d better get used to them.”
Joshua understood the shock the Judean exiles were experiencing. In the month since he and more than three hundred priests and Levites and their families had made their daring escape from Jerusalem at Passover, their euphoria had slowly ebbed away as they began to comprehend all that they had lost. For many of the priests, the physical separation from the Promised Land had been as painful and traumatic as severing a limb. Abandoning Solomon’s Temple on God’s holy mountain left them stunned with grief. For centuries, God’s deliverance from Egyptian slavery at Passover had defined who they were as a people, yet now God had apparently reversed His redemption plan and returned them all to Egypt. Joshua couldn’t promise them that the sojourn would be temporary.
At last the massive door swung open and a chamberlain beckoned to them. “Pharaoh will see you now.” Joshua touched the leather eye patch he wore, making certain it was still in place over his sightless right eye; then he and the delegation followed Prince Amariah into the throne room.
Dust motes danced in thin beams of sunlight as Pharaoh’s slaves fanned the air with palm branches. The palace wore a faded look of aging glory—the paint dingy gray, the plaster flaking in spots, the air musty with the scent of damp stone. Joshua stifled a cough as he bowed low before Pharaoh Taharqo, the third Nubian king to reign as Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt. Taharqo had the flawless ebony skin, broad nose, and full lips of his Cushite ancestors, but his impassive features revealed nothing of his response to the Judeans’ request for sanctuary in Egypt. When Joshua first presented their petition a week ago, he had told Pharaoh that he and Amariah were former officials in King Manasseh’s government; he hadn’t disclosed the fact that Amariah was a royal prince of the House of David.
“Pharaoh has considered your request for political asylum,” Taharqo’s spokesman began. The sheet of papyrus crackled like dry twigs as he carefully unrolled it. Clean-shaven, bare-chested, and dressed in a white linen kilt, he and the other Egyptians standing on the dais beside Pharaoh gazed down at the Judeans’ bearded faces and long robes with obvious distaste. “His Majesty offers you the following terms of refuge. You will have two days to either accept them or to leave Egyptian territory permanently.”
Prince Amariah nodded slightly. “We understand, my lord.”
There was little doubt in Joshua’s mind that the terms would be acceptable. The priests had consulted God’s will before their escape using the Urim and Thummim, and God had made it clear that it was His will for this remnant of believers to find sanctuary in Egypt. Isaiah’s prophecy confirmed it.
“Pharaoh Taharqo has generously granted you a portion of land on which to establish your exiled Jewish community. You may erect an altar there to worship your god.” One of the chief priests standing behind Joshua expelled a sigh of relief. “We have three seasons in Egypt,” the official continued. “You have arrived during shemu, our harvest time. Therefore, Pharaoh has graciously agreed to provide your followers with grain, oil, and enough food supplies to last through akhet, when the Nile River will flood once more. We use that season for building, since no farm work can be done. That will give you four months to settle into your new homes before peret, the season of plowing and sowing.”
“We are very grateful,” Prince Amariah said, bowing again.
Joshua knew this offer had nothing to do with generosity. Pharaoh would surely demand something from them in return. “How may we repay Pharaoh for his benevolence?” he asked.
“The land deeded to you is on an island in the Nile River known as Elephantine,” the spokesman said. “It is an important military outpost, and Pharaoh expects it to remain so. The terms of the treaty are these: First, Pharaoh requires all the young men of your community to enter into military training in order to staff Pharaoh’s fortress on Elephantine.”
The demand stunned Joshua. He couldn’t believe that Pharaoh would require military duty. The priests and Levites would never agree to it.
“Second, this Jewish garrison will come to Pharaoh’s defense if Egypt is attacked by a foreign nation. Third, you will join with Pharaoh’s other armed forces if our great god Amon-Ra should decree that the Egyptian empire must expand . . . even if this means going to war against your former countrymen in Judah.”
“We aren’t soldiers—” one of the chief priests began before Pharaoh’s spokesman cut him off.
“Pharaoh knows who you are: experts on Jewish Law and displaced priests without a temple.”
“Then why would he want us to command a military garrison?”
The hall fell silent, as if the Judean priest had committed a grave sin by questioning Pharaoh’s decision. Pharaoh himself finally broke the silence.
“Because I am a student of history,” he said. It was the first time he had spoken to them on either visit, and his voice resounded powerfully in the great throne room. “Twenty years ago when Pharaoh Shabako reigned, you Judeans accomplished something no other nation has ever done—including ours. You defeated Sennacherib and his entire Assyrian army. Your king Hezekiah made it very clear that the victory was not won by his own sword but by the sword of Yahweh, his god. Now you come to me claiming to be true priests of Yahweh. You ask to build an altar to him in Egypt. I have granted your request. But in return, I ask that Yahweh’s military power be made available to me.”
One of the chief priests started to protest, but Joshua stopped him with a warning look. “Where is Elephantine Island located, my lord?” he asked the Egyptian official.
When Pharaoh’s spokesman replied, his cold smile offered Joshua the first hint of his fate. “You will find it’s a considerable distance upstream from here, near the first cataract of the Nile, approximately four hundred miles due south. The journey requires a week’s travel by boat.”
Joshua nodded, struggling to prevent his shock and disappointment from registering on his face. One of the priests behind him moaned. They all knew without consulting a map that they were being exiled to the extreme southern border of Egypt, much farther from home than any of them ever imagined. Joshua glanced at Prince Amariah and saw stunned disbelief reflected on his face. It was the prince’s duty to respond for the group, but he seemed incapable of answering. Joshua stepped forward.
“Your Majesty Pharaoh Taharqo, please accept our gratitude for your abundant generosity,” he said. “But we won’t require two days to reach a decision; we gratefully accept all of your terms.”
The priest beside Joshua inhaled sharply. “What!”
Amariah gaped at him in alarm. “Joshua, wait. We can’t—”
“I know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “Trust me.”
The Egyptian official studied the murmuring priests with an expression
of boredom. “Since it seems there is some disagreement among you, the chamberlain will escort you to the hallway to continue your discussion. Pharaoh has other petitioners waiting.”
The delegation was quickly ushered from the room. The chief priests turned on Joshua as soon as they reached the outer doors, everyone talking at the same time. “What were you thinking? We can’t possibly accept such conditions! This isn’t an offer of asylum; it’s military enlistment and banishment.”
“We aren’t soldiers, Joshua,” one of the chief priests said. “Our sons are dedicated to God’s service, not Pharaoh’s. And Yahweh won’t be manipulated like a graven idol to fight for the Egyptians.”
“Besides,” Amariah said, “we can’t ask our people to move so far into the interior of Egypt. We’ve already moved them three hundred miles from home as it is.”
Joshua folded his arms across his chest as he battled to restrain his temper. “Did you imagine that the Egyptians would offer us the well-watered plains of Goshen, like they offered Joseph and our ancestors?”
“I’m sure many of us saw the lush, green lands of the delta and did think that,” Amariah said. “How am I supposed to tell everyone that we’re moving to the border of Cush? We both know from our studies with Lord Shebna what the land is like down there—beyond the narrow strip of flood plain there’s nothing but Sahara desert. We won’t be able to plant vineyards or olive groves in that climate or—”
Joshua gestured impatiently. “I know all of this, and I also know that Yahweh doesn’t make mistakes. If He wants us to be trained as warriors, then it must be for a good reason. I’m not any happier than you are about moving to an island four hundred miles farther upstream. But don’t you see how perfectly it fulfills Isaiah’s prophecy? ‘There will be an altar to the Lord in the heart of Egypt, and a monument to the Lord at its border.’”
The priests stared at him, uncomprehending. “Listen, we thought this prophecy meant that there would be two shrines, one in the middle of Egypt and one at the border,” he explained. “But if we build our altar on Elephantine Island it will fulfill both conditions at the same time. The island is on the southern border of Egypt, but it’s also close to Cush—and Pharaoh Taharqo’s empire consists of Egypt and Cush. Therefore, Elephantine Island is right in the heart of that empire.”
Amariah closed his eyes. “But it’s so far from home,” he said softly.
“Yes, but it’s also an island. Can’t you see God’s wisdom in giving us an island, all to ourselves? We can live separate lives—holy lives. Not contaminated by all of this.” He gestured to the images painted on the walls.
No one spoke for a moment. Joshua drew a deep breath. “We’re going back in there, and we’re telling Pharaoh that we accept his terms. Any objections?”
When no one uttered a sound, Joshua caught his first glimpse of his future, and he neither liked nor understood it. He would be a soldier in Pharaoh’s army, stationed on the island of Elephantine, more than seven hundred miles from his home in Jerusalem.
Part One
You have abandoned your people,
the house of Jacob.
They are full of superstitions from the East. . . .
They bow down to the work of their hands. . . .
Go into the rocks, hide in the ground
from dread of the Lord and
the splendor of his majesty!
Isaiah 2:6, 8, 10
1
Waning candlelight bathed the family dinner table with a sleepy glow as the Passover meal drew to a close. But Joshua shifted restlessly in his seat as he listened to the familiar story of deliverance. This was the first Passover that his community of exiles had celebrated since escaping from Jerusalem a year ago, and the festive meal stirred unwelcome memories.
“‘Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good,’” Joshua’s older brother Jerimoth recited, “‘his love endures forever. . . . In my anguish I cried to the Lord, and he answered by setting me free.’”
Joshua didn’t feel free. He would never feel free until his enemy, King Manasseh, was dead. He swallowed a sip of his wine and said, “I wonder if Manasseh is celebrating Passover tonight in Jerusalem.” Jerimoth turned to him in surprise, as if the king’s name had been a bucket of cold water dashed across their festive table.
“What difference does it make, Joshua? I thank God for the privilege of celebrating with my family for the first time in our new home.” Jerimoth spread his arms wide as if to embrace all the family members and friends gathered around the table. He had worked hard to turn the musty, mud-brick dwelling on Elephantine Island into a comfortable home for his wife and children; he and Joshua had built a compound of adjoining mud-brick houses with a common courtyard for their extended family. Their sister Tirza lived in one of the houses with her husband, Joel, the high priest. Joshua shared a third house with his mother, Jerusha, and his sister Dinah. Joshua loved his sister, but every time he looked at Dinah he was reminded of Manasseh and how he had held her captive, made her his concubine, then sacrificed her son to Molech.
The servant girl, Miriam, and her brother Nathan also shared Joshua’s home. Miriam did more than her share of the work, but her presence was another irritant to Joshua, a daily reminder of how his stupid mistakes had caused the death of Maki, Miriam’s father.
“Am I the only one who sees how insane all this is?” Joshua asked. “We’re thanking God for delivering us from the Egyptians while living in the heart of Egypt!” He looked to the others gathered around the low table for confirmation, but they returned his gaze with embarrassed silence. “I don’t mean to spoil your fun, but we’ve been stuck here for a year already. I guess I’m getting a little tired of waiting for God to act.”
He sat back in his seat again, resting his chin on his hand, covering his scarred face with his fingers. He was self-conscious about his disfigurement; the wide, jagged scar stretched down the right side of his face from above his eyebrow to his jaw, leaving him with only a ragged beard on that side. Every now and then, he would touch the leather patch to reassure himself that it was still in place over his ravaged eye. Prince Amariah said the wound made him look older, battle-hardened, tough. Joshua was the community’s hero, and the young soldiers-in-training stood in awe of him, even though he was only a few years older than they were. They had chosen the ox—Joshua’s nickname—as the island regiment’s symbol, decorating their banners and shields with it.
“I apologize to my esteemed guests for my brother’s behavior,” Jerimoth said with a tight smile. “Please, allow me to refill your cup, Your Majesty.”
Joshua’s impatience soared as Prince Amariah held out his own cup to Jerimoth instead of demanding to be served. Even though the priests had anointed Amariah as their king and the rightful heir to King David’s throne, he lacked the assertive bearing and authority of a true king. Joshua knew that he, not the prince, was the island’s true leader in every respect.
Jerimoth turned to his other guest. “Would you like some more wine, Colonel Hadad?”
“It’s excellent—but no thanks,” Hadad replied. He was yet another reminder to Joshua of all that he had lost. Hadad’s grandfather, Shebna, had served with Joshua’s father as the king’s top two officials until King Manasseh had begun his bloody purge. Because of Hadad’s extensive military training in Jerusalem, he had been given command of the garrison with the rank of colonel. He had abandoned strong drink after their escape and had worked hard for the past year to turn the Levites’ scholarly sons into an active fighting force, skilled with spear, bow, and sword.
As Joshua watched, Hadad wiped the palms of his hands on his thighs for what seemed like the hundredth time. Why was he acting so nervous tonight? He’d been a frequent guest at their family’s table, so it couldn’t be shyness. Joshua noticed that Hadad had scarcely touched his meal. “Is something the matter with your food?” he asked.
“No, nothing. I’ve eaten my fill, that’s all.” Hadad turned to Jerimoth, their host, and a sm
ile spread across his handsome face. “I want to thank you again for inviting me tonight. I’ve never known what it is to be part of a large family, having lived alone with my grandfather most of my life.”
“You’re always welcome in our home, Hadad, you know that. And now, if you know the words, please sing the closing hymn with us.”
Joshua didn’t join in with the others as they sang. Instead he watched Hadad carefully, certain that he had something on his mind. Jerimoth ended the Passover celebration with a prayer, and the women left the room to clean up the kitchen and put the sleepy children to bed. Hadad rose to his feet.
“There’s something I’d like to say,” he began, confirming Joshua’s suspicions. All the men turned to Hadad as he expelled the air from his lungs with an uneasy laugh. “Phew! This is worse than going into battle. My stomach feels like I’m back on board the ship that brought us here.”
“You’re among friends,” Jerimoth assured him. “Please, tell us what’s on your mind.”
Hadad nodded, grinning nervously. “What I want to say is that my life really began a year ago at Passover. Before then I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted to do with my life. But ever since our escape from Jerusalem I’ve finally found meaning and purpose here in Egypt. I enjoy my work at the garrison. Military command suits me, and I think I’ve finally earned a good name for myself. Now I lack only one thing to make my life complete.” His voice grew hushed. “To marry the woman I love. Jerimoth, I’m asking you, as head of this family, for your sister Dinah’s hand in marriage.”
Hadad’s request was so unexpected that it took Joshua a moment to digest it. Hadad couldn’t be serious! Surely everyone knew why such a marriage was impossible. But before Joshua could react, Jerimoth’s face split into a wide grin as if he was about to accept Hadad’s proposal. “My dear friend Hadad, I’d be honored to—”
“Jerimoth, stop!” Joshua sprang to his feet, cutting off his brother’s words. “You can’t let him marry Dinah!”
