by Mesu Andrews
“You may rise.” Anippe’s presence filled their small room, but …
Trying not to stare, Mered glanced repeatedly at his master’s new bride and her handmaid—neither wearing paints or fine linen or wigs. They looked … well, thoroughly Hebrew. Their complexions matched Puah’s olive tone.
“May we offer you pomegranate wine or gold beer?” Puah stepped forward, nudging Mered aside since his voice seemed to have left him. “I’m sorry we have no grape wine or dark beer to serve your taste.”
“Thank you, no. My sister, Ankhe, is the handmaid who summoned you and Shiphrah to attend Queen Senpa. Do you remember Ankhe?”
Mered watched his wife nod tentatively, her trembling fingers laced together at her waist.
“Good, then you know how we found your home. I’m not here to cause trouble. I simply need your help—but you can’t tell Master Sebak.”
At that moment, Mered’s world shifted. Deception had come to Avaris, and its name was Anippe. He took a step toward her, palms upturned, pleading. “My amira, Puah and I are happy to help you—always—but Master Sebak loves you and would do anything for you. He’s told me so himself.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. Her jaw set like Aswan granite. The epitome of an inner clash. “What I do, Mered, I do to ensure a long and happy life with my husband. Your only role will be to periodically deliver a package to me from Puah. In return, I’ll double your grain and cloth allowances and give you a larger dwelling.”
He bowed, careful to keep his tone humble. “Thank you, Amira, but were quite content. Our master has always been generous.” He waited, hoping he hadn’t offended the woman who held Sebak’s heart in her hand.
“Return to the linen shop, Mered—now—while I speak privately with your wife.”
He shot a panicked glance at Puah, who studied her hands and refused to meet his gaze. Mered kissed her temple and hurried out, squeezing past the amira’s sister, who blocked the doorway.
“Remember, Mered,” Anippe said as he reached the threshold, “complete secrecy. Your wife’s life depends on it.”
He stumbled through the door and down the path toward the villa, torn by love for his wife and loyalty to his master. Who was this young bride who’d stolen Master Sebak’s heart and brought Egypt’s chaos to Avaris? Sebak had avoided political turmoil by focusing on his career, but now royalty shared his bed and threatened his slaves. El-Shaddai, hear my cry. Protect us from the schemes of our new amira.
Anippe’s heart was in her throat as Mered left his home. She’d never threatened a slave and never spoken so rudely to a man. Puah stood across from her, mirroring Anippe’s posture. Hands clasped tightly in front to steady their shaking. But Anippe was the instigator—and the amira—and she must take the next step.
“Puah, I need your help. Can we sit down and talk?”
The midwife motioned Anippe toward the table, offering their single chair. “Please, sit there. I’ll get you something to drink, and maybe some dried fish or dates.” Puah kept her head bowed, nervously shuffling through baskets. She grabbed a clay pitcher and spilled water onto the dirt floor around three clay cups, her hands trembling too violently to pour.
Ankhe loomed by the door, but Anippe walked over to the frightened midwife and guided her to the lone chair. “Puah, please. Come talk with me.”
Puah sat, hands folded, head bowed. “I won’t kill Hebrew babies. I won’t.”
Anippe crouched before the young woman, capturing her gaze. “I’m not here about my brother’s edict.”
“Well, your brother’s edict is my whole world.”
The anger reflected in Puah’s unshed tears revealed a tough side Anippe respected. “Perhaps we can improve each other’s worlds.” She stood, towering over the Hebrew for her next revelation. “I refuse to endure what I witnessed in Senpa’s chamber this morning, and you’re going to ensure I don’t have to.” Puah’s head shot up. “I can’t promise you’ll never miscarry. Only El-Shaddai gives the breath of life.”
“You can make sure I don’t get pregnant, Puah. The wives at Gurob Harem used a poultice for their interludes with traveling merchants. It always worked.”
“Nothing always works, Amira. Only a barren woman is sure she’ll never conceive.” Puah’s voice had gone flat. She began tracing random figures on the table.
“But you know of this poultice? You or Shiphrah could provide the ingredients and teach me to use it—without Sebak knowing?”
The midwife’s hand stilled on the table. “How long will you refuse to bear his child?”
Anippe’s cheeks burned. Why did she feel shamed by a Hebrew midwife’s question? “How long will you refuse to kill Hebrew babies?”
Puah laughed without mirth and resumed making circles with her fingers on the table. “Grind together dates, acacia-tree bark, and honey to make a paste, and then coat a wadding of sheep’s wool with the concoction. Insert it shortly before …” The midwife met Anippe’s gaze. “Now, how will you improve my world, Amira? Can you keep Hebrew babes alive—while we keep your womb dead?”
10
And because the midwives feared God, he gave them families of their own.
—EXODUS 1:21
THREE MONTHS LATER
Anippe stared at the ceiling in dawn’s pink shadows and wiped her cheeks, defeated by the sleepless night—her last night to feel Sebak’s warmth beside her for who knew how long. She removed her neck rest and rolled to her side, laying her cheek against her outstretched arm, careful not to crease the spirals of her wig. She couldn’t let Sebak awaken to a rumpled, puffy-eyed wife on his last morning at home.
When had she fallen in love with this honorable and gentle man?
His temper hadn’t flared since those first days of marriage. The gods must have conspired against their happiness. What other explanation could there be? Senpa’s miscarriage. Tut’s ridiculous decree. Abbi Horem nearly replaced as prince regent.
But two weeks after Senpa’s miscarriage, the royals left, and though Anippe missed her family, she was relieved when Ankhe’s disposition improved. She clung to Anippe in their aloneness, which translated to Sebak as long-overdue respect. He seemed pleased, and the sisters were closer than they’d been since childhood.
Anippe watched the slow rise and fall of his chest as he slept. He was beautiful, rugged, flawlessly flawed. Long, black lashes fringed almond-shaped lids. His nose turned slightly at a knot halfway down, where it had been broken in battle. A scar intersected his right brow. They’d been married only three months, but she couldn’t imagine life without him. She’d dreaded his return to battle since the day she married a soldier.
Dread became reality today.
A messenger from Abbi Horem had arrived yesterday while Anippe and Sebak lounged in the garden. Dusty and weary, he had demanded to speak with Sebak immediately—and privately. They disappeared into the villa. Anippe waited only moments before seeing the messenger hurry away toward the Ramessid barracks. When Sebak returned to his couch in the garden, his whole countenance had changed.
“General Horemheb has recalled me to duty, habiba.” He spoke matter-of-factly into the distance. “I leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Why so soon? Where are you going?”
Slowly, he turned his head, appraising her with empty eyes. Her gentle husband was gone. “I go when I’m called, and you must never ask where.”
She reached for his hand, and he recoiled.
“I’m going to the stables for a while.” He towered over her, jaw flexing, breathing hard. “I’ll meet you in our chamber for the evening meal. We’ll talk more then.” Looking away, he wiped both hands down the length of his face and expelled a long sigh before returning his attention to her with a softer voice. “I’ll be better then.”
Anippe could only nod, fighting the tears clawing at her throat as he walked away.
She had discovered a horrendous truth yesterday. Sebak’s heart was hers, but his mind and body belonged to Egypt.
&nbs
p; Tears threatened again this morning as she watched him sleep. Why was she so emotional? Lady Isis, goddess of motherhood, please don’t play tricks with me. Anippe had used Puah’s poultices faithfully and had given herself to her husband freely. In return Anippe had interceded with her husband on behalf of the midwives, and the Ramessid troops swept only the unskilled village for newborn Hebrew males. Granted, it was only partial protection from Pharaoh’s edict.
Had Puah also provided only partial protection in her herb bundles? Is that why my red flow is a week late in coming? Her interrupted cycle had not gone unnoticed. Sebak, eager for children, had been counting the days.
Nightmarish visions of Senpa and Ummi Kiya played in Anippe’s mind, while fresh tears slid across her nose and into her braided wig. The man softly snoring beside her was the best man she knew. To raise his child would be a privilege, a feat that would surely make her ka feather-light on the eternal scale of Anubis.
But why risk death and separation from Sebak, when they could adopt as Horemheb and Amenia had done? Truly, she loved children, and since taking steps to prevent conception, her arms had ached all the more to hold a child of her own.
But I’m protecting Sebak and myself from the separation of death. The argument sounded reasonable in the dark shadows of her mind, but in the light of day it was deceit—betrayal—plain and simple.
As if sensing silent turmoil, her husband stirred. His waking filled the room with life as his head turned in the carved turquoise neck rest. The lazy grin she loved lit his sleepy face. “Are you watching me?”
Without warning, he rolled over and pinned her to the bed, enveloping her with his arms, his scent, his love.
“I’m memorizing your face before you leave me …” Her voice broke, and the tears started.
She tried to turn away, but his elbows trapped her wig in place while her face slid left. Her eyes were suddenly cloaked in darkness and her right ear framed by the elegant black tresses.
Sebak roared with laughter and snatched off her wig, burying his kisses in the ticklish spot on her neck.
She felt absolutely naked but couldn’t stop giggling or push him away. “Stop! Please, stop.”
Before she could utter more protest, he silenced her with a kiss—playful at first, then slow and gentle. When he pulled away, she clung to him, pressing her cheek against his to hide her ugliness.
With one arm, he held her. With the other hand, he removed his own wig. Curiosity drew her eyes upward. Her gentle giant was completely bald, the skin hidden by his wig several shades lighter than his face and neck. He was radiant, handsome, confident—hers.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world to me, Anippe.” He stroked the thin hair atop her head, examining, adoring. “You need no wig or paints to please me. You need only be honorable, faithful, and loving to our children.”
He kissed her again, but she couldn’t mock him by returning his passion. How dare she imagine her heart weighing favorably on Anubis’s scale?
She pressed against his chest, and he rolled aside. “Come, my love,” she said. “We should prepare our candles to take to the quay for today’s Feast of Lotus.”
His wounded expression nearly drew her back. “Tell me again why we chose today as the Feast of Lotus.”
She replaced her wig and scooted off the bed. Donning only her sheath, she scurried into their sitting room before he could retrieve her. “We didn’t choose today for the feast, remember? You chose to celebrate the first day of inundation with your send-off to battle.” Anippe heard her husband rifling through baskets in their bedroom behind the partition. “What are you looking for?” she asked.
He peeked his bald head around the dividing curtain. “I should wear my uniform today, but I can’t find my cudgel.” Gone before she could suggest where a stray cudgel might hide, Sebak continued his frenzied search, while Anippe nibbled on the fruit they’d shared after their meal last night.
He’d returned from the stables in much better humor, as the husband she knew. The man she loved. They feasted on marinated goose with cucumber yogurt sauce and roasted lamb seasoned with garlic and onions. Fresh fruits and vegetables were sparse, and they ate mostly dried dates and figs, since harvest season had passed.
Sebak had dangled a dried fig, and as she opened her mouth to receive it, he had whispered, “Are you carrying my child?”
The night had been perfect until that moment. Thankfully, he dropped the fig into her mouth, giving her a few moments to chew and think of an answer.
After a swig of honeyed wine, she forced her features into a seductive pout. “It’s too early to tell, habibi.”
He placed his hand on her stomach and whispered against her cheek, “Perhaps we should celebrate the Feast of Lotus tomorrow with the new year. As the inundation waters bring fertile silt from the south to nourish our land, perhaps an offering of lotus candles at the Avaris quay will ensure fertility in the amira’s womb.”
“But I thought we’d spend your last day alone together.” She kissed him deeply, pressing her will. “I don’t want to share you with the whole estate.”
He groaned but pulled away. “Wait right there.” Hurrying to the door, he flung it open and spoke to the Ramessids on duty. “Nassor, summon the estate foreman. He knows I return to duty tomorrow, but I’ve decided to celebrate the Feast of Lotus as a good-bye gift for the whole estate. The foreman will need to get the chief baker and brewer to work all night, and craftsmen to fashion the silver lotus candleholders.”
“Yes, my lord. Right away.” Nassor and another Ramessid marched into the darkness, while the other two remained.
Sebak slammed the door, delight in his eyes. “It will be wonderful. We’ll make the day about celebration and new life—not about good-byes and—”
Death. He’d stopped before the word tumbled out, but Anippe’s face must have revealed her horror.
Rushing to her, he had swept her into his arms and buried his head in the bend of her neck. “We will sing for the lotus tomorrow and carry our candles to the Nile, dreaming of the day I’ll return to you. But know this, habiba. You are my dream, and I will hold you in my heart every moment I’m away.”
“Found it.” Sebak appeared from behind their bedroom partition, triumphantly bearing the knotty-wood cudgel. Blood still stained its surface.
Anippe turned, wiping away tears, and rang the Hathor-shaped chime. The sooner Ankhe brought their morning meal, the sooner they could take candles to the quay and return to the cocoon of their private chamber.
Mered and Puah walked hand in hand toward the Nile, following friends, family, and Egyptians toward the Avaris quay. They walked slowly. Puah’s queasiness had subsided but hadn’t completely disappeared during the past few weeks. Her belly was rounding like a lovely little melon, and they prayed daily for a daughter.
How could any Hebrew hope for a son while the threat of Pharaoh’s edict still loomed?
Puah had counted thirty baby boys in the craftsmen’s and unskilled’s camps. Fearing God more than Pharaoh, neither midwife obeyed Pharaoh’s edict, but Ramessid guards cast three newborns into the Nile. Though the slave camps mourned their loss, the twenty-seven baby boys spared brought some measure of solace.
Gossip among the camps said Master Sebak had forbidden Ramessid death squads in the craftsmen’s village. No one knew for sure, but Mered believed the master was simply too enthralled with his bride to order regular Ramessid inspections of both camps.
The amira also seemed too distracted to visit the linen shop. Mered wasn’t at all disappointed she stayed away. His only contact with Anippe had been in his home—when she threatened his wife.
He still prayed for the young amira—that she would cease her deception. He obediently delivered Puah’s small baskets to Ankhe on the first day of each week, placing the bundles on his desk and waiting for two sacks of grain to mysteriously replace them. Mered knew nothing of midwifery, so he dared not guess the contents. But of one thing he was certai
n—his wife’s life depended on it.
“Where’s your candle, my friend?” Master Sebak swatted Mered’s back, nearly tumbling the linen keeper down the dusty hill to the quay.
Regaining his footing, Mered chuckled. “I don’t need a lotus-shaped silver pot to carry my prayers to El-Shaddai. He knows my dreams no matter what shape they take.”
The amira peeked around her husband’s large frame. “Then why do you and Puah even attend our lotus feast?” Her painted smile did little to mask the bite in her tone.
Puah squeezed Mered’s hand, warning him to tread lightly. Neither of them had seen the amira since the day she visited their home. “We come to honor Master Sebak and pledge our loyalty to you, Amira, while he’s away.”
“Humph.” She turned away, her cheeks and neck growing crimson.
“Thank you, my friend.” Sebak placed a hand on Mered’s shoulder. “And thank you, Puah, for taking care of the women on both estates. My wife has kept me distracted …” Sebak noticed Puah’s swollen abdomen and looked as if he’d swallowed a bad fig.
An awkward silence ushered them partway down the path until Mered couldn’t stand it any longer. “We estimate she’ll deliver during the first month of sowing season.” He lifted an eyebrow. Would Sebak mention the king’s edict?
“Congratulations, my friend.” Master Sebak’s gaze searched the gathering crowd at the shore, and then a slow smile shone as bright as the midday sun. He gathered Anippe in his arms and kissed her gently. “You have a heart of gold, my wife. Mered, you should thank your amira for her kindness.”
Confused, Mered glanced at Puah for clarity, but she looked as puzzled as he felt. “Of course. I do thank her … but for what exactly?”
Sebak lowered his voice, glancing around to ensure he wouldn’t be overheard. “Anippe asked that I discontinue patrols in the craftsmen’s village. My guards have enforced Pharaoh’s edict only on the unskilled plateau between Avaris and Qantir.” He gazed at Anippe adoringly. “You knew Puah was expecting and wanted to save their child, didn’t you?”
