The Pharaoh's Daughter

by Mesu Andrews

  Perhaps Ummi Amenia had been right all these years, lauding the importance of Lady Hathor’s cleansing ceremony. “After your days of seclusion, you must thank Lady Hathor, goddess of love, for the end of your red flow and then ask that she continue to flow through you—now with love for another.”

  “But my lover is gone,” Anippe whispered to no one. “Will Sebak still love me when he no longer thinks I bear his child?”

  Puah’s herb bundles accused Anippe from her embroidery basket. She’d hidden them there with the certainty that her strong soldier would never shuffle through needles and thread. Had she been wrong to deceive him? Surely her kind and gentle husband would never have demanded she bear a child despite her fear. Or would he? “You need only be honorable, faithful, and loving to our children.” Clearly, his love hinged on her childbearing.

  A quick knock, and her chamber door was flung open. Ankhe bent her knees to enter, balancing a large basket on her head with one hand, carrying a silver tray with the other.

  Fruit, cucumbers, and an amphora of wine precariously slid to the edge of the tray. “Take this,” Ankhe said. Anippe jumped to obey, and Ankhe lowered the basket, showcasing its contents. “Three sacks of grain, two bundles of dried figs, thirteen raisin cakes, three hins of barley beer. The priests of Seth will be furious that we’re sending a portion of their offering to Lady Hathor’s temple in Dendara.”

  Anippe set the tray aside, glaring at her sister. “The priests receive an offering—meaning I offer it to them. Besides, what can they do to me? Refuse to fill my water clock?”

  She rolled her eyes, and Ankhe giggled—an unusual sound, like a rat’s sneeze.

  Anippe studied her. “Why are you so happy?”

  Sobering, Ankhe plucked a date from the fruit tray and began nibbling. “I’m glad you’re not pregnant, and I’m happy for a private bath. Those stupid Hebrew house slaves try to make me feel like one of them, but I’m not. I’m Pharaoh’s sister.” Her passion rose with each word, bulging her neck veins.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

  “I’m sorry, Ankhe.”

  Her sister lifted stormy eyes. “I shouldn’t have to be your handmaid, Anippe. You could change this.”

  “I can’t. What if Tut found out I released you against his command? We’d both be punished—perhaps lose our lives.” Did she believe that, or was she as guilty as the others of pressing Ankhe under her thumb? Regret seized her, and words slipped out before she considered their impact. “What would you do if you were no longer my handmaid?”

  Ankhe’s eyes brightened. “I would lounge by the river with you. We could talk of travel and marriage, and we could curse the old hens at Gurob.”

  Pity surged when Anippe heard Ankhe’s dream world. “How can we speak of travel when we’ve only been to Memphis and Gurob? How can we speak of marriage when I’ve known a husband for three months and you’ve never married?” She reached for Ankhe’s hand. “Even as amira, I must be productive. Wouldn’t you like to spin or weave? Maybe work in the gardens? Let’s find something you enjoy but maintain the title of handmaid should Abbi Horem or Sebak return from battle unexpectedly.”

  Ankhe removed her hand from Anippe’s grasp and stared into the distance. Anippe waited, hoping for some kind of response—confirmation, disappointment, even a temper tantrum. Silence stretched into loneliness.

  Finally, Ankhe painted on a smile and assumed a pleasant air. “Let’s take our bath. You bring the scented oils for the ritual. I’ll bring the fruit and wine.”

  Anippe watched her go, a sense of dread creeping through her. Ankhe had stored up too much anger in her short life. If a spark ever caught fire, her rage might be unquenchable.

  12

  Then Pharaoh’s daughter went down to the Nile to bathe, and … saw the basket among the reeds and sent her female slave to get it.

  —EXODUS 2:5

  Mered made sure his morning duties took him near the river. He’d check the retting process of the flax—ensuring his workers removed every seed head with rippling combs before stalks were soaked. Avaris flax was planted, harvested, processed, and spun in shifts so that every step of the procedure was occurring at all times. A delicate process, to be sure, but not nearly as delicate as the one he’d witnessed this morning before leaving for the day’s work.

  Jochebed had chosen her best papyrus basket, large enough to carry her son. She and Amram coated it with tar and pitch to make it seaworthy, as God had instructed Noah to coat the ark generations before. They wrapped the babe in specially woven red-white-and-black-striped cloth to represent the Levites—their clan of Jacob’s descendants.

  Amram had gathered them all together and pronounced his blessing: “Let this child be wrapped in the promise of Israel. He is a son of Levites, son of Israel, the son of Isaac, the son of our father Abraham. We place him in this ark on the floodwaters—in the hands of God Almighty.”

  Jochebed had then placed the basket under one arm and taken Miriam by the hand. She had planned to set the basket afloat near the craftsmen’s village, where it would float past Qantir and to the Great Sea, but Mered’s flax harvesters had already begun work along the shoreline—their slave drivers too alert to set Jochebed’s basket a sail. Mered had watched the weary mother search for a secluded spot, walking, walking, walking … until she passed the quay. Miriam followed her, pretending to help harvest reeds for basket making.

  Mered had lost sight of them in the bulrushes south of the villa. He was certain Jochebed and Miriam could invent an excuse for their presence near the villa, but he’d searched in vain for a floating pitch-covered basket on the Nile. Please, El-Shaddai, protect the babe who must now sail past Avaris and Qantir to the Great Sea.

  The sound of wooden mallets hitting stone brought Mered back to the moment. Glancing upriver, he noticed additional guards posted near the amira’s new privacy wall. Hebrew laborers had gossiped about the secluded bathhouse connected to the master’s private chambers. No one had seen the amira since Master Sebak left—not even the workers. Some said her mind was addled. Some said she suffered morning sickness and would birth a Ramessid heir before harvest. Mered simply prayed her guards didn’t notice a lone papyrus basket floating by.

  He walked along the riverbank, checking water gauges for his report to the king’s tax collectors. Yet all the while he kept hoping to see the small basket sailing past. Oh please, El-Shaddai, hide the small vessel from Ramessid guards and reveal it to traveling merchants or foreign royalty. If El-Shaddai could create the heavens and the earth, if He could give Abraham a son at age one hundred, surely He could shelter a tiny ark with such precious cargo.

  Mered greeted the villa slaves as he walked among his linen workers along the shore. House slaves were seldom released to visit their families in the skilled or unskilled camps, so on days like this, Mered tried to station family members close to each other so they could at least complete their tasks side by side.

  With his mind so thoroughly distracted, he meandered too close to the bulrushes and planted his left sandal in the deep black mud. He bent to retrieve the mired sandal and glimpsed a disturbance at the corner of Anippe’s private wall.

  “Lord God, no.”

  It was little Miriam. Guards running toward her and shouting. Ankhe appeared from behind the new privacy wall and yanked the girl into seclusion, leaving the guards stunned—and retreating back to the shore.

  “Get out!” Ankhe screamed at the guards. “This is the amira’s private bathhouse, and no one comes past this wall. You’ll feel your captain’s strap if you come a step farther.”

  “But the girl.” One of the Ramessids reached for the little Hebrew’s arm, and Ankhe reached up and slapped him. Startled—then enraged—the soldier drew back his fist.

  “Hit Pharaoh’s sister and die, Ramessid.”

  The guard hesitated. “What do you mean ‘Pharaoh’s sister’?”

  “I am King Tut’s and Amira Anippe’s sister—fallen out of
favor—but I assure you they will feed you to the crocodiles if you lay a hand on me.”

  Anippe watched from the edge of the wall, staying hidden in the bulrushes. Ankhe had more courage than a hundred Ramessid soldiers.

  The big guard shoved Ankhe. “Get behind the wall and take the Hebrew brat to Pharaoh’s real sister.” He trudged toward shore in the waist-high water, and called over his shoulder, “The next Hebrew we keep for sport.”

  Ankhe spit at his back and grabbed the little girl’s arm to keep her head above water.

  Anippe steadied the basket and moved back toward the bathhouse, giving Ankhe room to come around the privacy wall and introduce their little intruder. She heard a baby’s cry from inside the basket and peeked inside.

  Before she could inquire of the girl as to the basket’s contents, she heard Ankhe scolding her. “Why are you playing in the bulrushes? Don’t you know you could be eaten by crocodiles? Or worse, attacked by those soldiers?”

  “Ankhe, she’s frightened enough without your screaming. Bring her over here.” The girl had obviously followed the basket.

  Anippe removed the lid for more than a peek. Black ringlets covered the baby’s head. Pink cheeks and gums glistened as he wailed his disapproval. Real tears rolled from tightly pressed lashes, and she nearly wept with him.

  “It’s a Hebrew boy, Anippe.” Ankhe’s flat tone proclaimed more than the obvious.

  A Hebrew male infant. He should have been cast into the Nile weeks ago. Months ago. Shiphrah and Puah should have killed him. If Anippe was loyal to her brother, she should drown him right now.

  Anippe discarded his rough-woven Hebrew cloth and placed his naked body next to hers. Skin to skin, he nestled into her heart—and his crying ceased. Cooing. Quiet. Peaceful. He snuggled into the bend of her neck, and she felt his warm breath, steady and strong.

  Life in her hands. Given by the gods. Without birthing pain. But with its own kind of danger.

  She squeezed her eyes closed. Could she keep him? Deceive the whole world? Abbi Horem’s warning screamed in her memory, “Your husband demands your loyalty, Anippe, as do I.” But wasn’t she being profoundly loyal to give Sebak an heir while eliminating her risk of childbirth? She would love this child and make him Sebak’s heir. It was the will of the gods.

  “No, Anippe.” Ankhe’s wary voice shattered Anippe’s dream.

  “What do you mean, no? Don’t you see, Ankhe? Hapi, goddess of the Nile, has given us this gift. Our faithful offerings have finally produced some worth.”

  Ankhe’s disbelief was mirrored by the little Hebrew girl’s awe. She openly appraised Anippe’s bare form. “You’re so … so … smooth.”

  Her innocent comment loosened even Ankhe’s pinched expression. Considering Hebrews were quite hairy by nature—even their women—a fully shaved Egyptian would seem quite a wonder. “I suppose I am smooth, aren’t I?”

  The girl nodded, riotous curls bobbing. Droplets of the Nile perched in her hair, remnants from Ankhe’s splashing. The sun’s rays made them glisten—as bright as the hope in her eyes. “Shall I get one of the Hebrew women to nurse the boy for you?” Her round brown eyes were identical to the baby’s. She was probably his sister.

  “You will not get a wet nurse.” Ankhe shoved the girl aside and lunged for the baby, but an ummi’s instincts emerge quickly.

  With a stiff right arm, Anippe seized Ankhe’s throat—while her baby rested peacefully near her heart. “The girl asked me the question.” Seeing her sister’s mouth gape but draw no air, Anippe released her and turned to the little Hebrew. “Yes, go. Ask Puah the midwife to accompany you and a wet nurse to the villa. Do you know Puah?”

  The little girl nodded and smiled, revealing two missing front teeth.

  “All right. Bring Puah to the villa, but don’t tell anyone why you’ve come. Ankhe will meet you at the main entrance.”

  Without hesitation, the little girl splashed into the bulrushes, ready to face the guards again if she must. “Wait,” Anippe shouted. “Not that way. You may leave through my chamber. There is a big guard named Nassor beyond the door. He won’t hurt you if you tell him the amira is expecting you to return with the midwife.”

  “Yes, Amira.” She bounced out of the water, hurrying up the path.

  Anippe returned her attention to Ankhe—who stood like a withered lily, rubbing the red marks on her throat. “Look at me, Ankhe.”

  Ankhe raised her gaze, jaw flexed, chin defiant. “Yes, Amira? How may your lowly handmaid serve you?” Her tone conveyed anything but service.

  “You will rejoice with me that the Nile god, Hapi, gave me this child. I am Anippe, daughter of the Nile, and now the Nile has given me a son.” She studied the perfect babe in her arms. “You will become Sebak’s heir, little one, and I will be the Amira of Avaris forever.”

  “But that’s not who you are.” Ankhe’s cheeks bloomed bright red. “You’re Meryetaten-tasherit, firstborn daughter of Kiya, a trick of the Great Wife Nefertiti to protect her daughter. You’re a mockery, a lie.”

  “No, Ankhe. That’s who I was.” The infant fussed, sensing her tension. Anippe began to sway, calming him and herself. “Now I am this boy’s ummi.”

  “If you keep this child, our brother will kill it—and then kill you.”

  “Our brother will never know. Neither will Sebak or any of our house slaves. Only you, me, and three Hebrews.”

  “How do you know the Hebrews won’t betray you when Sebak returns?”

  “The slaves don’t want this child murdered any more than I do. Who do you think placed him in this basket? They’ve hidden him for months—look at him. He’s not a newborn.”

  Ankhe smiled like a hungry jackal. “And why do you think they set him adrift today, Amira?”

  Anippe had no answer. Why would they place a child in crocodile-infested waters when they’d successfully hidden him for so long? Her confusion fed her sister’s triumph.

  “The Ramessids swept dead-man’s land last week, and this week they begin inspecting the Hebrew craftsmen’s houses.” Ankhe sneered. “Can’t you smell the rot?”

  “Rot? What are you talking—” The realization nearly buckled Anippe’s knees. She’d smelled decay but assumed it came from the kitchens or rotting animals. Looking at the water surrounding her, she panicked and started to rush toward shore.

  “Anippe, Anippe, don’t worry.” Ankhe strolled toward the bathhouse, arriving on shore with the boy’s basket in tow. “The river’s floods swept the bodies downstream quickly. I haven’t seen one since yesterday.”

  Anippe covered a sob and tried to soothe the baby, who was crying again after her mad dash toward shore. She looked at Ankhe’s cool demeanor. Was she a monster? How could she speak so casually of such horror? “What’s dead-man’s land?”

  Ankhe turned and pointed to the hill overlooking the villa. “It’s that huge plateau above us, where most of your Hebrew slaves are worked to death by numbskull Ramessid guards. The unskilled slaves live and work up there in the fields and mud pits. Most die before they’re forty—from little food and much abuse.”

  “How do you know all this, Ankhe?” Anippe’s gentle sway had calmed the babe, but her calm fled when she saw a slow, sinister grin crease Ankhe’s lips.

  “I know this because I eat and sleep with house slaves, but my living arrangement is about to change. Isn’t it, sister?” She reached out to touch the baby’s curly hair, but Anippe pulled him away. Ankhe’s expression turned cold. “I refuse to keep your secret unless …”

  Anippe knew what Ankhe wanted. “I already told you, I can’t free you. Tut specifically ordered you into servitude. We would both be punished if anyone discovered I’d restored your royal status.”

  Ankhe didn’t flinch. “I will become your son’s tutor. It’s not spinning or weaving, but it’s productive. And I’ll live in a chamber beside you instead of the servant’s quarters.” She stepped toward the babe again, a silent threat that moved Anippe back. “These are not req
uests. This is the price of my silence.”

  Anippe laid her cheek against the baby’s downy-soft hair. He was so warm, so sweet, so alive. Sebak needed an heir. She needed a baby. Most important of all, this baby would likely die if she sent him back to the Hebrews. She glanced at Ankhe again, who still waited for her answer. Ankhe was selfish and impulsive, but she’d never hurt anyone. Perhaps she would enjoy caring for a child.

  “It’s settled then,” Anippe said. “I’ll find a different handmaid, and you’ll begin helping me raise my son. When he’s ready, you’ll be responsible to teach him as we were taught by Tut’s tutors.”

  Genuine surprise stole Ankhe’s smug expression. “How will we convince people he’s Sebak’s child? Your husband has been gone only a week, and this baby is already months old.”

  “You said the servants already think I’m pregnant. I’ll stay in my chamber, courtyard, and bathhouse until just before harvest. We’ll say I’m overwhelmed with nausea at the slightest odor, or I’m too vain to be seen with a rotund figure. Let their wagging tongues paint whatever picture they like.”

  “But in six months that boy will look even less like a newborn—and even as he grows, he’ll always be taller, bigger, stronger than his age should allow.”

  Anippe looked down at the curly headed babe, whose arms were already pudgy and healthy. “His abbi Sebak is taller, bigger, and stronger than most men.” She wrapped his chubby hand around her finger and cast a pleading gaze at her sister. “Ankhe, if we can keep his identity hidden for three or four years while he’s with his wet nurse—”

  “Three or four years, Anippe? Where will you hide him for three or four years?” Her voice squeaked, signs of an oncoming tantrum. “If you send him back to the Hebrew camp, the Ramessids will find him, and if you move him into the villa, everyone will know you have a baby—a week after you looked thin and beautiful, walking to the quay with your husband for the Feast of Lotus.” Her last words were delivered on a shout, and Anippe looked right and left, wondering how many dozens of slaves and guards heard her rant.