The Pharaoh's Daughter

by Mesu Andrews

  “I thought not,” Ankhe said. “Now escort them to the villa.”

  She turned and was gone, leaving the captain angry and impatient. “Get her dressed, and be quick about it,” he growled.

  Shiphrah was the first to gather her wits. She grabbed Mered’s arm, lifting him to his feet. They stood between the guards and Puah, offering her a measure of privacy while she pulled her robe over her shoulders and swaddled their newborn son.

  “I’m ready,” she said in a whisper, her voice still weak. At least she’d had a few hours’ rest from the birthing stool.

  Mered cradled her elbow and kept his voice low. “Can you walk, or shall I carry you?”

  “I can walk, but you must carry Jered while Shiphrah steadies me.”

  Mered reached for Jered, but the captain’s cudgel came down on his forearms before he touched the babe, “You weren’t summoned—only the midwives and the child.”

  Panicked, Mered lunged toward his son. The blow to his jaw sent Mered to the floor before he even saw it coming. Puah stifled a scream, and Shiphrah pulled her and Jered away from the scuffle.

  Two guards stood beside the women, short swords drawn, while the captain stood over Mered. “Your son will swim with the crocodiles when the amira is finished with him.”

  Mered heard Puah’s scream, saw the fist again, felt his jaw pop—and darkness took him.

  15

  The midwives, however, feared God and did not do what the king of Egypt had told them to do; they let the boys live.

  —EXODUS 1:17

  Ephah peeked out the chamber door’s narrow opening. “Ankhe’s leading the guards, and they’ve got the midwives—and a baby.”

  Puah’s baby must have been a boy! Anippe could hardly contain her delight. In the midst of their despairing afternoon, Ankhe had suggested using Puah’s baby—if it was a boy—as a decoy, pretending for Tut’s visit that it was Anippe’s newborn. The gods must be smiling on them tonight.

  Anippe and Jochebed paced in the sitting area, too nervous to sit, while Miriam played on a cushion with the new spindle and flax fibers Mered had given her. He’d told her to practice spinning, promising someday—if the amira allowed it—she could work in the linen shop. Infuriating man. What if she didn’t want Miriam to work in the linen shop? She rather liked the girl and thought she’d make a fine handmaid—not like the one now picking her teeth instead of reporting the guards’ progress toward the door.

  “Ephah, look again! Are they—” Anippe clamped her lips shut when she heard Ankhe’s voice near the threshold.

  “You’re dismissed. You may return to your posts.”

  Anippe heard heavy footsteps retreating, but a man cleared his throat. “You will inform the amira … well, it’s my duty … the king must know that these midwives have ignored his command. We Ramessids have been killing the Hebrew brats, not the midwives. And the midwife’s newborn—he must be disposed of.”

  Puah and Shiphrah slipped in through a narrow opening in the chamber door with a swaddled infant, but Ankhe remained in the corridor with the guard. Ephah left the door open a crack, while Jochebed and Anippe huddled close to hear the conversation better.

  “Why does it matter who kills the babies as long as they’re dead, Captain Nassor?” Ankhe’s voice rose in pitch and volume. “Do you realize the amira could send you—before sunrise—to oversee the copper mines in Sinai?”

  A slight pause brought Anippe’s heart to her throat.

  When the Ramessid captain spoke, his voice was a low growl. “I realize there’s a Hebrew boy in the amira’s chamber right now, and I will personally throw it in the Nile before Pharaoh’s barque arrives.”

  Ankhe matched his threat. “I will do it myself, Captain. You are dismissed.” She hurried through the door and locked it, breathing hard. She waved the crowd of women away. “Stand back. I can’t breathe. Why are no lamps burning?”

  Ephah hurried to trim the wicks and light a few more lamps. They’d purposely kept the chamber darkened, in case the guards followed the midwives into the sitting area—so they wouldn’t see Anippe’s slim form.

  As the lights illumined faces, Shiphrah stood open-mouthed and gawking. “Amira, you’re not pregnant.” Her genuine shock proved Puah’s ability to keep a secret.

  “No, Shiphrah, I’m not.” Casting an appreciative glance at Puah, Anippe noted her gray pallor. “Ankhe get a chair. Hurry!”

  Ankhe fetched the chair from the courtyard, and Jochebed and Shiphrah eased the new mother into the chair.

  As if seeing Jochebed for the first time, Shiphrah hugged her. “I’ve missed you in the village, my friend.”

  Decidedly uncomfortable, Jochebed glanced at Anippe before answering. “The amira allowed me to live in the villa with Miriam when she was taken into house service.”

  Miriam dropped her spindle and whorl, skipping over to join the conversation. “Mother gets to take care of—”

  Jochebed clapped her hand over the girl’s mouth, creating an awkward silence.

  Anippe studied Shiphrah and made a pivotal decision. “I found a Hebrew boy floating in a basket on the Nile. Miriam followed him to my bathhouse, and Jochebed is his wet nurse.”

  Again, the midwife looked utterly bewildered. “How did a baby float in a basket without getting eaten by croc—”

  “It was my baby,” Jochebed said, “and I coated the basket with pitch.”

  Shiphrah gulped in the awkward silence and then turned disbelieving eyes on Anippe. “And you’ve allowed Jochebed to nurse her own son?”

  Anippe squared her shoulders, refusing to let her trepidation show. “Of course. He’s my son, not Jochebed’s.” But the niggling fear remained. Would Anippe have to kill her first slave to redeem her first son?

  “Does it matter right now whose son he is?” Ankhe said, silencing her sister with a glare. “King Tut and his queen arrive tomorrow and will be told of your premature labor. They won’t want to see you until after the birth because of Senpa’s unpleasant memories.”

  Anippe noticed both midwives drop their heads, shoulders sagging, and she realized they still felt the burden of Senpa’s miscarriages. She leaned forward, drawing their attention. “I witnessed only the queen’s last delivery, but I assure you—as I assured my brother—you both did everything possible to save that baby. The gods are to blame. Not you.”

  Both women wiped their cheeks, but only Shiphrah met Anippe’s gaze. “Thank you, Amira. It’s not in a midwife’s nature to let a baby die—or to kill one.”

  “I cannot change the will of a god, Shiphrah, and the son of Horus has ordered you to kill all newborn Hebrew boys.” Anippe let silence emphasize her authority—lest they mistake kindness for weakness. “As Avaris’s amira, even I live—or die—by Pharaoh’s commands. When the Ramessid captain officially informed Ankhe of your disobedience, he put me in a corner. I can no longer say I didn’t know the midwives weren’t killing the newborn boys.”

  Puah began to tremble and moan, clutching her son close and rocking. Anippe bent before her and grabbed her arms. “Stop, Puah. Your son is safe. I need him to pose as my newborn, and you will pretend to be his wet nurse—but only during the king’s visit.”

  The new mother continued her trembling, but the moaning ceased, and her eyes focused on a distant place. Did she hear or understand, or was she too exhausted and distraught to comprehend?

  “Puah, look at me.” Anippe shook her. “Look at me!” The weary woman raised her gaze to meet the amira’s. “You will live in Jochebed’s chamber with your son during the king’s visit.”

  Ephah mumbled under her breath about tight quarters with Jochebed’s brats and now more people in their chamber.

  Anippe glared at Ankhe. “The handmaid you chose for me will move into your chamber, sister. I no longer require her service.”

  Ankhe’s eyes narrowed. “I have no use for her either.”

  “Then send her back to the slave quarters. Do what you like with her. I don’t care.”
Anippe returned her attention to Puah, softening her expression and voice. “I’ll send a messenger to assure Mered you’re all right but will make no mention of your son.”

  “But, please, Amira, he’ll worry—”

  “I’m sorry, Puah. Your son’s life is a gift for your faithful service, but we can’t tell anyone our plan to protect him—especially Mered. Not until Tut leaves. You yourself said he cannot abide deception, so I assume he would not keep our secret. When the king’s barque sails away, you may return home with your son, and I’ll make sure the Ramessid guards leave you in peace. Do you understand?”

  With a sigh, Puah nodded and stared down at her newborn without a word.

  Anippe’s heart twisted, aching to hold her own son, both dreading and yearning for the morning sun. Dawn would bring Pharaoh’s ship, royal attendants, and a house full of activity—but it would also bring the familiar coos of Moses’s sweet voice.

  “Jochebed, get Puah settled in your chamber.” Anippe lifted the assistant midwife’s arm, helping her stand. “Shiphrah, you must tutor me through an imaginary birth. I need to sound like Senpa sounded, labor the same amount of time, but end up with a healthy son. Then you will return home, spreading news of Master Sebak’s heir.”

  “And what am I supposed to do?” Ankhe stood in the shadows, arms crossed over her chest.

  “I don’t care what you do, Ankhe, but take Ephah and her son with you.”

  Mered stood along the crowded path near Avaris quay, watching the king’s retinue march up the hill toward the villa. His jaw throbbed, and his heart pounded, though his eyelids were heavy. After the guard’s last punch, Mered had awakened to a dimly lit chamber, with Amram’s kind face hovering over him. His neighbor had heard the ruckus and waited behind the dividing curtain until the guards left before coming to apply cool water and prayers to Mered’s swollen face.

  At dawn, a Ramessid guard had invaded Mered’s home again, this one with a message. Puah would remain at the villa to care for the amira indefinitely. Delivery complications required a midwife’s constant care. No mention of their newborn son, Jered. Amram prayed as Mered wept.

  Trumpets had called the Hebrews to the quay moments later to welcome the king who had murdered their sons. Mered had considered staying home. He cared little about the pomp of a visiting king and cared even less about King Tut.

  “Come, we can walk together.” Amram had squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll wake Aaron, and we’ll get him a crust of bread and cheese to eat on the way.”

  The royal parade approached Mered and Amram, two runners with staves pressing back the curious crowd, while the king’s Medjay bodyguard ordered all slaves to their knees. Ramessid soldiers lined the path to enforce the Hebrews’ honor for this dishonorable king.

  Musicians danced, strummed lyres, and clanged sistrums. Royal maids carried baskets of blue lotus, crushing and throwing the petals aloft, filling the air with their scent. The king’s gilded palanquin fairly floated on the shoulders of eight Nubian giants, Medjays who’d undoubtedly sent enemies scampering for fear of their size alone. Tut’s throne boasted figures of a lion and a sphinx as armrests, monster and myth subdued under a boy-god’s power. Pharaoh sat beneath a hawk-shaped canopy, its outspread wings a supposed symbol of truth and justice.

  Mered scoffed. Where was justice for my son and Amram’s? At the bottom of the Nile in a watery grave?

  King Tut passed by, never acknowledging those who knelt before him—those whose lives he’d destroyed on a whim.

  When Mered thought he could stand the farce no longer, he saw the beautiful Queen Senpa, borne atop another set of Medjay shoulders. She was radiant in her waist-length braided wig woven with gold and fine jewels. Cheeks pink, dignified, lips parted in a genial smile as she acknowledged with a nod those kneeling on both sides of the path. She appeared fully recovered from her last visit to Avaris. And her gown—of course, Mered noticed—was the fine pleated linen from the palace at Gurob.

  Stunning, but not as fine as the byssus woven in Avaris. The Ramessid wives of Qantir followed the lovely queen, arrayed in robes and sheaths from Avaris’s shop that outshone the queen’s. The husbands had paid dearly to adorn their women like royalty. Master Sebak would be pleased to return and find his uncle Pirameses’s gold in the coffers.

  The noblemen of Qantir paraded behind their women, most of them retired soldiers now serving as the king’s officials and priests of Seth. Some carried staffs with a hawk’s head, while other staffs bore the head of a jackal—Anubis, ruler of their underworld. Appropriate, considering the death and destruction rained down on Delta slaves.

  The sun glinted off the Ramessids’ gold collars, blinding Mered for a moment. He lifted his hand to shade his eyes. Who were the men at the end of the procession?

  He recognized the stately General Horemheb.

  In full dress armor, the general wore the Gold of Praise collar and a daunting expression. Behind him marched a train of filthy men chained together—necks, hands, and feet—bloodied and barely strong enough to climb the hill. El-Shaddai, have mercy on them. Were they Hittites? More importantly, was Master Sebak providing rear guard?

  Mered ached to stand above the bowing slaves, to find his master following the prisoners—but his yearning was as brief as the line of captives. Two, maybe three dozen men. No wonder General Horemheb appeared solemn. A train of captives less than a hundred long would be an embarrassment to the experienced soldier. Why had he displayed them at all?

  And to Mered’s own disappointment—no Master Sebak at rear guard.

  The procession moved toward the villa, and slaves slowly dispersed to resume their duties. Mered returned to his workshop, still bothered by General Horemheb’s appearance. There’d been no messenger announcing his arrival. Did Anippe even know her abbi Horem was here?

  The royal visit was soon lost in the daily tasks of running his workshop. Accounts needed settling, and flax seed needed sowing. El-Shaddai gave them few daylight hours during these last weeks before harvest, and without Puah to go home to, perhaps he’d work through the night. Hours passed in a haze of workers’ rhythmic melodies in time with the thwack of the weavers’ shuttles. When Mered finally lifted his weary body from his stool and stretched, he felt every crack and pop.

  “Quiet!” The estate foreman shouted from the doorway. Stillness descended, and Mered sensed almost a smile from the sour old rat. “Master Sebak has a son, and Avaris is host to Egypt’s king and prince regent. Sing about that, you filthy slaves.” He turned and disappeared into the night, and the linen shop erupted in celebration.

  Though he gave no report on the amira’s health, Mered felt sure she must have come through the birth safely. Perhaps the complications the guard spoke of at his home this morning were minor. Perhaps Puah wouldn’t need to stay at the villa after all. Perhaps …

  Crossing his arms to make a pillow on the desk, Mered lowered his weary head. Perhaps Master Sebak will return to see his son.

  Struck like lightning by a thought, Mered’s head popped up, eyes blinking, mind whirring. “Vizier Ay,” he whispered to no one.

  Vizier Ay hadn’t been in King Tut’s retinue. Why? Master Sebak had said the conniving vizier never left the king’s side. General Horemheb’s dispirited bearing flashed in his memory—and the meager offering of prisoners. Dread crawled through him like a creeping vine.

  He reached for his reeds and pigment. He might as well work on inventory and designs since he couldn’t sleep with a seed of fear growing in his belly.

  16

  Joy is gone from our hearts;

  our dancing has turned to mourning.

  The crown has fallen from our head.

  Woe to us, for we have sinned!

  —LAMENTATIONS 5:15–16

  Anippe hosted the first family meeting in her private courtyard. Three days had passed since the king’s entourage arrived. Ankhe had stayed away, ominously silent, leaving Anippe to enjoy the quiet seclusion of Jochebed and Puah’s comp
any with Moses, Miriam, and baby Jered. Senpa was the only royal family who had tried to see her. The queen had appeared late last night—after the babies were sleeping—to suggest this morning’s light meal.

  Jochebed, Moses, and Miriam were safely hidden in their chamber behind a tapestry covering their adjoining door. Anippe and Puah waited with little Jered on cushions in the sitting area and were startled by a quick knock and Ankhe’s abrupt entry.

  Anger stirring, Anippe rose to meet her, waiting till the door closed to release her ire. “You are no longer my handmaid, so you have no right to barge in—”

  “Oh, but I am your handmaid, dear sister.” Ankhe offered an exaggerated bow and rose with a cold stare.

  “What do you mean?” Dread coiled around Anippe’s heart. “You’re my son’s tutor. I’ll find another handmaid.”

  “While our brother is here, I am your handmaid.” Her smile looked like a cobra baring its fangs.

  A loud knock startled Anippe, and she jumped like a desert hare.

  Ankhe inclined her head. “I’ll answer your door, Amira. Why don’t you and your wet nurse proceed to the courtyard and prepare to meet your guests.”

  Swallowing hard, Anippe turned toward the courtyard. Puah had already gathered her straw-stuffed cushion and the baby and was on her way. Heart pounding, mind spinning, Anippe tried to imagine what scheme Ankhe had engineered for her benefit at this morning’s meeting.

  Anippe took her place at a low-lying marble table, and Puah transferred baby Jered to the amira’s arms. The surrogate wet nurse retired to a palm tree three paces away to lounge an appropriate distance from royalty. Kitchen slaves had already set the table with silver platters and goblets, a pitcher of grape juice, stewed dates, bread, and goat cheese. Simple fare elegantly presented.

  King Tut entered first, Queen Senpa’s hand draped on his left arm. Each had two attendants. Anippe’s heart leapt at the sight of her family. Tears choked her, but she blinked them away, trying to preserve the eye paints Miriam had helped her apply that morning.