The Pharaoh's Daughter

by Mesu Andrews

  The king leaned over her, taunting. “You still have your tongue. What kept you silent?” Sneering, as if Ankhe’s presence soured his pomegranate, he motioned to Mandai. “Feed this woman to the crocodiles.”

  Ankhe screamed, “No! It was Anippe!” She scrambled to her feet and lunged at her sister. “You did this to me!”

  Mandai grabbed her, and Abbi Horem matched her volume. “Silence her before all of Egypt hears her yowling.”

  Anippe kept her eyes focused on Horemheb, gripping her son with arms of bronze. Mandai dragged Ankhe behind her, and the glee on her abbi’s face told her Ankhe was gone.

  Anippe felt the Medjay’s presence looming behind her.

  “Now we deal with you, daughter.”

  “Ummi!” Mehy tried to bury his face against her, but she turned him to confront the pharaoh who held their lives in his hands.

  “Tell your Jad Horem you are Seth reborn. You’re a brave soldier like your abbi Sebak.” She shook Mehy’s shoulders. “Tell him!”

  “I am a b-brave soldier like my abbi S-Sebak.”

  Horemheb’s features softened, and he motioned Mandai back to his place at the king’s left shoulder. Anippe held her abbi’s gaze, not daring to glance at the Medjay, her friend.

  “You have always been cunning, my treasure. I should have expected you to be as shrewd with me as you were with Tut and your sister.” He nodded as if convincing himself of the truth. “Mehy, come to me.” He invited the boy with open arms.

  Anippe whimpered for the first time, tightening her grip on Mehy’s arms. Her son pressed against her, a silent but undeniable refusal.

  “Please, Abbi. Mehy has done nothing wrong. I was the one. I wanted to give Sebak a child but was too afraid to bear one after Ummi Kiya’s death and Senpa’s miscarriages. A baby was floating in a basket near my bathhouse, and I received him as a gift from Hapi, a gift from the Nile, as I was your daughter of the Nile.” She was losing control. Tears were forming, emotions rising. “Don’t you see? I saved him like you saved me. I wanted—”

  Abbi Horem smiled and pressed a finger to his lips. “Shh. Mehy, I said come to me.” His arms beckoned. “Come to your Jad Horem.”

  Anippe took a deep breath, steadied herself, and then breathed out slowly. Leaning down, she took Mehy’s hand and kissed the three dots. “I’m always with you. Go to your Jad Horem.”

  Her brave boy nodded and then walked into the arms of Egypt’s brutal king. Horemheb held him at arm’s length, smiling warmly. “You made the right decision, my little warrior. No one outside this room will know you are not Sebak’s son. You are my grandson—a prince of Egypt—Seth reborn.”

  Anippe’s knees nearly buckled with relief. She covered the sob that threatened her composure.

  The king glanced over his shoulder at his Medjay. “Dispose of my daughter with the other bodies. Make it look like a crocodile got her in that bathhouse of hers.”

  Mered woke to the sound of footsteps outside his door. The moon still shone out the window. He couldn’t have nodded off for long. Puah’s empty shell still lay beside him. It hadn’t been a dream. I told them not to bring the boys till dawn.

  Footsteps shuffled closer, and a dark-cloaked figure with gold sandals swept aside the curtain, ducking his large frame through the doorway.

  “Mandai?” Mered stood. “What are you doing here?”

  The Medjay carried a long sackcloth-wrapped bundle over his shoulder. He scanned the room and saw Puah’s body. “What happened, my friend?”

  Emotion closed Mered’s throat. He bowed his head, burying his face in trembling hands. Then, massaging his temples, he regained control and found the Medjay bent over his bundle in the opposite corner. Gently, Mandai untied the leather straps.

  Indignation rising, Mered marched over. “What are you doing?” How could he intrude on a grieving husband?

  Mandai unwrapped the bundle, and Mered’s knees turned to water.

  “Anippe?”

  “Shh, don’t speak her name.” Mandai removed the sackcloth, lifting her arms, her legs, moving her as if she were—

  “No, no, no. El-Shaddai, no. Not Anippe, too. I can’t bear it. I cannot—”

  “She’s not dead, but she wants to be.” Mandai sprang to his feet and gathered Mered’s robe in his hands, then whispered less than a handbreadth from his face. “She’s in some sort of trance. She can’t speak. I’m not even sure she can hear us.” Releasing him, the Medjay closed his eyes and drew a deep breath—the first time Mered had seen him rattled. “Horemheb discovered her deception and ordered me to kill her, but I won’t. I can’t. You’re the only one who can protect her.”

  “What deception? Horemheb adores Anippe. He would never—”

  “Mehy is Hebrew.”

  Spots clouded Mered’s vision. He stumbled back, but the Medjay grabbed his arm. The men stared at each other in silence.

  Mandai finally raked a weary hand down his face. “She confessed to rescuing Mehy from a basket floating on the Nile.”

  Amram and Jochebed’s son? Mered dropped his head into his hands. Amram had said all those years ago that they placed Moses in a basket. Did Amram know Mehy was Moses? He looked at his wife, the peaceful shell of the woman he’d loved more than life. She’d known. All these years she’d kept this from him.

  Pain upon pain. Loss piled on loss. He began to weep. Deep, racking sobs heaved his shoulders and shook him to the core. Mandai squeezed his arm, offering silent comfort.

  El-Shaddai, if I cannot pray, I have no hope. If I have no hope, I cannot live. He’d heard the story of Job’s suffering all his life, and now Mered, too, yearned for death.

  But as much as he willed it, he couldn’t abandon his heartbeat or halt his breaths. And, remarkably, his faith would live simply because he could not summon death. It’s all I have to offer, El-Shaddai. Faith that You hold life in Your hands.

  He raised a weary gaze to the Medjay. “You’re a good man, my friend.”

  “I am not good. I am what my people call nimepotea—a lost warrior. Your Master Sebak refused to return home because he feared he’d become the dark god Seth. I too am that dark warrior. I am nimepotea.”

  “No one is beyond El-Shaddai’s reach.” Mered let the words come from a place deeper than his despair. “My one God can shine on a dark warrior.”

  The Medjay wiped his eyes and shrugged. “Your one God should work harder for good people.” He nodded in Puah’s direction and began removing Anippe’s jewelry. “He should have saved your wife and helped the amira—and fed Horemheb and me to the crocodiles.” He removed her gold sandals and bundled everything in the sackcloth.

  “What are you doing? Why are you taking all her jewelry?”

  “The king said Anippe’s death must look like an accident by the river. You must burn her robe. I will not dishonor her by stripping her naked.” He stopped at the doorway before ducking through the curtain. “Make her a Hebrew. No one will look for her here.”

  Then young women will dance and be glad,

  young men and old as well.

  I will turn their mourning into gladness;

  I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow.

  —JEREMIAH 31:13

  34

  Amram married his father’s sister Jochebed, who bore him Aaron and Moses. Amram lived 137 years.

  —EXODUS 6:20

  Mered sat staring at Anippe, listening to the sputtering oil lamp. Dawn was fast approaching. His children would arrive soon to say good-bye to their mother—and find the amira propped in the corner, as lifeless as the wife he would bury.

  Mandai had said to make her Hebrew. How could Mered do that? Even if he kept her in the craftsmen’s village, wouldn’t the slaves recognize her? Mered was drowning in questions without answers.

  Amram came in, head respectfully lowered. Where had he and Jochebed stayed overnight? Probably with their son, Aaron, and his wife, Elisheba. Mered remembered that when the amira’s ship arrived yesterday, El
isheba was holding her new baby.

  “I never imagined your daughter-in-law would nurse my son,” he whispered to Amram.

  Halting abruptly, Amram slowly turned, his eyes landing on Anippe. His face registered shock and then fear. “Is she hurt? Did the king discover my son?”

  Amram rushed forward, but Mered stopped him. “She hasn’t spoken. The king’s Medjay rescued her. Horemheb discovered the deception but plans to maintain Mehy’s—I mean your son’s—secret. Your son’s name is Moses, isn’t it?”

  Amram nodded.

  “And Puah knew, didn’t she?”

  After a slight hesitation, Amram nodded again, eyes full of unspoken regret.

  Betrayed. On the night he lost his wife, Mered had also lost the trust he’d placed in his dearest friends. How could they have kept this from him all these years?

  “Jochebed and I felt it best not to tell you because you worked closely with the amira and Mehy at the villa.” Amram squeezed his shoulder. “You are too honest to live a lie.” When Mered didn’t respond, Amram crouched beside Anippe. “Why is the amira here—in your home?”

  “Horemheb ordered her death and will say she died in an accident. The Medjay brought her here and said I should ‘make her a Hebrew.’ ” Mered heard the whine in his voice and cringed.

  “It’s a good plan.” Amram nodded, stood, and walked toward his rooms.

  “Wait. What do you mean a good plan? It’s a terrible plan. I have no idea how to make her a Hebrew. I’m not sure El-Shaddai hears my prayers. And I don’t know how to raise a daughter and three sons.” Mered was near hysteria, and the sun cast a pink glow on the eastern horizon. His children would be home very soon.

  Amram settled his arm around Mered’s shoulders and guided him toward Puah’s still form. “Sit with me, Mered. Have I ever told you about my first wife?”

  Mered glanced out the window, hoping this wasn’t a lengthy story and wondering why Amram chose now to tell it.

  “She died while giving birth to our first child.”

  Mered was startled to attention. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “I lost both my wife and firstborn son that day, and I vowed never to remarry. I thought El-Shaddai had cheated me, and I wanted nothing to do with God or women or children or life.”

  “Until you met Jochebed, right?” Mered knew how this story ended.

  “Actually, no. Jochebed is my aunt.”

  Amram obviously needed a good night’s sleep. “Jochebed is your wife.”

  “Yes, she is. And she’s my father’s sister—my aunt.”

  “But she’s thirty years younger than you.”

  “Twenty-eight, to be exact.”

  Mered buried his face in his hands. Why did this matter? Taking a deep breath, he lifted his eyes and stared at Amram. “Why did you marry your aunt Jochebed?”

  “Because she needed a husband, and I needed a wife. Anippe needs to be Hebrew, and you need help raising your sons. You’re not sure El-Shaddai hears your prayers? Well, I’m telling you He does, and He answered them before you prayed.” Amram rolled onto his knees, trying to stand, and used Mered’s shoulders as a crutch. “Now get over there and wash off her kohl and scented oils before your children come home. Remove her wig, and I’ll give you one of Jochebed’s head coverings. She’ll look as Hebrew as Jochebed.” He patted Mered’s shoulder and winked. “But not quite as pretty.”

  Mered was speechless. Amram was gone before he could form a thought. Puah’s body lay beside him—the woman he’d loved since they were children. How could he marry Anippe? It was ludicrous. He reached for Puah’s hand, but it was cold and stiff.

  “You must let her go,” Amram said, startling Mered. He hadn’t heard his neighbor return. “Puah loved you, but she’s never coming back. Your life must go on.” He held out one of Jochebed’s head coverings, pressing it against Mered’s shoulder. “Go. You can’t help Puah, but Anippe needs you.”

  Mered grabbed the rough-woven cloth and left Puah’s side. Two steps from Anippe, he was struck with sheer panic. “Amram, her clothes.”

  His friend emerged from his rooms carrying a Hebrew robe.

  Mered instantly felt the flush of crimson on his neck and cheeks. “I can’t dress her—”

  “I’ll wait at the door for Jochebed or Miriam. One of them can change Anippe’s robe. I’ll turn away anyone else who comes, but you start washing her face.”

  Anubis, take me. My heart died when they stole Mehy. My body breathes without permission. Take me. Anubis, search for my heart to weigh on your scales. You will not find it—a heart melted in sorrow weighs nothing at all.

  A cold cloth on her cheeks. Icy hands. Trembling fingers.

  Let them kill me. Please, whoever you are, let darkness come.

  “Anippe, can you hear me?”

  No. I will not hear you. Leave me to die.

  The cloth, now warm, stroked her forehead and pressed against her eyes. “If you can hear me, know that you are safe. Mehy is safe.”

  Mehy? My son, my son is safe.

  “That’s right. He’s safe. Your eyes fluttered. You can hear me.”

  She didn’t want to hear unless it was Mehy’s voice. Strong arms jostled her, lifted her, moved her. She leaned against something soft yet firm. The scent of ben-tree oil and hard labor.

  A sudden chill. Her head exposed. Gasping, she thrashed.

  “Shh. Shh. Relax. Relax.”

  Lips against her forehead. A cloth over her head.

  “I’m going to lay you on Miriam’s sleeping mat for now.”

  Miriam. A husband for Miriam. Miriam should marry.

  The warmth shifted. Arms beneath her, carrying her away. Falling, she was falling.

  “Shh. I’ve got you. You’re safe, Anippe. You’re safe.”

  Safe? Her chest tightened, tears threatening. Anubis, please hurry, before I weep or wail.

  Children’s voices. Gasping, she called, “Mehy?”

  Eyes open, she stared into the startled face of—Mered. She clutched at his robe and then pushed him away, pressing against his chest, squirming out of his arms. Why was he carrying her?

  “Wait. Wait. Let me set you down.” He lowered her to a sleeping mat in a low-ceilinged room she’d never seen.

  “Where am I? What are you doing? Why am I here?”

  “You’re in my parents’ rooms.” Miriam stood behind Mered with a rough-woven robe in her hands. “I’ll help you put this on.”

  Children’s voices came from a room beyond a tattered curtain. “Who’s that?” Anippe asked.

  Mered stood over her, dragging his hand through his hair, eyes tightly shut. “My children. They’re saying good-bye to Puah.”

  “Mered, not now.” Miriam knelt beside Anippe. He left without a word.

  Anippe began to tremble uncontrollably, teeth chattering.

  “Are you cold, Amir—” Miriam shook her head, seeming frustrated. “Are you cold?”

  “No.” Anippe submitted to Miriam’s dressing—as she’d done a thousand times before, though never in Hebrew cloth. Pride bowed to Anippe’s fear. “I don’t remember how I got here or what happened after—” What was the last thing she remembered?

  Miriam’s round, brown eyes glistened in the early shades of morning. “Are you sure your questions can’t wait until you’ve rested?” She brushed Anippe’s cheek with her hand. “I’ll sit right here while you sleep. I won’t leave you.”

  Anippe felt bone weary, and the confidence of her friend’s presence might allow her to sleep. “Would you sing to me, Miriam?”

  The girl nodded and rested Anippe’s head on a piece of lamb’s wool. Soft but strange after sleeping on a neck rest all her life. Miriam opened her mouth, releasing the haunting tune that washed away every sound and thought. Anippe settled into her weariness, listening to the words.

  “El-Shaddai is my strength, my song. He is my God, and I will praise Him, my father’s God, I will exalt Him …

  “I should tell h
er,” Mered whispered.

  Miriam made sure Anippe was still sleeping beside her. “I can tell her if you’d rather. I’ve delivered other startling news to her at Gurob. Your plan to marry her will be a bit more than startling, but she’ll accept it—I think.”

  Miriam’s flagging confidence fueled Mered’s doubts. Anippe was Pharaoh’s daughter. Why was he even considering Amram’s advice?

  Anippe’s eyes fluttered and opened. She smiled at Miriam, furrowed her brow at Mered, and then noticed her surroundings and jumped to her feet. “Where am I?”

  Miriam gently tugged at her hand. “Come. Sit. You’re in my parents’ room in the craftsmen’s village. Sit down with us.”

  Anippe folded her legs beneath her and sat stiffly on the reed mat. She stared at Mered.

  “How are you feeling this afternoon?” he asked.

  She directed a panicked glanced at the single window. “Afternoon? What happened to morning?”

  Miriam cradled her hand, patting and soothing her. “You have many questions, I know, but we have one for you—and it may be very hard. Tell us everything you remember about last night.”

  As if she were a bird in a fowler’s snare, Anippe’s every move seemed anxious. Each sound startling, every blink a change in focus. “I remember …”

  “Go slowly.” Mered kept his voice low. “We have all day.”

  “All day? Why aren’t you at the linen shop?”

  He couldn’t hide a grin. Of course, her first response would be practical. “King Horemheb declared a day of rest.”

  Anippe sobered at his name. “Abbi Horem …”

  She studied the packed-dirt floor. Silence lingered. The first signs of memory came with uneven breaths that tensed to rapid gasps.

  “Mehy. He took Mehy from me and …” She shook her head, emotion twisting her features.

  Miriam rubbed her back. “Take your time.”

  “Abbi ordered Mandai to kill Ankhe and said my death should look like a crocodile attack.” The words came out on a sob as she alternated panicked looks from one Hebrew to the other. “An accident. You must make my death appear an accident. How will you do it?”