by Mesu Andrews
Notice this scripture mentions no daughters, but the biblical record seldom lists women in genealogies. Realizing it was possible that either or both of Mered’s wives had daughters, I added Puah’s daughter, Ednah (from Hebrew meaning “pleasure”), as a fictional character in the story.
But why does this scripture point to 1250 BCE as the date of the Exodus? Because if I chose 1450 BCE, my story must somehow depict the famous Egyptian Queen Hatshepsut as the woman who drew Moses from the Nile. Hatshepsut—the woman who reigned as pharaoh for twenty years, and whose tomb is possibly the most extravagant in the Valley of the Kings. I couldn’t conceive a plot in which Queen Hatshepsut would marry a Hebrew slave and bear him three sons.
So I went with 1250 BCE—as did Cecil B. DeMille and Walt Disney.
With the date of the Exodus established, and Moses’s age given in Scripture, it should have been an easy process to establish which king ordered Hebrew baby boys to be killed. Simply add eighty years to 1250 BCE—right?
According to Ian Shaw in The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt, the reigning pharaoh in 1330 BCE was—drumroll, please—King Tut.
Wait! Tut had no daughters. In fact, he died before he and his sister-wife had any children. Ankhe-Senpaaten’s (Senpa’s) miscarriages are historically accurate. So how could Pharaoh’s daughter pull Moses from the Nile when Pharaoh had no daughters?
Because King Tut had a sister, who would have been Pharaoh Akhenaten’s daughter—Meryetaten-tasherit. I fictionalized her adoption by Horemheb to create an important connection.
Keep reading. You’ll love the way Egyptian history and God’s Word fit together.
Finding Moses
The walls of Egypt’s Great Hypostyle Hall tell us much about the New Kingdom’s pharaohs and their military campaigns. On the northern exterior wall, Pharaoh Sety is accompanied into the Libyan and Syrian campaigns by a “group marshaller” or “fan bearer” named Mehy. But this mysterious character has no recorded genealogy or burial among a civilization of meticulous record-keeping. How can it be?
Further confusing Egyptologists, biblical scholars, and hobbyists, Mehy’s name and likeness were rubbed out and in some places replaced by Sety’s son, Rameses II. Of course, other pharaohs were known to replace the name of a previous pharaoh on monuments, but why would Rameses II try to erase a simple fan bearer or commander?
When I discovered Mehy was most likely a nickname for Horemheb (also from Ian Shaw’s book, The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt), I knew I could link Moses to Pharaoh Horemheb and needed to link Tut’s sister (Moses’s Egyptian mother) to Horemheb as well. Thus, the fictional adoption of Anippe.
But Mehy isn’t fiction, and neither is Moses. Are they the same man? Only God knows.
Finding God
Writing a biblical novel is both frustrating and exhilarating. It’s like a treasure hunt; I get to dig into ancient texts to find often-overlooked details that affirm, clarify, and sometimes deepen my understanding of God’s Word. However, sometimes that historical knowledge confuses me or seems to contradict God’s Word (like the instance of Pharaoh’s daughter perhaps being Tut’s sister).
During the writing of The Pharaoh’s Daughter, our God has been so near, guiding me through each roadblock and confusing Egyptian record. He has patiently shown me—much like Mered and El-Shaddai showed Bithiah—that He is real, present, and very capable to manage each problem that seems insurmountable.
I pray, dear reader, that you too will find the great El-Shaddai to be a real and present Guide from this moment forward.
The LORD bless you
and keep you;
the LORD make his face shine on you
and be gracious to you;
the LORD turn his face toward you
and give you peace.
—NUMBERS 6:24–26
