Daughter of the Nile

by Jill Eileen Smith

  Solomon would want our child raised to know his God. As I at last returned to Jerusalem six months later, heavy with child, and was greeted with joy by my surprised husband, I decided I would do what I knew Solomon would want, what his mother would have wanted. I would teach our child of Israel and of Egypt. But I would put greater emphasis on my husband’s Israel and her one God. It was the least I could do for my husband. The best I could do to honor his God.

  Note to the Reader

  The Bible tells us that Solomon married a daughter of Pharaoh and that he built a palace for her. We also know that Solomon acquired horses and chariots and probably many other things from Egypt, exactly the opposite of what God commanded kings. But little else is known of Solomon’s Egyptian wife—even her name, Siti, is my invention.

  The pharaoh mentioned in this novella did exist, but we have no way of knowing for sure whether this was the pharaoh in power during Solomon’s reign. We do know that the city of Gezer, a stronghold that had eluded Israel’s capture for centuries, was part of the dowry this pharaoh gave to Solomon upon marriage to his daughter.

  The rest of the story comes from what I understand of ancient Egypt and its history. The ancient Egyptians worshiped a pantheon of gods, so in creating Siti’s character, I wanted to make her as true to life as possible. I asked myself, what did that look like? How would people of different faiths interact in marriage?

  I think if we look at our culture today, we will see similar questions. Mixed marriages still exist, and the doubts and questions Siti and Solomon raised to each other are still viable.

  In the end, Solomon allowed his many foreign wives to sway his loyalty to Yahweh. A tragic fall for the wisest man, apart from Christ, who ever lived. And yet, I believe Ecclesiastes shows us that in the end he did return to the worship of the Creator alone. He might have failed his God. But God did not fail him.

  In His Grace,

  Jill Eileen Smith

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to the Revell team, particularly to Lonnie Hull DuPont for your encouragement and faith in me and your editorial eye that sees what I miss and makes me a better writer every time. To Jessica English for your editorial expertise and for keeping my timeline straight! To Michele Misiak and Karen Steele and Cheryl Van Andel and everyone in publicity, marketing, editorial, and design. You guys are the best!

  To Wendy Lawton, agent and friend, for being the first to love my biblical fiction and sticking with me through it all.

  To Jill Stengl and Kathy Fuller for helping me make it through another story. Your suggestions are always spot-on!

  To my family and friends—you enrich my life’s story. I pray mine blesses yours in return.

  To Randy, Jeff, Chris, Molly, and Keaton, Ryan and Carissa—I couldn’t love any of you more, and it amazes me that God loves us even better still.

  Adonai Elohim, thank You for giving us a glimpse of how You view other gods, and how despite our doubts and questions, You truly do hold the only wisdom there is.

  1

  JERICHO, 1406 BC

  Rahab draped the pale blue scarf over her head and shivered in the predawn chill. Her two sisters, Cala and Adara, took some convincing, but in the end, they had followed her on the short walk to the city’s public gardens in search of the dead carcasses of the female coccus ilicis, the crimson worms prized for their deep scarlet dyes.

  “You know the king’s servants have probably already stripped the trees bare,” Cala said, resting a protective hand over the growing babe within her. “And Tzadok was not too happy to have me leave him with just a blanket for warmth when I left our bed.”

  Gamal never noticed whether Rahab shared their bed anymore. How quickly his ardor had cooled after the war that left him both injured and a national hero for saving the prince’s life. Yet how could a single battle cause so much change?

  Shame heated her face, and she quickly ducked her head lest Cala notice. Surely she had done something to displease him. Surely her childlessness had forced him to seek lovers in the streets and drink in the taverns at night.

  Your daughter is very beautiful, my lord. The memory of Gamal’s words that day during her fifteenth summer invaded her thoughts. He had accompanied his father to her father’s home to seek her hand in marriage. How tall and proud Gamal had looked, standing like the soldier he was with one hand behind his back, the other resting on his close-cropped dark beard. Dark hair peeked beneath a leather helmet, and a slight smile tipped the corners of a strong, round jaw.

  Her heart had beat faster at the sound of his deep yet gentle voice, and though she hid in the shadows in the connecting room, she heard every word of the exchange, the bartering. Gamal’s father had the prescribed bride-price, and Gamal, a soldier in the king’s guard, earned a good living. Rahab would be well cared for in her new home.

  How short-lived that promise.

  The familiar twinge of envy filled her in one glance at Cala’s protruding middle. In five years of marriage she had not produced a son for Gamal, or even a daughter, though a daughter would not have pleased him. Perhaps she should be searching for mandrakes or performing fertility rites at the temple to procure a child instead of searching for worms that might bring her profit to feed her husband’s gaming habit. A child would remove the sting of her shame and give her someone to love. A child might cause Gamal to look on her with favor again.

  “Your thoughts are very far away, my sister,” Cala said, drawing up beside her as they walked along the mud-brick streets now where palm trees lined the boulevard. “I know that look.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and they both glanced Adara’s way.

  Rahab shook her head. “It is nothing.” Though in truth it was everything. She could not create a child any more than she could find the elusive mandrakes. And she was not about to offer sacrifices or prostitute herself to the temple on the whims of false hope.

  “Has Gamal hurt you again?” Cala rested a hand on her arm, forcing Rahab to stop and meet her gaze. Cala knew the truth of his hidden abuse, something Rahab could not tell her mother or father or brothers.

  Rahab looked beyond her sister, feeling the sudden touch of the morning breeze like a forgiving kiss. She drew in a slow breath, strangely strengthened. She glanced once more at Adara, then leaned close to Cala. “He is always angry,” she said quickly. “The prince’s edict arrived yesterday afternoon. They want an accounting by week’s end and Gamal is not ready.” She walked on, remembering the panic in his eyes. “Scarlet linens bring a high price in the markets.” She had to find a way to repay Gamal’s debt, to earn his respect. She glanced at Cala. “I have to try.”

  Rahab looked at Adara, whose young eyes were wide with curiosity. “Have to try what?” Adara asked.

  “I have to try to find these worms so I can create scarlet threads and sell them to feed my family.” She smiled at Adara, on the cusp of womanhood, still innocent and carefree and irresponsible. Something Rahab had not felt since the day Gamal returned from war, three years before, but wanted desperately to preserve in her baby sister for as long as she could.

  “That’s not all that you told Cala. What does the prince want with Gamal?” Adara’s thin brows narrowed, and her lip jutted in her typical pout. “I’m not naive, you know.”

  You are far more naive than you realize, dear sister. “I know you aren’t, my sweet, but I don’t have time to explain it all right now. Please. I need your help to find these worms. Their carcasses will be white and we will have to scrape them off the trees.”

  Adara’s shoulders drooped, but she turned her attention to the nearest tree, her whole energy caught up in the hunt as though they were searching for buried treasure.

  Which they were. Rahab moved deeper into the grove and slowly scanned the trunk of an oak tree. If only there were a god of worms, she would pray to him or her and offer a sacrifice of the few hoarded pieces of bronze and silver she kept hidden in a jar in their bedchamber. Precious metals she had earned from her weaving but t
hat would not even come close to paying off Gamal’s debt.

  She had to find enough worms to make the prized red dye and make it in abundance.

  She could not even consider another option.

  Rahab shuddered, feeling the weight of Gamal’s cursing the following evening. “What good are you to me if you cannot produce even the smallest lump of silver?” He tossed both hands above his head in a frustrated gesture. “A wife that cannot produce heirs could at least find some way to increase her husband’s fortunes. You are a worthless whore!”

  She ducked her head, waiting for the blow that did not come, yet his words did not miss their mark. How swift his barbs—sharp daggers to her soul. She heard his pacing limp thump against the woven mats she had lovingly made to keep the floor packed and smooth. They had once lived in a house in the wealthier section of town, with a large private courtyard in a home of stone floors and many rooms. One they shared with his family.

  But the king had greatly rewarded Gamal for his action in battle, for the day he had thrown himself in front of the prince and taken the arrow that should have ended the prince’s life. Gamal had used some of that reward to rent a house closer to the main thoroughfare. A smaller dwelling, but one Rahab had taken great joy in making their own. One free of his mother’s nagging tongue.

  “My luck is changing tonight, Rahab. I’m this close to winning”—he pinched his fingers together to emphasize his point—“but I need silver to put in the pot.” His voice had softened as if he had suddenly forgotten his tirade. Did he think she could so easily sweep aside his accusing words to give him what he wanted?

  She straightened, drawing on courage she thought she had lost. “The games are slanted against you, Gamal. Wouldn’t it be better to wait just awhile? Give me time. I can give you more if you can just be patient.”

  The blow came too fast for her to duck this time. Tears stung her eyes, matching the sharp sting against her cheek.

  “Don’t tell me to be patient. I have given you years!” She knew in an instant they were no longer talking about silver but sons. Did he not consider the fact that if he spent more time with her instead of the foreign women he had come to favor, she might at last produce a child? But of course, the fault was hers alone. Always hers.

  She flinched as his hand drew close again, and he fingered a lock of her hair as if turning a new thought over in his mind. “There is a way you could repay me.” He let the comment hang in the air between them until she slowly, fearfully met his level gaze.

  She swallowed, recognizing the scheming gleam in his eyes. There was always some new plan, some way he devised for her to please him, though none ever did. Did he want her to visit the temples as she had considered the previous morning?

  Horror filled her, and she wanted to pull away from him, to curl into a corner and hide like a young girl again in her father’s house. Shaking overtook her, and she clasped her hands to her arms, trying to still the sudden cold.

  “I’ve had men ask after you,” he said after too many breaths. His dark eyes searched hers.

  She stared at him wide-eyed but could not find her voice.

  He shook his head and gave a brittle laugh. “Of course, I tell them where they can take their suggestions.” He lifted her chin with two fingers, possessive. “I need you to be quicker with the cloth, or find some other way to get me gold.”

  So now it was gold he wanted? I am doing all that I can. “Yes, my lord.”

  “It’s the only way we can get out from under our debt,” he said as though trying to convince her.

  Your debt. How he loved to include her in his foolish choices. And yet . . . if she had been all she should have been as wife to him, would he have needed to pursue women or drink or games to find relief from the pain she caused? The question haunted her, as it did every time he left the house at night, leaving her alone. Every time she crawled into their bed without his company. Every time he looked at her with disdain.

  She blinked, hating the tears that threatened. One moment she wanted to fall at his feet and weep, begging him to forgive her. But sometimes in the next breath, sudden violent emotions would overtake her. If she had dared, she would flail her arms against his proud chest and scream in his face.

  Why can’t you return to work as a guard? Why can’t you be kind like my father and brothers, like normal men? The words barely held on the tip of her tongue, but to say them would incur an even fiercer wrath. Surely his former commander, Dabir, now the king’s advisor, would allow him to work in one of the positions that required less marching. He could guard the king’s prisoners or sit at the gate, inspecting the merchants as they entered.

  But Gamal had allowed the king’s praise and his forthcoming gift to make him lazy, and he had wasted all he had been given until he was the one indebted to the king rather than the king indebted to him.

  She jumped at the jarring sound of the door slamming, caught off guard that Gamal would leave without another word to her. She shook herself from her conflicted thoughts. How she hated that man! And yet how much she longed to please him.

  She touched her cheek, briefly wondering if it had started to purple. Her brothers would kill him if they knew what he did to her.

  But she could not allow his blood on their hands, despite what he was. He was still her husband.

  A sigh escaped as she walked to the door to secure the latch.

  Rahab stared into the flickering lamp some time later, too weary to rise. She had been up well before dawn and had worked at combing the flax to prepare for dyeing ever since Gamal had left, and now wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and succumb to blessed sleep. Her paltry efforts would not bring silver to Gamal’s pockets any sooner for her late hours, but somehow keeping her hands busy helped stop her mind from racing through all manner of future fears.

  She startled at a light rap at the outer door. Surely her nerves were overly heightened. She stilled, listening. Probably a wandering drunk tapping on the posts of her gate as he passed.

  The knock came again, louder, incessant, and Rahab felt a sense of dread. Dare she answer with Gamal still out? What if it was someone from the gaming house come to tell her that Gamal had been hurt in a fight, or worse . . .

  She would not let her thoughts trail there.

  But the knock continued, refusing to be ignored. She rose slowly and crept to the inner door, peering into the gathering dusk. Moonlight streamed into her courtyard, illuminating two men. On closer inspection, she noted the king’s insignia on the guard’s helmet and breastplate. She hesitated, trying to make out the face of the other man, when he raised a fist to knock once more.

  Dabir? Gamal’s former commander still held sway over the troops, but he had risen in power to advise both Prince Nahid and the king. What was he doing at her door in the dark of night?

  She hesitated again. Dare she answer? Gamal was not here to defend her.

  She nearly scoffed at that last thought. Gamal had not defended her honor in years.

  Indecision warred in her exhausted mind. Her lighted lamps gave her presence away, and to refuse to answer an emissary of the king . . . She stood a moment more until at last, hands trembling, she lifted the latch.

  “My lord.” She bowed. “What can I do for you?”

  “Rahab?” Dabir bent low, took her hand, and lifted her to her feet. The look in his dark, narrow eyes and the touch of his strong yet gentle fingers fairly scorched her. He led her into the room and closed the door, leaving the guard at the gate. His lazy smile made her blood pump hard.

  What was he doing here? She pulled her hand free of his and took a step back. “Has something happened to my husband, to Gamal?”

  He stared down at her, his eyes roaming, his look possessive, causing her skin to tingle as though he still held her hand. Silence filled the space between them, and she searched her mind for something to say, something to make him go.

  “Your husband is fine. The last time I saw him, he was carousing and eyeing a pro
stitute before he passed out on the floor. The owner of the gaming house thought to throw him into the street, but I convinced the man to let Gamal stay and sleep it off.”

  Rahab closed her eyes, blinking back tears of rage . . . and defeat. Gamal probably lost another bet and then drank himself into unconsciousness—again. He deserved to be thrown into the street.

  “Why then have you come?” If he knew Gamal’s whereabouts, then his only reason for coming here was . . . She met his gaze, caught the edge in his smile.

  “Gamal owes the crown a lot of gold, Rahab. If he is tossed into the gutter and dies, he is of no use to us.”

  “Of course not.” That doesn’t explain why you are here.

  “Is that a bruise on your cheek?” Dabir’s question startled her. He moved slowly closer and gently touched the spot Gamal had slapped. She gasped. “Did he hurt you?” He drew back, his dark brows drawn low. “If he laid a hand on you . . .”

  She shook her head and looked away. “I fell. That is all. I’m fine.” She found his concern strangely disconcerting.

  He stood without moving, and she sensed him assessing her. At last he stepped closer, placed two fingers beneath her chin, and gently drew her gaze to his. “I would never hurt you, Rahab.” His look held such kindness, such desire, she struggled to pull in a breath.

  “I’m fine,” she said again. Her breath hitched as his finger traced a line along her jaw. “Gamal does not hurt me.” But she could not meet his gaze.

  He stepped closer still and cupped her injured cheek. “We both know that’s not true, Rahab. I have heard him go so far as to offer you to the highest bidder, just to stay in the game.”

  Another gasp escaped. No words would come. She stared at him.

  “I would not let him go through with such a thing,” he said, his voice warm, his words honey. “You are fortunate that I frequent the gaming houses. Another time I might not be there to stop such a thing.” His finger trailed the path from her ear to her throat.