Brothers

by Angela Hunt

  “Enough!” Ani closed his eyes and held up a warning hand. “I think tomorrow we will talk of something else. We are finished today, boys. Run, go play, for I have work to do.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  F rom his vantage point on the ridge of a hill at Hebron, Yaakov stared into the distance toward Mizraim, the Black Land. In the distance a traveling party crawled northward into the teeth of the gusty breeze that blew up small whirlwinds of desert dust and grit, but he could not discern Shim’on’s broad shape among the men.

  He sighed. So much for vain hopes and dreams. He had prayed Shim’on would find the courage and strength to escape the vizier who held him, but God had not seen fit to answer those prayers any more than He had answered Yaakov’s desperate pleas when Yosef disappeared.

  “Do I ask too much?” He lifted his tired eyes to the sky. “Why, Almighty God, do you allow your chosen ones to suffer so? Famine grips our land. The cattle are thin and hungry. My sons’ wives are as withered and worn as the stones of these mountains, and yet you do not offer respite or rain. You have taken Rahel, Yosef and Shim’on, and this foreigner of Mizraim demands my Binyamin, too. This I cannot do, Lord God. I cannot lose the son of my right hand.”

  In spite of his resolve never to revisit the past, his mind returned to the day when Binyamin had come into the world and Rahel had gone out of it. “He shall be called Ben-oni, son of my sorrow,” she had gasped, knowing she would die.

  “No.” Yaakov rested his hand on her wet brow. “He is the son of my darling, my right hand. He shall be Binyamin, as dear to my heart as you are.”

  That parting remark was the first and only lie he ever told her. For though he did love Binyamin more than life, Yaakov could never look upon his youngest son without seeing the instrument God had used to take Rahel from him. And so, in the years after her death, Yosef received the fullest measure of Yaakov’s devotion and attention—brilliant, handsome, charming Yosef, Rahel’s long-awaited firstborn, the delight of her heart.

  And then El Shaddai demonstrated His jealousy. To teach Yaakov that He deserved and demanded first place in a man’s heart, El Shaddai removed Yosef, just as He nearly took Yitzhak from Avraham. Yaakov knew enough about his God to know that the Almighty would not tolerate an idol, be it a graven image or a flesh-and-blood creature. Anything given more love, more time or more devotion than God could not be allowed to usurp God Shaddai’s rightful place.

  “You allowed Avraham to keep his beloved son,” he whispered, aware that he had reawakened the memory of Yosef and the dull ache in his soul, “and yet You took mine. Was my sin so much worse than my forefather’s?”

  The sky glared hot and blue; the Almighty did not answer. But Re’uven was climbing the hill. Yaakov closed his eyes, guarding his secrets.

  “Greetings, Father,” Re’uven called, his voice unnaturally bright and careful. “I have just finished talking with the others.”

  Yaakov shifted on his stiff hips and opened his eyes to study the horizon again. “And?”

  “The famine is still heavy upon us, Father. The seed we planted has not sprouted, for there has been no rain. We have grain for now, but soon, when there is nothing to harvest, we will starve.”

  When Re’uven paused, Yaakov braced himself for what he knew would come next.

  “Father, we can go back to Egypt if you’ll only allow Binyamin to go with us. The Egyptian will give us grain, enough to see us through the coming year.”

  “No.” Yaakov ground the word out between his teeth. “No, no, a thousand times no! You shall not take Binyamin with you. I will not allow him to leave me.”

  “Father.” Re’uven dropped the conciliatory tone. “Binyamin is a grown man, with children of his own. Your continual insistence that he remain in your camp embarrasses him. He wants to go with us, he is more than willing.”

  “No!” Yaakov felt himself shaking with impotent rage and fear. “I let Yosef go, and he never returned! You, the sons of the others, came back, with only his ornamented coat—” he gestured toward the ground as if the bloodstained garment still lay at his feet “—and I knew I was wrong.”

  For loving him too much. For loving him more than God Shaddai.

  “Father, listen to me.” Re’uven’s dark eyes narrowed and hardened. “Yosef left us a long time ago. Would you have all of us starve because of one accident?”

  “As long as there is breath in my body, I will guard Rahel’s remaining son with my life. Binyamin will not go with you.” Turning on his heel, Yaakov flung the edge of his cloak over his shoulder and stumped toward his tent.

  Chapter Fifteen

  D ocile and patient, the litter-bearers waited under a blistering sun. Asenath paused on the marble steps of her father’s villa, then reached out to embrace him one final time. “I shall miss you, Father.” She placed her cheek next to his. “But please, continue to offer sacrifices and prayers to Khnum for me. I cannot tell you how earnestly I desire another son.”

  “Daughter.” Potiphera pulled her from his embrace and held her at arm’s length. “Do you love your husband?”

  “Love him?” Asenath laughed, amazed that her father would question her devotion to Zaphenath-paneah, the flower of all Egypt. “How could I not love him? He is truly the wisest man in the land, except for you, of course, and Pharaoh could do nothing without my husband’s guidance. He is kind, and gentle, and would do almost anything to please me.”

  “If you love him, Asenath, you should want to obey him. If he does not want another child, you are foolish to think you can make him happy this way.”

  “But he does not know what he wants! Father, he loves Efrayim and Menashe so much, I know he would adore another son—even a daughter! And so, no matter how much he protests on my account, I will pursue this.” She lowered her voice, aware that Mandisa, who waited in the litter, did not completely approve of her plan. “And since my husband’s god has not been strong enough to prevail in this, I beg you to seek help for me from Khnum.”

  “But the vizier’s god is strong. His hand alone has preserved Egypt since Hapi’s waters have failed to flood the land.”

  Fighting hard against tears of frustration she refused to let fall, she gave him a blazing smile. “Trust me, Father, I will win this time. My husband will come to me, the seed will be planted and bear fruit and I shall be delivered of another son, perhaps even two. And when the famine is done, as my love says it will be, your grandsons shall grow strong and capable in Pharaoh’s house.”

  Her subtle appeal to her father’s ambition seemed to allay his fears, for he nodded and released his grip on her arms. “Be careful, daughter,” he said, his eyes drinking her up as if he might never see her again. “Do not trifle with divinity, for a sleeping god may wake and take offense at your games. He may draw you out to a place where you can never return.”

  “Do not worry, Father. I have you to protect me.” She gave him another quick kiss on the cheek, then turned and skipped down the steps to her litter. Mandisa pulled the sheer curtain aside, and Asenath sat and pulled her legs out of the swirling dust.

  Her father had not moved, but lingered with a worried expression on his face. Foolish man, he was always worrying about something. Giving him a final wave, Asenath let the curtain fall and settled back among the pillows in the conveyance. “Tell the litter-bears to proceed,” she said, giving Mandisa a weary smile. “Tell them to run. I would like to be home as soon as possible.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “L ife and health to you, Lady Asenath! We are so glad you have returned!” After delivering a formal greeting and bow to his mistress, Tarik gave Mandisa an exaggerated wink as she climbed from the litter. The perspiring litter-bearers, who had jogged in the merciless heat with only occasional breaks, looked as though they would expire on the spot. Lady Asenath did not even glance back at them as she hurried up the stairs of the villa’s portico.

  Mandisa turned to the commander of the guards who had escorted them from Heliopolis. �
�Refresh your men and these slaves in the garden,” she murmured. “Take care not to disturb the family. I will send food from the kitchens and fresh water from the well.”

  The commander gave her a stiff salute, appreciation gleaming in his eyes. Mandisa walked toward the house, then looked sideways, surprised that Tarik had fallen into step beside her. “Is there something I can do for you, captain?” She halted, her heart jumping in her chest. “Has something happened to Adom?”

  “No.” Tarik offered her a quick, reassuring smile. He gestured toward the path that led to the kitchens and led her away from the villa. “Shall we walk together? Your son is fine, except he continues to thoroughly bedevil Ani during the young masters’ lessons. Apparently Ani’s recounting of the primeval creation does not agree with what you have told your son.”

  Mandisa smiled. “I don’t know what is to be done about that. I have taught Adom what my father taught me, and I believe it is the truth. But Ani is a stubborn old man. He will not change his ideas.”

  “That is not why I sought you out.”

  “What, then?”

  Stopping in the path, Tarik thrust his hands behind his back. “In your absence, the duty of looking after our lord’s Canaanite prisoner has fallen to me and Halima.”

  She laughed at his somber expression. “And that chore has not been pleasant?”

  “He grows more unruly and dangerous with each passing day. He has not eaten in nearly a week, for we cannot go near the door to bring him food. He throws things.” The captain’s brows drew downward in a frown. “If he were any other captive, I would have whipped him long ago, he would learn that such behavior will not be tolerated! But the vizier will not let us harm him. We are to leave him alone and let him rage.”

  “Is there nothing you can do?”

  The guard’s tight expression relaxed into a wry smile. “I have tried other ways to calm him. To thwart his devious plans, I removed all his clothing but a kilt, and we have not replaced the furniture, the vases or bowls. As long as he rages, we do not even enter to clean his, er, uh…private area. He sits in a loathsome, stinking shambles, and he still roars.”

  “A starving animal will bellow until it is nearly dead, Tarik,” Mandisa said, moving along the path again. “And this beast is a particularly proud one, I dare say. He may not stop howling until he is too weak to be saved.”

  Tarik flashed a killer smile. “That is why the gods have returned you.”

  Oh, no. She’d seen smiles like that before; they were bait for hungry fish. Well, this minnow would not bite.

  “You think I can reason with him?” She grinned. “Ah, Tarik, you have been praying in vain. All the gods in Egypt couldn’t force me into that room.”

  “But the vizier asked you to help.”

  “And I did. For several days. And the man hated me as much as he hates you.”

  “But he was not as violent when you visited him. And you are the only one fluent in his language. Surely you can reason with him.”

  Mandisa was about to argue, but movement caught her eye. Halima stepped out of the kitchen and offered a shy wave of greeting. Her singularly sweet smile faded, though, when she saw Tarik, and Mandisa did not need to be told why the girl’s cheeks flooded with color.

  Mandisa had long suspected that the slave girl was hopelessly in love with the vizier’s captain. How could the foolish man not notice?

  Smiling in the calm strength of knowledge, Mandisa returned Halima’s wave, then looked back at the desperate guard. “I don’t know how I can help, but if Halima will help me and if you stand guard when we go in, perhaps the three of us can manage the brute.”

  Tarik looked over his shoulder, saw Halima and nodded in greeting. Mandisa watched, amused. Did he have any idea that love had bloomed in the poor girl’s heart? Apparently not, for he only turned back to Mandisa and demanded to know if they could go immediately to face the Canaanite captive. “His room stinks. It is an affront to heaven itself, and if the vizier happens to wander in that part of the house—”

  “I will go soon,” Mandisa interrupted, moving past him to have a private word with Halima. “When I have refreshed myself. I am yet covered with dust from the journey.”

  After tending to her mistress and unpacking the baskets of belongings brought from Heliopolis, Mandisa went in search of her son. She found him in the garden with Efrayim and Menashe. “Adom!” she called, her heart singing with delight at the sight of him.

  “Mother!” He left his young playmates and threw his arms around her shoulders in a light embrace. “I am glad you are home!”

  “I am happy, too.” She breathed in his sweet scent. “But I hear you have been interrupting Ani’s lessons.”

  “He tells the story wrong.” Adom lifted his chin in a stubborn gesture as he pulled out of her arms. “He said that God Almighty created other gods.”

  “You should not contradict a teacher, especially an elder.” She pressed her hand on the smooth skin of his shaved head and playfully tugged on the single long lock of hair growing from his temple. Soon he would have to surrender this childish coiffure and grow his hair out to a more manly length. Efrayim and Menashe still wore the long forelocks of children, but Adom was nearly grown. At some point in the near future he would have to find an occupation, something to fill his days, a way to earn a wage and make a life for himself.

  “Adom,” she said, drawing him near in a sudden rush of emotion, “I have prayed that El Shaddai would send someone to us. Someone who can teach you.”

  “Ani has taught me many things. I can read, and even write a little.”

  “Other things, my son.”

  “Will I have a tutor?”

  She cringed inwardly at his assumption. He was a servant’s son, and yet he too often assumed he was like the vizier’s children, born to the aristocracy. Had she made a mistake in allowing him to spend so much time among people born above his place in life?

  “Not exactly a tutor,” she said, sinking to a garden bench. She pulled him to her side and ran her hand over the olive skin of his bare back. “I have asked God to send someone who can teach you things I cannot—how to work in the fields, perhaps, or how to mind the animals.”

  He nodded. “I like the horses. I wouldn’t mind working with them.”

  She wrinkled her nose. The stables would not have been her first choice, but as long as the boy had something to do…“I suppose you could be of use to the stablemen. But I’m not certain who will come, or what he will teach you. But when this teacher comes, Adom, you must treat him with respect, listen to him and learn from him. Do you understand?”

  He regarded her with a wide, speculative gaze. “Is it the man in the locked room?”

  Mandisa felt her mouth drop open. “The prisoner? By heaven, child, why would you think such a thing? Do you think God would send us someone as brutish as that?”

  Adom shrugged. “I heard the slaves say he was from Canaan, the same place you were born.”

  “Well,” Mandisa answered, annoyed with the gossiping slaves, “just because we come from the same region doesn’t mean we are connected in any way. No, son, I am praying that God would send us a good man, an honorable teacher.” She brightened her smile. “And I don’t think the captive is particularly good or honorable, do you?”

  Adom’s mouth twitched with amusement. “No, Mother. I’ve heard him curse. He doesn’t know I can understand him, but he yells the same words I’ve heard the sheep herders use.”

  “Don’t listen to him or the herders.” Mandisa gave him a playful nudge. “Now find the little ones and enjoy the time you have with them. But do not contradict Ani again.”

  Adom loped away. Mandisa took a moment to adjust the edges of her heavy wig, then turned toward the slave quarters. She had barely had time to bathe and reapply her makeup, but she had been determined to do so before facing the roaring lion of Canaan.

  She frowned, remembering Adom’s question. The prisoner as a suitable teacher—how had
Adom come by such an outlandish idea? The captive was a feral monster, his hate a living, visible thing. Mandisa had seen bitter men like him before.

  But she had agreed to help him. Girding herself with resolve, she walked with stiff, brittle dignity toward the captive’s chamber.

  Not willing to deal with the heightened emotions of Halima or Tarik for this first meeting with the Canaanite, she pulled one of the gate guards from his post. “Remain in the hallway and do not let the prisoner see you,” she told him in a low voice. “I am going into the chamber alone.”

  The young man’s brow furrowed. “But he is violent, and Tarik says—”

  “Tarik has asked me to see to him,” she said, cutting him off. “But I do not want him to escape and harm anyone in the household. So watch from behind the wall, out of sight, and if he leaves the room without me, summon help immediately. But if my suspicions are correct, there will be no need for a general alarm.”

  The guard shot her a half-frightened look. “The captain will not approve of this, lady. We are under orders that no one approaches that chamber without Tarik, and absolutely no one removes the bolt unless another guard stands near to offer assistance.”

  Mandisa waved aside his protests. “The stain of disobedience will be on my head, then, not yours.”

  Shim’on tensed as he heard the slow rumble of the bolt. Had the guard come back? With that pale-faced wench who squeaked like a weasel every time he looked at her?

  His stomach growled in anticipation of food; his anger strangled the sound. He glanced around the room, but he could find nothing else to throw. Broken shards of pottery and timber littered the floor; no furnishings remained but a down-filled mattress. Every costly piece of furniture and bric-a-brac had been shattered or ground to dust, a just penalty for the guard’s foolish decision to take Shim’on’s clothes from him. A decent man did not walk around half-dressed, not even in sweltering Egypt!