by Angela Hunt
Her words implied that he could make his captors do anything, and his chest heaved in exultation at the reassuring sight and sound of her. Something about her reminded him of the wind-blown wilderness, and for a moment he forgot the chain about his wrist. His awareness of Mandisa vanished like a desert mirage.
“My name is Tizara,” she whispered in a voice as intoxicating as the musk of her finest perfume. “I will see you later.”
She turned and walked toward the gardens, emphasizing the sway of her hips because she knew he watched. Shim’on felt his blood rush to her fingerprint on his skin, and his heart thumped as a quiver surged through his veins.
“I think this heat has been too much for you,” Mandisa said, yanking at the chain. Her voice was clipped. “Your face is crimson, Shim’on. You should not have stayed so long in the sun.”
He scarcely felt her fragile strength upon the chain that held his wrist, but after a moment he followed her back into the cool hallway that led to his room. She was right, his eyes did burn with the afterimage of a white-hot heavenly body. He had been blinded. But not by the sun.
From his observation post on the vizier’s balcony, Ani shook his head. Foolish Mandisa, why had she led her newly tamed cub into the panther’s den? He clicked his tongue in silent sympathy. She should have known better, but she was young and still inexperienced in many things.
After a few moments, Mandisa re-entered the courtyard alone, her hand shading her eyes from the sun and prying glances. “Mandisa!” Ani called.
She looked up. “Yes?”
“Come up here at once. I would have a word with you.”
Reluctantly, she turned toward the house. Ani paced along the walkway, debating his approach. Should he be honest and tell her that this Canaanite would soon leave and join his own family? That she had no business risking her heart when her loyalties belonged to the household of Zaphenath-paneah?
Women in love rarely wanted to hear truth.
“Yes, my lord Ani?”
She had been crying, the wetness of tears still clinging to her lower lashes.
“Sit, my child,” he said, indicating a stone bench carved into the railing. He paused, pressing his lips together. “I saw what happened in the courtyard.”
Her pretense vanished; tears again welled within her eyes. “I don’t understand him, Ani!” she said in an aching voice. “I have willingly cared for him these many months. I, a free woman, have cleaned up after him like the lowliest slave. I have borne his jests, his cruelty and his anger. I have listened to his stories about his home and family. I know secrets the clan of Yaakov would kill to keep silent!” She paused as a hot tear rolled down her cheek. “I know he is a murderer and a hot-headed rogue, and yet my heart breaks just to look at him. I shared my precious son to help ease his loneliness. But for all my efforts, he forgot I existed when that harlot walked by!”
Ani clapped in satisfaction. “So he is unredeemable. You now hate him. This is good.”
“But there is such strength in him! When he is not thinking about the past, he is loyal, devoted and concerned about people. And he is wonderfully wise about the desert and all sorts of animals. He has taught Adom so many truths I would never understand. And he knows many stories about the invisible and Almighty God. He is proud of being one of God Shaddai’s chosen race, he respects his brothers and is quick to defend his mother’s memory…”
“Our master knows the stories of the Almighty God, too,” Ani said, stiffening. “And yet he is quite a different man from this Shim’on.”
“Our master,” Mandisa said, making an obvious effort to choose her words with care, “worships the Almighty God. Zaphenath-paneah trusts in Him. But though Shim’on speaks of this God, I do not think he trusts anything but his own strength—the strength of his anger.”
As she paused to wipe tears from her face, Ani sank beside her on the bench. Whether Mandisa knew it or not, she had revealed her heart. “So you love him.”
“Against my better judgment,” she said, a tinge of wonder in her voice. “I suppose I do.”
“Are you certain? If it is marriage you seek, let me remind you that you were married once before. That husband did not bring you happiness.”
“Idogbe bought me from my father and paraded me around like a possession, not a wife,” she answered, her words cool and clear. She paused to wipe a fresh tear from her eye. “He was proud of me until he heard I would have a baby. Then he left without a word of warning.”
“Perhaps—” Ani cast about for the right words “—you should thank the gods he stopped loving you. If the man made you so unhappy, his disappearance saved you much distress.”
“He never loved me. And only after I saw true love did I fully understand. When Zaphenath-paneah gave me a place in this household, I saw what love truly is.” She smiled to herself as she spoke. “As I watched him love Lady Asenath through the birth of two sons and the deaths of three others, I realized that honest love is persistent, it is gentle. Love protects, trusts and hopes for the best. Love does not place the object of its affection on display. If you love someone, you will not abandon them.”
“And they say I am the one who is wise,” Ani answered, taking her hand. He squeezed it gently, another question on his reluctant tongue. “Daughter, you have answered your own questions, and you say you love this Canaanite. But does he love you?”
She closed her eyes and pressed her free hand over her heart. “That is what I must discover.”
Shim’on turned on his bed, agitated and unable to sleep. He had enough sense to realize Mandisa was furious when she left, and he didn’t suppose he could blame her. After years of trying to block the bitter glances between his mother and his aunt Rahel, Shim’on knew about female jealousy. But he also knew that women somehow managed to deal with their grief and anger. His mother had, and life had continued despite the differences between Yaakov’s wives.
But the woman in the courtyard today—her touch and her words had evoked feelings he thought long dead. In her eyes he was strong and free, a Canaanite warrior, a giant among men. In one glance she had restored the confidence and courage this captivity had inexorably drained from his spirit.
He, Shim’on the Destroyer, had begun to adjust to confinement. The realization stunned him, but which of his brothers would not have gone soft in such a place? The months had crawled by with agonizing slowness, the moments frozen in place, like the granite statues lining the streets of Thebes. He had asked Mandisa to bring him a shadow clock for telling time, and though she laughed at what must have seemed a foolish request, she had brought the clock and set it on a stand before his window. Every day he watched the shadow of the upright beam move over the calibrated horizontal arm. The only hours that passed with any swiftness were those he spent in Adom’s or Mandisa’s company.
Until today. How long had he stood before the woman who touched him? It might have been five minutes, but the span passed like a heartbeat, so quickly did she come and go. He would have to stretch that instant of pleasure into a week-long memory if he were to endure this enslavement much longer.
He turned again on his bed, unable to find a comfortable position. Sometimes he felt as if demonic hands clenched his heart, twisting the life from it. He had felt this guilty pressure many times before—at the slaughter of Shekhem, at Dotan when he would have killed Yosef—but lately the tension had intensified. He had to escape, to flee this misery, but he had no weapons, and no tools with which to form them, unless…
His eyes fell upon the shadow clock, useless in the night. The upright pole had been crafted of polished copper, a sliver as long as a man’s hand. A dagger, in the right fist.
He rolled out of bed and gripped it. The horizontal piece broke off with one snap, leaving a jagged edge along the base of his new blade. The implement was not sharp, but if thrust with enough force, it would bite deep.
His mind curled lovingly around the thought of freedom, of his triumphant return to the camp of Yisrael.
Already he could hear his brothers’ cries of rejoicing, feel Dina’s proud arms around his neck. And he would finally win his father’s approval, for Shim’on’s escape would cancel Binyamin’s obligation to journey to Egypt. They would find grain somewhere else; if necessary, they would bribe their neighbors to buy food for them.
From out of nowhere came a startling realization—he could escape only if he used this tool against Mandisa or Tarik, the only people who ever unbolted his door. One of them would have to be held hostage if this plan were to succeed. Killing the captain would not be problematic, even though Shim’on had come to respect the man, for a soldier expected such risks every day of his life. But he did not think he could hurt Mandisa, or even pretend that he might. She knew him too well; she would call his bluff.
The copper blade slipped from his hand and rang on the tile floor. Better to remain forgotten and alone than to risk failure and face humiliation again.
A scratching sound at the door interrupted his thoughts.
“Shim’on?” Tizara paused, waiting for the sounds of movement. Did he sleep? She dared not speak louder for fear of waking others.
“Who is there?”
She smiled, hearing the sounds of urgent breathing through the heavy wood. He was on the other side, awake and alert, as she had suspected he would be once he heard her voice.
“I am Tizara. Who else would come to you like this?” She couldn’t restrain a ripple of laughter. “Would you like me to come in?”
She heard frantic scrambling sounds; in a moment he would be pounding on the door. “Hush, be still.” She pressed her hands against the wood. “I have not come to pleasure you, but to help you return to freedom.” She paused. “You and I together will escape from Mizraim. Would you like that?”
She felt a solid thud against the wood and knew he leaned against the door. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because I am a Canaanite, like you. Because I hate slavery as much as you hate captivity. And—” she lightened her voice “—because I like your looks.”
Flattery always worked. “Open the door.”
“Shh, not now, my friend. First we must make plans. We will need provisions to survive the journey. I will procure a supply of food, cloaks, water pouches—”
“Why do you want to leave?”
His question caught her by surprise, and for an instant her facile tongue stilled. “B-because,” she said, stammering. “Because doing anything as a free woman is better than doing nothing as a slave. I am not a nursemaid! I am tired of men telling me what to do.”
She sank to the floor and leaned against the door. “When we return to Canaan, I will build my own house within the strong walls of Shekhem. I will own my own herds. I will do as I please, and never call anyone master again.”
When he did not answer, she wondered if she should open the door so she could face him. No. This man was resolute in purpose and desire. She dared not trust him until she had no other choice.
“All right,” he said, a bitter note in his voice. “While you are stealing, then, make sure you take enough of the vizier’s silver to outfit this new house. Do not count on a marriage price from me.”
She laughed. “Did I say I would marry you?”
“It matters not,” came his slow and steady answer. “I will not marry again.”
Tizara’s visit seemed dreamlike in the reality of morning until Shim’on saw the broken shadow clock on the floor. So the harlot had visited him…and she wanted out, too. Why not let her help him? She had access to tools and provisions, and with her aid he could slip away without involving Mandisa. He would leave in the middle of a night, so Mandisa and Adom would know nothing of it until the next morning.
How long would it take the woman to prepare? The question buzzed in his brain all morning, unasked and unanswered, distracting him even when Mandisa brought him breakfast. She moved about the room, making casual and pleasant conversation, but she did not mention the possibility of his going into the courtyard or the garden. Neither did she refer to the events of the day before, but Shim’on knew her well enough to know the encounter with Tizara rested heavy on her mind.
When she turned to leave, he put out a hand to stop her. “Mandisa.” He regarded her with a careful smile. “I suppose you are angry with me for what happened yesterday.”
“Angry women make themselves beds of nettles,” she replied, averting her eyes. “And I slept well last night, Shim’on.”
“So you are not upset with me?” His index finger rose to her trembling chin. “I think you are lying. About your anger, and about how you slept.”
She turned, hiding her face, and fumbled with the latch on the door. “I have to go.”
“Don’t.” He caught her arm, and felt her muscles tense under his hand. Her back was to him, but if he would soon be gone, he wanted her to know he appreciated all she had done for him.
“Mandisa, I—”
“Stop,” she interrupted, her head falling forward. He realized with sudden horror that she wept. “All right, I confess,” she said, the words broken between her sobs. “I was angry. I’m trying to help you, but I can’t…love you…until I know how you feel.”
An unexpected warmth surged through him. By earth and heaven above, did she say love? Did something stronger than mere possessiveness lie behind her jealousy? His heart swelled with the knowledge that she had been jealous and she did desire him. She probably felt she couldn’t compete with Tizara’s explicit seductiveness, but she could easily find a place in his arms. If not for her soft presence, he would have lost his sanity here in the Black Land.
He turned her and pulled her close, cradling her head against his chest. “Mandisa, little bird,” he whispered, caressing her wet cheek with his knuckle. Her moist, trembling mouth demanded comforting, so he bent and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss sent the pit of his stomach into a wild swirl, and he crushed her to him, enjoying the sensation of her warm willingness in his arms. He would demonstrate his gratitude in the best way he knew. Perhaps, if her gods smiled on her, she would bear a son to remember him in the days to come.
He raised his mouth from hers and met her eyes. “Shim’on—” she placed her hands on his chest “—I don’t think you understand.”
A fleeting doubt took shape in her eyes, but before she could utter it he shushed her. “If you want my love, let me give it,” he murmured, moving his lips toward the base of her throat. “I owe you my life, Mandisa. Let me share my strength with you.”
His lifted his lips to take hers again, but instead of a kiss he found himself moving toward empty air.
She twisted in his arms. “Let me go!”
“What?” A frustrated scream rattled at the back of his throat.
“This is wrong! Release me, now!”
“But it is love! If you want love—”
“This is not love! I can’t do this!”
“You can!”
“You don’t understand! You don’t understand anything!”
In dazed exasperation, he released her. Spinning out of his arms, she bolted like a frightened animal for the door, then slammed it shut. He heard sobbing as she slid the bolt into place.
“Mandisa—” his pulse pounded as he walked to the door and pressed against it “—you don’t have be so skittish. You are neither a virgin nor a child.”
“You don’t understand,” she cried again. But at least she lingered outside.
“What’s wrong with you? I was gentle!” He gritted his teeth against the rising anger in his voice. “Woman, if I want to hurt you, I could have taken you at any time!”
He heard a renewed cry, then the sound of her footsteps running away.
Chapter Twenty-Four
H e cursed until he could think of no more vile words to say, then he paced from wall to wall until he thought he would go mad with frustration. The sun set, the sounds and activities of the vizier’s house faded into the quiet lull of nighttime. Shim’on kept an eye on the door, sure
that Mandisa would send Tarik to rebuke or punish him, but no one came to his chamber, no one moved in the hallway beyond.
When night had completely covered the villa, he stretched out on the too-short bed and closed his eyes. He slid into a thin doze, but the sound of the bolt sliding from its brackets brought him instantly awake.
His eyes flew open as anger and anxiety knotted inside him. Had Mandisa changed her mind? He wouldn’t have her now, not for all the silver and gold in Pharaoh’s treasure tomb. But Mandisa wouldn’t come to him in the night; this had to be Tarik, ready to punish Shim’on for affronting one of the vizier’s servants.
His hand closed around the makeshift dagger. In one agile move, he rolled from the bed and leaped to his feet. Despite his fears, he felt a hot and awful joy at the prospect of confronting his enemy and proving himself.
His chest felt as if it would burst as the door swung open. He held his breath, expecting to see the captain’s compact, muscled figure in the torchlight, but a woman stood in the doorway, draped in concealing veils.
The voice was unmistakable. “Did you think I would not come so soon?” Tizara purred.
Shim’on cleared his throat as sanity and calm returned to his fevered brain. “I did not expect you tonight.”
“After the madness of your afternoon, I expect you did not,” she answered, her dark eyes shining from beneath a veil. She lifted it with two hands and gave him a frankly admiring glance. “And I thought, Shim’on, that you burned for me alone.”
“Did the entire house hear?”
Even the smile in her eyes contained a sensuous flame. “None heard but me. I was lingering beneath your window in hope of forewarning you that I would come tonight. I heard everything, but Mandisa has said nothing to the others.”
Shim’on nodded, mollified. At least he would not be leaving Mandisa to face the humiliation of public shame—not that he cared, in any case. But for Adom’s sake, it would be better if the household did not hear what had happened between Shim’on and his mother.
