by Angela Hunt
Just before sunrise on the day the brothers were scheduled to depart, Mandisa paused in the darkened passageway that led to the garden and the kitchens. Insects whirred in the tall grasses at the far edge of the garden pool and the leaves of acacia trees fluttered in light applause. Apart from the sounds of nature, this part of the house lay still and silent. After two days of nearly continual feasting and celebration, the vizier and his boisterous brothers slept.
She had come through the courtyard where a host of wagons and donkeys stood ready for the journey, freshly watered and harnessed. She had heard that the brothers had gone to sleep just after sundown so they might rise early and depart from Egypt in the cool of morning. She shuddered in a moment of déjà vu. The household had experienced this scene of departure before, but Shim’on had not come to her chamber last night to ask her to travel with him. He had not, in fact, sought her at all in the last two days. Now that he had been proclaimed brother to the vizier, he probably intended to find a more attractive, more expensive-looking concubine.
The stars had begun to fade behind a sky of blue velvet as she slipped through the garden, and she knew she should hurry if she wanted to fetch food for herself and Adom before the brothers woke and demanded the servants’ attention.
She had just left the garden and entered the passageway leading to the kitchens when a massive Canaanite form stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “Excuse me,” she said, not looking up.
“Mandisa.” Shim’on’s voice was cool and faintly reproachful. “I wondered if I would see you before we left.”
She steeled her heart and lifted her chin. “And so you have.”
Despite her intention to remain aloof, he captured her eyes and gave her a smile that sent her pulses racing. Her emotions whirled and skidded at the sight of something in those eyes, and for a moment she hoped he would ask her to leave with him again.
His fingers curved under her chin. “My gentle jailer,” he said, his thumb tenderly tracing the line of her cheekbone and jaw. “I have been thinking in the last two days.”
“That is good. A change for you, is it not?”
“Hush, woman.” The glitter in his half-closed eyes was both possessive and gently accusing. “I was never in any real danger here, was I? You must have known who I was, and you would not have let the vizier’s brother starve. And Tarik would not have hurt me, not even in an escape attempt.”
She shrugged, irritated at the thrilling current moving through her. “I would not have let you starve,” she repeated, wanting to be away.
“So you did know the truth. You knew the vizier was my brother, and yet you said nothing.”
“What does it matter?” Standing this close to him, knowing he was about to leave, both pained and aggravated her. “I was commanded not to reveal what I knew.”
“And like a slave, you obeyed. And yet you and I shared something special. I had the feeling you could tell me anything.” From out in the courtyard, one of the horses whickered, the only sound in the morning stillness. She tried to look away, but he held her eyes. “We shared secrets, you and I—so why did you not tell me about the vizier?”
“We did not share all our secrets, Shim’on.” She forced herself to think; it was difficult to remain clearheaded when he stood so close to her. “And my kindness to you had nothing to do with your relationship to my master. I cared for you because you needed help.”
“Is that the only reason? Halima took care of me, too, but she refused to come when my behavior became…intolerable.”
“I can tolerate more than Halima.”
“So you cared for me to test the mettle of your endurance?”
“I cared for you because I am a servant who chooses to obey her master. That is, was, always will be my reason. It’s why I take care of Lady Asenath, why I tend to the little boys.”
“You’re lying, woman. You have told me yourself, you obey your master and mistress because you love them. Just as you love me.”
Her blood pounded; her face flamed with humiliation. “You flatter yourself.”
“You do love me. And yet you will not come with me. Why not?”
“I’ve told you. I will not be a concubine.”
“What if I asked you to marry me?”
She bit her lip, caught off guard by the sudden vibrancy of his voice. Was he jesting? No, his dark, earnest eyes were probing hers, seeking an answer. His hand caught her arm and slipped to her wrist, his fingers closed about her hand.
Had the last two days changed him? No. More likely he fancied himself among the nobility and realized that a wife was more socially acceptable than a concubine. He wanted a wife by his side to share his glory as the vizier’s brother, to oversee his home and his sons.…
Better to tell him the truth. “I cannot marry you, Shim’on,” she said, boldly meeting his gaze. “I cannot give myself to a man whose heart brims with anger and hate.”
“But I was angry because I hated Zaphenath-paneah,” he answered, shrugging. The steady tone of his voice gave her hope. “And now that I know he is my brother, I can no longer hate him. So all is forgiven, the past has been put behind us.”
He stepped forward, penning her between his chest and the wall, radiating a vitality that drew her like the moon summons the sea. “Come with me, Mandisa.” His hand tightened around hers. “The wagon is loaded, but there is room for you and Adom. Or say you’ll wait for me, for we will return as soon as we have collected our father and our families.”
She closed her eyes as her heart swam through a haze of feelings and desires. As much as she wanted to deny it, she did care for Shim’on, cared so deeply that life in the vizier’s house would be as dull as a whetstone without his belligerent presence. And his hate of her master had dissipated since the vizier’s startling revelation. But the hard layers of his heart could not be shed in two short days; the roots of his bitterness extended far deeper than hatred and jealousy for one younger brother.
He was not yet the man who could love her the way she needed to be loved. At the first provocation, his temper would flare up and he would strike out at whomever stood nearby. He had softened a little around the edges, but his stony heart had not changed.
And she knew just how to prove it to herself.
“I’ll not go with you.” She opened her eyes. “You were right, you know, when you came to me in the night. Adom and I do need a man, but we are not possessions, and I will never settle for less than a man who loves me as his equal. Since Zaphenath-paneah paid my debts and redeemed me from slavery, I will never think of myself as less than a free and independent woman. I must have a man of strength, someone who will remain with me no matter what.”
He dropped her hand and flexed, knotting the muscles in his arm. “Do you think I am not strong? I am twice the size of that Egyptian guard you’re so fond of. And as for loyalty, Levi and I once killed the men of an entire city for our sister’s sake!”
She shivered under the hot light in his eyes. “A man who is quick to become angry with lesser men only proves his weakness,” she answered, ready to duck if his temper lashed out in her direction. “And your anger strikes at everyone from the servants to the vizier himself.” She tipped her head back and stared into his eyes. “Only a man of great strength can give the gentle kind of love Adom and I deserve. You might be capable of this love one day, Shim’on, but I would rather serve here under Zaphenath-paneah’s protection than go with you now. Until you change, I cannot give my heart to you.”
“A woman does not ask a man to change,” he said, crossing his arms as his voice snapped. “Either she loves him as he is, or she does not love him at all.”
She felt suddenly vulnerable in the face of his anger, and she hated feeling vulnerable. “Shim’on, I didn’t mean—”
“Be silent.” Cutting her off, he stepped backward, his eyes stony. “You have insulted my strength and my honor.”
“This is why we can never marry,” she whispered, her heart breaking. �
��You are strong, but your weakness lies in the inner man. You must be strong enough to control your anger instead of letting it control you. Forgive me for hurting you, but I did it to prove a point.”
“Forgive you?” His bitter laugh raked her heart. “A man can only bear so much.”
Without another word he turned on his heel and strode away. She wavered, torn between remaining silent and running after him to assure him that she did appreciate his many fine qualities.
But if he had loved her, he hated her now. Strength and loyalty were his two best attributes, and her biting tongue had just disparaged both.
Her experiment, however unwise, had proved her suspicions. Shim’on the Destroyer was still the roaring lion she had confronted nearly a year ago.
“Brothers, I bid you farewell,” Yosef called, his gaze lingering on each face as the caravan assembled in his courtyard. “Bid my father hurry and come down, and do not argue on the journey. The strength of Yisrael is in your union. Your only danger is discord. Be at peace with each other from this time forth, and as brothers we can live together.”
Binyamin left his donkey and ran forward for one last embrace. Yosef clung to him for a long moment, inhaling the scent of his strength.
“Hurry back,” he called as Binyamin pulled away.
“I will.” After one last look, Binyamin returned to his pack animal. Re’uven gave the command to move, and the caravan started forward. Yosef left the portico and retreated into his chamber, his heart too full for words.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“M andisa, you seem anxious,” Lady Asenath said, lazily waving her hand. “I should think you’d be relieved that the rabble of relatives has gone.”
“I am relieved, my lady.” Mandisa forced a smile and turned toward the couch where Asenath lay. “Though they have only been gone a short time, the house seems quite empty without them.”
“I think silence is sublime,” Asenath answered, lifting her head so Mandisa could slip another pillow beneath it. “And I do wish my husband would hurry back from the palace. Pharaoh is demanding too much of his time these days.”
“Pharaoh has much on his mind,” Mandisa answered, sinking into a chair by Asenath’s side. The lady’s belly had grown rapidly in the last few weeks, and she was increasingly uncomfortable in social situations. Her gowns, designed to be worn like a second skin, did not forgive the bulge of impending birth at her middle. Asenath preferred to sit at home in a loose-fitting robe rather than wear the pleated gowns that served as maternity wear in upper Theban circles.
“When Zaphenath-paneah comes in, send a runner to fetch him to me,” Asenath said, closing her eyes. She sighed and clasped her hands over her belly. “This is the seventh month, Mandisa, do you realize? The babies I lost died in the fourth month. The gods will be good to me this time. Just as they performed the miracle at conception and allowed my husband’s seed to grow within me out of season—”
“The master knows, my lady.” Mandisa bit her lip, horrified that the words had fallen from her lips. She was too tired, that was the problem, she had felt listless all week. Her eyes burned from sleeplessness and an overwhelming numbness had weighed her down ever since the brothers departed.…
“He knows what?” Asenath lifted her head. Her eyes were wide with false innocence, but her voice was thick and unsteady.
Mandisa sighed. She had spent every possible moment of the last month with her mistress, and she felt like a parent who has spent too much time with a hyperactive child. The lady’s charade had drained her.
Gathering up her slippery courage, she leaned forward. “May I speak as an honest friend, Lady Asenath?”
Her mistress nodded.
“Your husband, my master, knows the child you carry is not his.”
“You lie!” The lady’s expression clouded. “The child is his, the gods have worked a miracle! And my husband believes in miracles, he is always talking about the wonders of his God—”
“This is not a miracle,” Mandisa answered, sudden tears stinging her eyes. “And your husband knows it.”
Asenath took a deep breath as if she would argue, but let her head fall back to the couch. After a long moment, she pressed her hand to her forehead and began to weep. “I have done a terrible thing,” she whispered as tears found their way down her cheeks. “I went to visit a priest at the temple of Min.”
Mandisa shook her head. “I do not know this god.”
“He is the god of fertility, the bestower of potency. He is the god who brings rain to the parched earth, the one who quickens life within a woman’s womb.”
A sense of foreboding descended over Mandisa with a shiver. “You gave this god an offering?”
“An offering of silver…and of myself. The priest promised that I would conceive, and he swore that only he and Min would know of it.” Raw hurt glittered in her dark eyes as she turned to her handmaid. “And now you tell me that my husband knows! And if he does, why does he treat me with such kindness?”
“Your husband,” Mandisa answered, carefully choosing her words, “loves you as he loves his own flesh. When you turned from him to another, how could he not know it? But he treats you kindly because he loves you.”
Asenath shot Mandisa a quick, denying glance, then looked away. A host of emotions—denial, anger and fear—flickered across her face, then she looked at Mandisa with something fragile in her eyes.
“Why? Why does he—How could he still love me?”
“Because,” Mandisa admitted, her words dredged from a place far beyond logic and common sense, “sometimes passion is unreasonable.” She strengthened her smile. “You need never fear, mistress, I know Zaphenath-paneah. At first I thought he would cast you aside, but now I know he will never abandon you. You are fortunate, my lady.”
“Fortunate,” Asenath echoed. The hand that had been stroking her belly stilled. “Will my husband feel fortunate to provide for another man’s child?”
Mandisa squirmed beneath the touch of her mistress’s gaze and the look of pain behind her question. “Zaphenath-paneah loves all children,” she finally said. “Do not be anxious, my lady, about his heart. But have mercy on my master, and do not ask him to pretend.”
When Asenath finally slept, Mandisa left her guilt-ridden mistress in her chamber and walked to the garden to consider her own situation. In good weather, if all went well, the journey from Thebes to Hebron would take about two weeks. More than a month would pass before Shim’on could return. But once they arrived in Hebron the brothers would have stories to tell and plans to make, so perhaps they might tarry as long as two months, even three. But before the season of Shemu had passed, Shim’on and his family would return to Egypt. Though the people of Yisrael were to abide in Goshen, Shim’on might come to visit the house of Zaphenath-paneah. And he might press his case a third time; perhaps he would even try to prove he had changed. Or, because she had insulted him, he might visit with a Canaanite wife by his side.
In either case, she couldn’t face him again, but what options did she have? Unless she could convince Lady Asenath to take an extended journey to Heliopolis, Mandisa had no place to go. But Lady Asenath had been complaining of discomfort for weeks, and was in no condition to travel.
A hoarse call from the balcony interrupted her musings. “Mandisa!” Tizara shrieked, her face ashen under the bright sunlight. “Come quickly! And bring Ani! The time of travail has begun!”
The baby would not come. Through hours of intense labor that wracked Asenath’s frail body, the child refused to be born. Ani sent for priestesses of the goddess Taweret, but while they twirled and whirled daggers at invisible spirits, Asenath grew pale and weak upon her couch. A pool of sour, stinking blood covered the bed linens like a crimson mantle, and though Mandisa had tried to change the soiled cloths, Asenath screamed and wept whenever anyone attempted to move her.
Zaphenath-paneah, who had been summoned from Pharaoh’s house as soon as it became apparent that his wife was in dang
er, insisted upon remaining at her side. He sat at the head of the narrow birthing cot, his hand grasping Asenath’s, his lips at her ear.
As night fell, amid the shrieking and wailing of the priestesses, Mandisa heard the midwife exclaim, “Thank your gods, my lady, you have a son!” Zaphenath-paneah’s face went white at the words, and only then did Mandisa understand the full import of the midwife’s statement. If the baby had not yet come forth and the midwife could see the male part of the child, the birth was breech.
“My mother,” Zaphenath-paneah said, turning to Mandisa, “died when Binyamin was born this backward way.”
“Do not be anxious, my lord.” Mandisa gave him a smile more confident than she felt. “Asenath is in God’s hands.”
“Is she?”
Asenath’s labor continued into the night. By sunrise on the second day, the exhausted priestesses of Taweret abandoned the vizier’s wife to her fate. The frustrated and tired midwife grew ruthless, attempting even to force her hand into the birth canal to turn the child. But the pressure and pain caused Asenath to faint, and the cord of life, visible through the birth opening, ceased to pulse.
When it became apparent that the baby had died, Zaphenath-paneah cradled his wife’s head and shoulders in his arms and whispered words of comfort and encouragement.
By sunrise on the third day, everyone in the house knew the mistress stood on the threshold of the Otherworld. Weeping and silent, Tizara brought Efrayim and Menashe to say their farewells; they embraced their mother and kissed her on the cheek before Tizara led them away. Tarik, Halima and a host of other servants paraded through the chamber and promised to do their best to prepare Asenath for her eternal life, but she had already closed her eyes and seemed not to hear their frantic assurances.
