by Angela Hunt
Shim’on followed Tarik and Ani as they walked toward the kitchens. “Another royal queen.”
Ani turned a somber face toward Shim’on. “I suppose you heard about Lady Asenath.”
Shim’on nodded. “The vizier told us when he introduced his boys to my father. I was sorry to hear the news.”
The steward’s mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “Things are much changed now, of course. Tizara tends to the young masters when they are not with their father.”
“I thought Mandisa would care for the boys,” Shim’on remarked, looking around. “She has a fondness for the children.”
Tarik halted on the pathway. “You haven’t heard?”
Shim’on’s stomach dropped like a hanged man. “What?”
The captain folded his arms. “Mandisa and Adom left about three weeks after the mistress died. A short time after that, an Egyptian called Idogbe came here, searching for her. The master dismissed him at once, but he seemed quite intent on finding Mandisa.”
“Not that he wanted her, for the master ruled she was not his legal wife,” Ani added. “The man wanted Adom. He said he left her because he thought Mandisa would bear a girl, but when he came back and discovered that she’d borne a son…”
Ani’s voice trailed away, but he did not need to explain. Shim’on knew all too well that sons were valued far above daughters. Part of Yaakov’s prestige in Canaan lay in the simple fact that he had produced twelve sons.
Shim’on took a deep breath. “Where did Mandisa go?”
“No one knows,” Tarik answered. “But I don’t think she wanted to remain in Thebes. She has no family here.”
“For some reason, I think she was especially afraid of meeting you again,” Ani said. His bright eyes narrowed into speculative slits. “Why would she fear you, Shim’on, son of Yaakov?”
Shim’on felt limp with weariness. “Why wouldn’t she fear a Destroyer?”
Zaphenath-paneah invited Shim’on to dinner that evening, and the former prisoner was pleased to discover that the meal would be served in the vizier’s chamber. He went speechless with surprise, however, when he heard Yosef tell Tarik to place a chair for Tizara between himself and Shim’on.
“You expect me to share my meat with a harlot?” Shim’on asked when Tarik had left the room. “Really, Yosef, has the girl’s beauty addled your brain?”
“You once attempted to run away with Tizara,” Yosef answered, regarding his older brother. “Why won’t you eat with her? What has changed?”
Shim’on shrugged. “Things were different then. I was a captive and she a slave. And we were both allied against you.”
Yosef smiled, but his expression held only a ghost of its former warmth. “Now you are brother to the vizier of all Egypt,” he said, sinking into his chair. “And now you are too important to eat beside a woman with a troubled past.”
“I’m not speaking of her past—I’m speaking of what she is! You can’t be blind, Yosef, for all that you pretend to be.”
“I see far more than you think I do, Shim’on. And in Tizara I see a young woman in need of friends and family.”
“But she has played the harlot, and probably would not hesitate to do so again if given the chance.”
“Is your own past so pure?”
Shim’on winced, surprised that the words stung. Sometimes he forgot that Yosef knew everything about Shekhem, about Dina’s baby and, of course, about Dotan.
“Tizara will sit between us and you will not be unkind,” the vizier continued, his voice regal. “You will be on your best behavior, whatever that may be. Do not forget that you are in my house, Shim’on. Though I am your brother, by the hand of God Almighty I am also lord of Egypt. I love you, but I will discipline you if you insult the others of my household.”
Irked by Yosef’s words and his aloof manner, Shim’on settled back in his chair, determined to endure the evening and retire as soon as possible. Yosef would always be a mystery, an enigma; sometimes he made no more sense than the mad, inexplicable images of dreams. Why was he so intent upon cultivating a relationship with the woman of shame? For a moment Shim’on considered the possibility that Yosef thought to marry the girl, but surely the noble Zaphenath-paneah would never take a tainted woman for his bride!
The doors swung open; two guards escorted Tizara and the boys into the room. Efrayim and Menashe fell on their faces before the vizier, then, at a word from their father, they leaped up and scampered to his side. After greeting each of his sons with an embrace and a quick kiss, Yosef welcomed their nursemaid.
Shim’on found himself staring as if he’d never seen a woman before. If such a thing were possible, he would have sworn some other soul had come to inhabit Tizara’s body as she slept. For though the willowy form every man in the villa desired had not altered, the spirit within the woman had completely changed.
With her eyes demurely downcast, Tizara crossed to the empty chair between the two men and seated herself. The beauty that had once tempted Shim’on now fascinated him. An aura of untouchable glory surrounded her and drew him like honey draws a fly.
“Tizara?” he asked, scarcely able to believe this woman would know him.
“Shim’on!” Her eyes lit with the excitement of recognition when she looked up; her smile was sweet and serene. “It is good to see you again. Haven’t the boys grown?”
“Yes, they have,” he murmured, distracted by her nearness. “Many things have changed within this house.”
She offered him another shy smile. “Indeed they have.”
By the time the last dish had been taken away, Shim’on had convinced himself that Yosef intended him to marry Tizara. He waited until the former slave girl had taken the boys to bed, then he turned on his younger brother in indignation.
“I know what you are planning,” he said. “Tizara is not good enough for you, but you would have no problem marrying her to me. She is from Shekhem, too, which makes things nice, doesn’t it? Do you think you can relieve my guilt by bringing me a bride from that cursed place? You can fix some things, Yosef, but a Canaanite woman will not erase the wrongs of my past.”
Yosef’s mouth quirked with humor. “Why would I want to marry you to Tizara? Good nursemaids are difficult to find.”
“Then why did you invite her to eat with us? Women do not eat with men, especially in Egyptian households.”
“Who says families may not eat together?”
“Servants are not family members. You did not invite Tarik to eat with us, or Ani, and they are closer servants than your children’s maid.”
“Tizara is family.”
Shim’on blinked. What had Yosef done? Adopted the girl? Betrothed her to one of his sons? The Egyptians were odd; he should not be surprised by anything Yosef might do as Zaphenath-paneah.
Yosef stood and moved toward the balcony stairs. “Come with me, Shim’on.”
Shim’on followed, his brain whirling.
Yosef thrust his hands behind his back as he led Shim’on toward the section of balcony that overlooked the garden. “Do you believe El Shaddai keeps His hand on us always?”
Shim’on hesitated. Only a few weeks ago he would have answered no. But since that time, the hand of God had moved through his life like a whirlwind, uprooting old hates and sorrows.
“I do.”
“Then look there.” Yosef pointed to the garden below. “And tell me what you see.”
Shim’on could see nothing, then Tizara moved into a glow of torchlight at the edge of the reflecting pool. Slender, supple and lissome, she swayed to the music of the night, dancing with shadows thrown by the moon. The hard and brittle brightness of her manner had completely fallen away; she looked like a playful young girl.
“I see,” Shim’on muttered, a note of impatience in his voice, “a harlot who has been spoiled by her master.”
“Admit the truth, you see a different woman,” Yosef answered, leaning on the railing. He gave Shim’on an enigmatic smile. “Forgiveness
and mercy change lives. A harlot entices men away from the love of God, and Tizara has enticed no one in this house. But we have other harlots in our lives, other gods we choose to serve.”
Shim’on felt everything go silent within him.
“Your anger, Shim’on, was a harlot,” Yosef went on, watching the girl. “And your guilt, and your rage. And though I can tell you have changed since you were held here—”
Shim’on tightened his grip on the stone railing. “I have.”
“Even still, anger and guilt have risen within you because Mandisa is gone.”
Shim’on flinched, resenting Yosef’s intuition. How could a man know so much without being told?
Yosef read the question in Shim’on’s eyes. “I can see, Shim’on,” he said, without even a hint of boastfulness. “I know that you love Mandisa. And she loved you so much that she left this place rather than face you again.”
Shim’on caught his breath as a deep, unexpected pain smote his breast.
“Go after her,” Yosef urged, his dark eyes piercing the distance between them. “Go quickly, before it is too late.”
Something—humility?—kept Shim’on from arguing. “I’ll go now,” he said, turning from the rail.
“Wait. There is one more thing. Do you remember what Dina looked like when we were young?”
Shim’on turned and nodded, his throat too clotted with emotion to risk speaking. He did not want to think about Dina now. Though she had forgiven him, thinking of what he’d done to her still filled him with a deep sense of shame.
But at the mention of her name, memories ruffled through his mind like wind on water: Dina dancing by the oasis at Hebron, Dina giggling as he chased her through the camp, just as Tizara laughed in the sheer beauty of a warm and lovely night.…
His heart went into sudden shock. The dancing girl in the garden was the image of Dina, not as she looked now, but as she had looked twenty years ago. Tizara’s features were more refined, as if an artist’s hand had smoothed out imperfections, but he could not deny the resemblance.
He heard his voice, stifled and unnatural. “Remarkable. Tizara looks much like Dina.”
His words seemed to hang in the evening air. Yosef turned toward him, smiling as if Shim’on were a small child.
“Yes.” Yosef spoke in an odd, yet gentle tone. “She ought to look like our sister…because Tizara is Dina’s daughter.”
Shim’on staggered toward the balustrade in hypnotized horror. “It can’t be true.” He stared again at the girl, his heart racing and his fingers fluttering with fear. “The baby died. I left it alone. No one lived within miles of that burial cave.”
“God sent someone,” Yosef answered, “just as He sent someone to sustain Hagar in the wilderness. Who are we to question His ways?”
The girl continued to dance beneath the moon, completely unaware of the men watching from above. “How do you know this?” Shim’on whispered, still reeling in disbelief.
“I suspected something when the Spirit of God spoke to my heart and urged me to buy her,” Yosef said, leaning his elbows on the balcony railing. “And she looked so much like the young Dina I remembered. Even so, I would never have been sure, but I heard Mandisa tell Halima that Tizara had an unusual birthmark on her scalp. Apparently she discovered it while washing Tizara’s hair.”
Shim’on shook his head. “The baby had no birthmark.”
“It did. But you never looked at the child, Shim’on. I was playing in Dina’s tent the day you took it away. I saw you leave with the baby held close to your breast.” His voice trembled slightly in the darkness. “I don’t think you were able to look.”
Shim’on tore his gaze from the girl and turned to hide the tight place of anxiety in his heart. “Why did you not tell me sooner?”
A faint note of sadness tinged Yosef’s voice. “I wasn’t certain you—and the others—were ready to hear.”
We weren’t . Like a drowning man, Shim’on held tight to the balustrade as a tumble of confused thoughts and feelings assaulted his spirit. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, clinging to the balcony railing like a frightened cat, but after a while he heard the soft sounds of Yosef’s footsteps on the stairs and eventually Tizara’s graceful form melted into the veiling darkness.
The child had not died.
He stared into the moonlit garden, his heart pounding as the memory of his own words mocked him: A Canaanite woman will not erase the wrongs of my past.
But a Canaanite woman had done just that. The baby lived; by the grace of God his sin had been obliterated.
His skin burned with the memory of the hot sand on his hands at the family tomb, the emptiness of the awful moments when he had frantically searched for proof of his unspeakable crime. His frenetic digging had produced no bones, no trace of a human body, because the baby who had seared his soul with guilt lived and breathed and danced.…
Shim’on thumbed an unmanly tear from his eye. Dina had believed. She had known Yosef and Tizara still lived. Though she couldn’t see or touch the objects of her faith, she believed. She knew.
He lifted his eyes to the night where the stars blazed like gems upon a velvet sky.
You can restore that which was lost.
The intensity of the inner voice lifted the hairs on Shim’on’s arms.
You took the child away; you can take her back to her mother.
A cry of mingled relief and surprise broke from his lips. Yosef had been restored to Yaakov; Tizara would be returned to Dina. How gracious, how good, was God Shaddai.
As soon as he found Mandisa and Adom, he would take Tizara home.
Chapter Forty-Two
S him’on scarcely knew what drove him, but Yosef’s revelation lit a fire in his soul, a fevered energy that would not be quenched until he had found Mandisa and pressed his suit with her one final time. He hurried from the balcony and stalked purposefully toward the stableyard. Tarik would give him a horse, perhaps even a chariot.
“Tarik!” Shim’on pounded on the door of the captain’s quarters. In an instant the door swung open and Tarik spilled out of the chamber. “What is it?” he barked, his hands busy tying his sword belt at his waist.
Apparently Shim’on had roused him from slumber, for the guard’s eyes were heavy and he had not taken the time to don his wig. “Be at peace, Tarik,” Shim’on said, trying to keep the impatience from his voice. “But I need a horse. Your master will give permission, you have but to ask him.”
Tarik frowned. “By the crud in Sebek’s teeth, Shim’on, whatever do you want with a horse?”
“I’m going to find Mandisa.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. So please, allow one of the stable boys to saddle a horse for me.”
Tarik rolled his eyes, but moved toward the stable. “You’ll need a chariot. No self-respecting Egyptian rides astride. My best chariot drivers have been dismissed for the day, but perhaps I can find someone willing to go with you.”
“I’ll go alone.”
The captain gave Shim’on a look of frustrated disbelief. “You are a madman, and you’re not accustomed to handling a chariot. You’ll overturn it on the first corner.”
“Then forget the cursed chariot and give me a horse! I’m not an Egyptian, and I don’t care what people say when they see me astride one of the beasts!”
“Well.” Tarik’s face closed in a prim and forbidding expression as he crossed his arms. “I suppose the vizier’s brother must know best. Tell Chuma the stable boy to put a bridle on the black stallion.”
“Good.” Shim’on took two steps before second thought restrained him. “Thank you, Tarik,” he said, turning. “And may I give you one bit of advice?”
Tarik leaned against the wall. “I suppose you will whether or not I want to hear it.”
“You’re right.” Shim’on lifted a warning finger. “The kitchen slave Halima loves you, everyone can see it. Marry her, my friend, before her hope is gone. Or you will wake up one day a lo
nelier man than I.”
As Tarik sputtered in confusion, Shim’on turned and jogged toward the stable.
Idogbe slept fitfully, unwilling to lose himself in deep sleep lest he miss the opportunity to intercept Mandisa. A half hour before sunrise, as the eastern sky began to glow, he crept from his hiding place and peered through the brush. The woman and the boy still slept, curled together like a mother lion and her cub.
Idogbe peered at his son’s face and felt pleasant surprise. The boy’s single lock of hair emphasized the pale clarity of his complexion, and in his clear-cut features Idogbe could see the beginnings of genuine masculine beauty. Undoubtedly the lad would prove to be a cut above the ordinary runny-nosed brats who dwelt like river rats along the Nile. Yes, this child would be a fine oblation to Sebek. The Prince of Destroyer Gods, the One Who Conquers Life and Death would bestow many favors upon Idogbe for surrendering his son to the priests.
“O Sebek, the Crocodile, hail to thee, thou Crocodile of the Land of the West and the sweet river!” he chanted under his breath, his gaze fastened to the boy. “I am thy kinsman, Sebek! As the sun shall rise, as the disk shall shine, as the services shall be performed in thy temple, so shall this child be better than he was, born of the woman Mandisa, born of Idogbe, the Egyptian! Aid my cause, Sebek, for if thou will not hear my words, I will crush a nest full of thy eggs in the Forecourt of Crocodilopolis! Then indeed shall thou come forth from the temple to aid me, to gather thy son, born of the woman Mandisa, born to thee, O mighty Sebek, god of my strength!”
As if he had sensed his father’s prayer, the child stirred and lifted his head. Idogbe ducked behind a stand of papyrus, his heart beating thickly. The time was near. When the child left his mother’s side, Idogbe would approach and ask for directions to the nearest temple, a friendly question that would not arouse suspicion. Perhaps he would ask the boy to lead him for a short distance, and as soon as they were beyond the range of Mandisa’s hearing, Idogbe would restrain the boy’s arms and force him into the waiting skiff. Once the child understood the great honor Idogbe intended for him, he would happily accept it.
