Journey

by Angela Hunt

  “Thank you.” Jendayi released Kesi’s arm and held out her hand, waiting for the staff she used to guide her steps while in the slave quarters. Within a moment Kesi had slipped the smooth stick into Jendayi’s palm and moved away, probably anxious to be rid of her dependent mistress. Tapping her way through the room, Jendayi counted her way past three beds, then sank to the fourth, carefully placing the staff beneath the bed frame. Once she was certain no one would trip over it, she curled on her side and placed her hand under her cheek.

  But she could not sleep, for the dream might come again. Would she ever be able to silence Anubis’s mournful howl? Could her cold heart find love? Her mother had abandoned her soon after it became apparent that Jendayi’s weak eyes had succumbed to the disease that robbed her of sight. She had no real memories of her mother, nor of the slave market where she had been abandoned. In her childhood she had been fed, bathed and tutored in various aspects of servanthood until her gift for music was discovered. But had she ever been loved?

  The other women slaves treated her with gentle concern, but no real affection. Akil cared for her, she supposed, but he was more a teacher than a father, more her guardian than a parent. Jendayi suspected that she was the most talented musician in the orchestra, but Akil said she had done nothing to deserve her extraordinary ability. The gods had gifted her, he said, and they could easily rescind their gifts—hadn’t they stolen her sight?

  Her life seemed as bleak and formless as the darkness, yet occasionally a magic moment disturbed the monotony. Years ago in the vizier’s house, one dull afternoon had fired into unexpected vitality when a boy, smelling of sweat and youth, had pressed his lips to hers and pronounced her beautiful. Akil had promptly chased the boy away, scolding him as if he were a naughty puppy, but Jendayi had been profoundly affected by the experience. Human flesh on her lips—the same lips that gave sound to her words and brought her food and drink. Anubis was Lord of the Lips, for lips were the doorway to life, and this boy had placed his on hers! Did he love her? Surely he did, or he would not have kissed her.

  From that day forward she had listened for the boy’s voice and waited for his scent. She learned that he was Efrayim, the second son of the vizier, a refreshingly candid and openhearted lad. When the orchestra moved to Pharaoh’s palace she thought her dreams of him would come to nothing, but tonight she had heard his name again! He had been a guest in the queen’s chamber; he had undoubtedly heard her play.

  Just knowing that he listened had thrilled her so much her hands trembled over the strings of her beloved harp. Akil must have seen her discomfiture, for he had not asked her to play alone.

  Before she left the queen’s chamber she had heard the visitors promise to return to Malkata. So Efrayim would hear her play again. And if her music touched his heart, perhaps he would remember his kiss and feel kindness for her. And if she was virtuous and made the proper offerings to the gods, Efrayim might dare to approach Pharaoh and procure her as a slave for his own house. She could be his servant, perhaps even his concubine. Then, if the gods were willing, she would finally experience love, tenderness and honest emotion. Then the gods could not say she had loved nothing; they could not condemn her to eternal death.

  The next time Efrayim heard her play, she would be ready. She would compose a song like no other, one that would expose all the hidden feelings in her heart. She would bare her soul before his, and see if he possessed courage enough to hear everything she wanted to say.

  MENASHE

  And Yosef went up to bury his father: and with him went up all the servants of Pharaoh, the elders of his house, and all the elders of the land of Egypt,

  And all the house of Yosef, and his brethren, and his father’s house: only their little ones, and their flocks, and their herds, they left in the land of Goshen.

  And there went up with him both chariots and horsemen: and it was a very great company.

  Genesis 50:7–9

  Chapter Six

  During the first month of the Emergence, when the days of mourning for Yisrael had passed, Pharaoh Amenhotep III summoned the governors of all the nomes of Egypt to Thebes. These nomarchs, along with a great host of servants, priests, elders and other important officials, gathered at the royal palace where they were designated as Pharaoh’s representatives on the journey to Canaan. Pharaoh himself elected to remain behind at Malkata, citing his persistent toothache and fever as an excuse not to travel.

  But even though the king preferred to remain behind, he made certain Zaphenath-paneah would not feel slighted for a lack of royal attention. Tiy urged Amenhotep to bestow great honors on Yisrael for the vizier’s sake, and every tribute that could be dreamed of had been awarded. The finest physicians had embalmed Yisrael’s mortal remains, the most sacred stone had been used to fashion the canopic jars that held the old man’s precious inner organs. Pharaoh himself had approved the design of the carved chest that would house the jars. Inscriptions and relief-work adorned the chest’s exterior; rich blue pigment filled the hollows of the carving. Fashioned of purest alabaster, at its four corners the chest featured raised figures of the goddesses Isis, Nephthys, Neith and Selkis, their wings extended to enclose and protect the chest’s priceless contents.

  Surely even Zaphenath-paneah’s invisible and almighty god must have approved Pharaoh’s labor, for the day of Yisrael’s departure from Thebes dawned in a spectacular burst of blue. From his private balcony Amenhotep could see the Nile rippling as bright as new silver in the sun, and a cooling zephyr rushed up from the receding river. He hummed quietly to himself. It would be a good day. Zaphenath-paneah would be pleased, Tiy would be content with Amenhotep’s efforts, and the soul of the Hebrew patriarch would rest secure in the Other World.

  Behind the king, one of the priests who tended him every morning coughed discreetly. Amenhotep turned from the river view, ready to begin his toilette.

  Thebes had never seen such a funeral procession. Not even Egypt’s pharaohs, who rode in grand style from the valley temples to their vast mortuary complexes on the Nile’s western bank, would undertake so long a final journey. Yisrael would leave Thebes in full splendor, travel to Goshen to gather his children, and then depart for Canaan. On the journey the contingent of mourners would travel through often-hostile lands populated by fierce peoples. Though Egypt had formally subjugated the kingdoms from the Mediterranean to the Euphrates as far north as Syria, to guard against any possible aggression Pharaoh had ordered two squadrons of charioteers and an elite corps of shock troops to accompany the vizier.

  The members of the procession had been assembling in Thebes since morning, and Amenhotep had expressly commanded that they move slowly past Malkata so he and his family might smile on them with divine favor. A cloud of dust now stirred along the riverbank to the south, and the king settled back in his chair, pleased that his wishes had been carried out. A pair of slaves knelt at his side, ready to do his bidding; a pair of guards lingered in the doorway behind him. His daughters Sitamun, Ast and Hentmerheb, who usually lived in Thebes with their mother, sat at his right hand. Tiy, for some inexplicable reason, had demurred last night when he asked her to remain at Malkata. She would prefer to oversee the procession at Thebes, she told him; she would extend Pharaoh’s farewells as Zaphenath-paneah departed from the docks.

  He glanced at Sitamun, whose eyes betrayed her feelings. The night before she had dared to suggest that she might join the crown prince on the journey with the Hebrews to Canaan. Amenhotep had stalled his answer, and later Tiy explained their eldest daughter’s sudden interest in the journey. “She fancies herself in love with the vizier’s handsome younger son,” Tiy said, her pointed face creasing into a sudden smile. “At our banquet, he captured her heart. He is quite charming.”

  “Should I let her go?” Amenhotep asked, searching his own feelings on the matter. His deep fondness for Zaphenath-paneah sprang from nostalgia for his childhood and his mother’s high regard for the man, but he had long ago learned the folly
of consistently showing more favor to one counselor than the others. Jealousy hissed like a serpent through the royal throne room, and Amenhotep had felt the effects of its sharp bite. The priests of Amon-Re, who held altogether too much power in their hands, had grown more resentful of Zaphenath-paneah’s success as the years passed. Amenhotep heard reports—though he was reluctant to investigate should such a shameful thing prove true—that even the history of Egypt had been rewritten. The priests of Thebes, unable to believe that an invisible and unknown god had saved Egypt, recorded that Amon-Re, “Greatest of Heaven, Eldest of Earth,” saved the Black Land from famine during the early years of Amenhotep’s reign. As the people who lived through the Great Famine passed into the Other World, the truth would gradually disappear like the ruins of the most ancient Egyptians, buried by yet another layer of shifting sand.

  Sitamun sighed, interrupting his thoughts, and Amenhotep congratulated himself for having enough insight to listen to his wife. Tiy suggested that Sitamun remain behind, and now he saw the wisdom in her suggestion. If Sitamun journeyed to Canaan with the Hebrews, the priests would see significant and dire omens in the swirling waters of their divining cups; they would read all sorts of dark meanings in Pharaoh’s intention. Even now they grumbled about the expense of this great show of favor for the Hebrew patriarch.

  The usual assortment of fishing boats and papyrus skiffs on the waters vanished like grain before the scythe as the royal chariots approached, two lines in perfect sync on the banks of the swollen river. The levees had been reinforced for the chariots’ passage, for the muddy soil could not normally withstand the weight of so large a procession. As the gold-plated vehicles gleamed in the afternoon sun, the charioteers turned their faces toward the pink-washed palace. Pharaoh sat forward and studied them intently.

  Between the chariots, on the river, floated a host of stately barges, each flying the standard of the nomarch aboard. The Egyptian officials preferred traveling by boat than by land, and Pharaoh lifted his chin in case any of his governors were sharp-eyed enough to catch a glimpse of his divine presence on the balcony.

  After the nomarchs came the royal barges that carried members of Pharaoh’s own household: the crown prince, nearly half of Pharaoh’s counselors, priests from the leading temples of Thebes and a company of scribes to record the wonders of the journey. At one point Amenhotep had considered sending Queen Tiy with them, then decided against it. A journey through the wilderness was no pleasure trip. The heat, grumbling camels and frequent sandstorms combined with the inconveniences of uncivilized life to make the journey wearisome from inception to end. Tiy would not find the wilderness to her liking, and Amenhotep would not be able to forget her displeasure if he insisted she go.

  When other boats moved into view, Amenhotep leaned forward on his elbows. He recognized a half-dozen barges and feluccas belonging to the vizier; these were undoubtedly carrying trusted members of Zaphenath-paneah’s household: his steward, the captain of his guard and other indispensable servants and counselors. Across from these boats, on the eastern riverbank, marched a corps of Nubian drummers who marched in the rhythm of a steady, morose dirge.

  “Look, Father, at the dancers,” Ast said, pointing. The eager child scooted forward. “What story are they telling?”

  “I don’t know, my dear.” Amenhotep craned his neck for a better view. A host of dancers postured and posed on the wide deck of an oncoming ship, and with a start of surprise Pharaoh realized that Zaphenath-paneah had employed a group of mimes. In order for the illiterate and uninformed common folk who watched from the riverbanks to understand the significance of the procession, the dancers were paid to pantomime the highlights of Yisrael’s life. Pharaoh rubbed his chin as a bearded mime, undoubtedly intended to represent Yisrael, beat his breast as another was led away in chains.

  Pharaoh pressed his hand to his cheek. “They are telling the story of how Zaphenath-paneah was sold into slavery,” he explained. “The man in the long robe is Yisrael, the vizier’s father.”

  His daughter gaped at him. “Who would sell our vizier?”

  “No one today, dear one. But long ago, when our vizier was a boy, only his father and his god recognized the seeds of greatness in him. His brothers, you see, were jealous.”

  Amenhotep regarded the floating drama with somber curiosity. Strange that he, a man without equal, should know how the brothers felt. For though he had always considered Zaphenath-paneah a father, on occasions he had felt the bitter sting of envy when comparing himself to his vizier.

  Shortly after Amenhotep’s ascension to the throne, the priests had taught him that Amon-Re consulted with the other gods to see who should bear his child. Thoth had suggested Tuya, the wife of Pharaoh. And so Amon-Re assumed the form of Tuthmosis IV and visited Tuya in the night; therefore Amenhotep was conceived as the son of a god.

  Why, then, did Zaphenath-paneah possess more godlike qualities than Pharaoh himself? Amenhotep was all too aware of his own shortcomings. His wife was a more able diplomat and manager than he, and Zaphenath-paneah possessed wisdom far above any displayed by the king’s counselors, priests or astrologers. And though no counselor, slave or priest would dare to lift a voice against the divine king, Amenhotep had seen countless pairs of eyes glaze over when he offered his opinions. But those same eyes, even Tiy’s, blazed with fiery interest when Zaphenath-paneah spoke.

  Giving himself a stern mental shake, Pharaoh directed his attention back to the funeral procession. The professional mourners were advancing now. Clothed in the blue-gray color of sorrow, their faces daubed with dust and mud, they beat their breasts and trudged with heavy steps along the riverbanks, their wails reaching even to the king’s balcony. Between them, on flower-strewn boats, other servants of the vizier stood guard over baskets of food and supplies for the journey, a rich testimony to Yisrael’s worth.

  He cast a quick glance at Sitamun. The girl had been pouting all morning, undoubtedly wanting to join her brother on the journey, but this glorious spectacle would lift her out of her black mood. “Look, daughter—the mortuary boat.”

  The death boat, which Zaphenath-paneah had designed especially for Yisrael, cut through the water as smoothly as a knife, guided only by the pair of slaves who stood at the bow and steered the craft with slender oars. The tall mast of the vessel moved into view, and Amenhotep smiled, impressed with the vizier’s efforts. The sides of the boat had been painted in bright reds, yellows and black; images spelled out texts from the Chapters of Coming Forth by Day. In the center of the boat’s deck, adjacent to the single mast, a shrine cabin had been adorned with lotus blossoms and palm branches, symbols of the resurrection. Several mourners rode atop the cabin, pulling at their hair while they wailed, and a host of ritual priests stood at the stern of the vessel: the sem priest who wore his traditional white linen robe and leopard skin, and the embalmers who had prepared the body for its eternal rest. They had been entrusted with guarding and overseeing the physical remains until the point of safe interment in the tomb.

  Through a series of windows in the shrine cabin Amenhotep caught a glimpse of the dull gleam of green stone, and knew he was seeing the granite sarcophagus especially commissioned to guard Yisrael’s mummy. The sarcophagus alone had cost Pharaoh’s treasury over three hundred deben weight of silver, but such a tribute seemed small in light of the debt Egypt owed Zaphenath-paneah.

  Immediately behind the mortuary boat floated the elegant bark carrying the vizier and his sons. Sitamun leaned over the balcony railing, probably trying to catch a glimpse of Efrayim, and Amenhotep felt himself stiffen, half-convinced Zaphenath-paneah would know whether or not he was paying proper attention. The vizier always seemed to know what Amenhotep was thinking, another unnatural ability for which Pharaoh had no explanation and the vizier had no rival.

  Sitamun sighed and sank back in her chair. No one moved on the deck of the vizier’s boat, and Amenhotep guessed that the vizier and his sons had entered the small cabin to be alone with their
feelings. A man ought to be able to mourn in private. Some emotions were not meant for public display. Women, good food and gentle music could do much to relieve the heaviness of a man’s wounded heart—

  Music. Where were the musicians?

  A few other boats followed the vizier’s, but none of these flew the royal standard. Undoubtedly they carried slaves and servants who would tend to the officials on the arduous journey.

  Amenhotep lowered his gaze to one of the slaves who waited like a statue at his side. “Akil and his orchestra are supposed to be en route with the vizier. Send guards at once, and make sure the musician has departed.”

  The slave hastened away, as swiftly as a cat.

  Satisfied, Amenhotep stood and clasped his hands behind him. As the caravan melted into the northern horizon he gave his vizier a curt nod of farewell. He had done his part to honor Yisrael. Yisrael’s god should continue to honor him.

  Irritated by the close confines of the cabin, Menashe pressed his lips together. Their father sat with his legs crossed and his back to the wall, not moving. His eyes were closed either in contemplation or weariness, for the planning of this procession had consumed his energies for many days. Efrayim, on the other hand, had done nothing to warrant special treatment, yet he lounged on a small cot, his head propped on his hand, his face spread into a smile as he attacked a bowl of figs. What in the world could he be so happy about?

  “Stop smacking.” Menashe gave his brother a black look. “You’ve been gobbling on those things for an hour, and my stomach is beginning to churn. Your manners are deplorable, and what if someone sees you? This is a funeral, not one of your festival parties.”