Journey

by Angela Hunt

  “The men wear full tunics? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” the maid answered. “Perhaps they do not feel the heat like we do. Most of them wear loosely woven tunics, belted at the waist. Of course, our vizier wears a similar tunic, for his ceremonial robe is long and flowing—”

  “What do the vizier’s sons wear?” Jendayi interrupted, trying to curb the curiosity in her voice. “Can you see them? Are they both present—the younger as well as the older?”

  The basket creaked again. “My sly mistress,” Kesi said, a hint of laughter in her voice, “if you wanted to know about the vizier’s sons, why didn’t you come right out and ask? I am your friend, Jendayi, your secrets are safe with me.”

  “I don’t have any secrets,” Jendayi said, her face burning. And I don’t want any friends. She pressed her hands to her cheeks lest Kesi peer over the camel’s hump and see the flush on her skin. “I am merely curious about the young men who used to be my masters.”

  “Don’t be coy, you can tell me the truth,” Kesi insisted, her voice closer now. “Which son do you like, the older or the younger? I saw them the other day at the queen’s banquet. They are both handsome.”

  Jendayi paused, tempted to speak her heart. But Kesi might not understand. She would think her mistress possessed of some juvenile notion of romance when all Jendayi wanted was to know that someone loved her. Her heart slept, but if someone cared enough to wake it, Jendayi would be able to stand in the Hall of the Two Truths and place a flesh-and-blood heart into Anubis’s scale.

  Perhaps Kesi could be of use after all. “I like the younger one,” Jendayi whispered, taking pains to keep her voice steady. “When I lived in the vizier’s palace, I once went to the garden to practice.” She lifted her face sharply toward the younger girl. “Kesi, I will not tell you more unless you promise never to speak of this! If you are loyal at all, you will keep this secret.”

  “My lips will be silent,” Kesi promised. “What happened in the garden?”

  Jendayi took a deep breath. “I was very young. But I was sitting in the vizier’s pavilion, playing my harp. The sun shone warm on my face, and in those days I could still see a faint glow of its light. I heard only the wind and the warbling of some waterbirds, but then a shadow passed over my eyes and I knew someone stood in front of me.”

  “Who?”

  “He did not tell me his name. But he spoke, and said my song was beautiful, and that I was beautiful, too. And before I could beg his forgiveness for making music without permission, I felt his lips touch mine.”

  Kesi gasped. “He kissed you?”

  Jendayi nodded, forgetting that the maid could not see into her basket. It was enough that Kesi understood the story’s significance. No kiss between unrelated persons was ever given lightly. No man kissed a woman in public unless he was either drunk or they were betrothed. A drunkard who kissed a woman would undoubtedly suffer the rage of her husband or father, while a man who publicly kissed his betrothed would usually find himself the beneficiary of a quick wedding. Masters rarely even spoke directly to their slaves, so for a young lord to kiss a slave girl…

  “Did he say nothing else?” Kesi asked.

  “No.” Jendayi sighed and propped her head on her bent knees. “Akil came into the garden and yelled as if he were the master and the vizier’s son a slave. The boy left me alone and never spoke to me again.” She made a face, for in the retelling the old story seemed more fiction than fact. “I don’t know what he intended, but I am sure he must have loved me in that moment. Why else would he kiss me?”

  “Noblemen do not marry their slaves,” Kesi murmured, her voice a doubting drawl. “Never. If a nobleman looks with favor on a slave, he might make her his concubine. Men marry for position, power and politics, but not pleasure. You should thank the gods that Akil came into the garden when he did. If the boy had remained alone with you—”

  “Zaphenath-paneah and his sons are virtuous. They would not cruelly use me.” Jendayi’s heavy eyelids closed in the heat. “I did not think the vizier’s son would harm me. In the following days, I feared only his…indifference.”

  Her words drifted away, for not even in the privacy of this woven basket did she dare speak all the thoughts that filled her mind. Her mother had shown her indifference; she had cast Jendayi aside as soon as it became apparent that the girl’s eyes were weakening. If Jendayi had a father, she did not know him. She had not known the affection of brothers or sisters, cousins, aunts or uncles. Akil fulfilled a father’s role in her life, yet he saw her as a responsibility. As long as she played well, Pharaoh called for Akil, and Akil was pleased with Jendayi. But if she did not play up to the level of her master’s expectation, or if for some reason Pharaoh did not call for Akil, the chironomist grew surly and uncommunicative. He would cast fierce taunts and threats at Jendayi, his words lacerating her heart. Only another invitation from the king would restore Akil’s good humor.

  No, Akil did not love her. He guarded her as a possession; he taught and disciplined her only to safeguard his place in the light of Pharaoh’s divine approval.

  “A secret kiss—what a wonderful story.” Kesi clapped her hands. “Indeed, I am nearly crying! The romantic kiss given so long ago still lives in your memory! What if it lives in his, too?”

  Jendayi lifted her head. “It will only be a story unless by some miracle the son of Zaphenath-paneah gathers courage enough to speak to me. I have hoped that his feelings have not changed. If I am not too bold before the gods and if he still finds favor in me, I thought he might approach me on this journey. We are away from Pharaoh’s house. The gods could not have sent a more propitious opportunity. Unless—” she nearly choked on the word “—he has forgotten all about me.”

  “Forgotten?” Kesi’s voice rang with indignation. “How could he forget you? No, my friend, he will not. No doubt he remembers everything as clearly as you do, and he will know the time is right.”

  “But he is noble! I am a slave, and nobles do not waste their breath conversing with slaves. He would surely be more willing to speak to a palm tree or the dust beneath his feet than to me.”

  “Not the vizier’s sons,” Kesi retorted. “I’ve heard that all the vizier’s servants are treated civilly. Some say Ani the steward is revered like a lord in that house, and even the kitchen slaves are well-treated. If the vizier’s son talked to you once, he will talk to you again.”

  “Then why—” Jendayi forced the words over her insecurity “—hasn’t he spoken to me before this? Both of the vizier’s sons were at Malkata the other day. And there have been other times when he might have at least greeted me.”

  “Perhaps he is afraid to approach you.”

  “I am a slave, how could he be afraid?”

  “You are a royal slave, and you have an unequalled talent,” Kesi answered. “He may be awed to the point of silence. He may think you do not remember that day in the garden. You, mistress, must let him know. You must tell him you want to speak with him.”

  A thrill of frightened anticipation touched Jendayi’s spine. “I cannot speak to him! I had hoped to touch his heart with music. I have been working on a song—”

  “Music is a universal language, it touches all who listen in the same way…unless a listener is forewarned.” Determination flooded Kesi’s voice. “I will speak to the vizier’s son for you. Dictate what you would have me say, and I will relay your message in its fullness. Speak whatever is on your heart. If he is not willing to hear your words, he will call me a foolish slave and send me away. But if the words reach his heart, he will come to you. Out here in the desert, what could prevent him?”

  Jendayi let her head fall back to the woven wall of the basket. “What message would I give him? I would tell him that I have waited years for him to explain the kiss in the garden. I would tell him that I have listened through the palace walls in hopes of hearing news of him. In Pharaoh’s court I have listened to the vizier’s voice and imagined it to be the son’s instead.
At night, when I dream, I can still hear his quickened breath in my ear, his voice and his admission that he thought my song and my paltry form beautiful. And if he loves me, if it is possible that I could serve him instead of Pharaoh, I would like to know.”

  “I can’t possibly remember so much,” Kesi answered, a smile in her voice. “Perhaps it would be better for you to speak to him yourself.”

  A wave of sheer black fright swept through Jendayi. “I couldn’t! I am nothing. I could not even approach him!”

  Kesi laughed. “The solution is simple. I shall go to the vizier’s younger son and tell him that you wish to inquire of his well-being. He will be polite. He will say he is well. If he is as well-mannered as I’ve heard, he will ask about you. And I will reply that you would like to dedicate a song to him, in honor of the loyal service you once gave to his father the vizier.”

  Jendayi frowned, but did not interrupt.

  “And tonight,” Kesi continued, “after I have forewarned him, the men will gather around the fire as is their custom. They will call for music, and Akil will bring out the orchestra. And you will insist on playing an original song, alone.”

  “What if Akil objects? He has not been allowing me to play by myself.”

  “You have power, Jendayi, you should learn to use it. Tell Akil you must play alone or you will never play for him again. And when he gives you a moment to play by yourself, open your mouth and sing one of the ancient love songs. If the vizier’s son does not remember your time in the garden, he will think you are merely singing one of the old songs. But if the young man does remember, his heart will understand what your heart is saying! On the wings of Nut, goddess of the sky, compassion will rise from his heart and fly into yours!”

  Jendayi pressed her hand over her lips, a little stunned by Kesi’s bold plan. She could not imagine committing such an audacious act in Pharaoh’s palace, but out here in the wilderness such a plan seemed amazingly reasonable. Kesi’s idea was as safe as any course of action she might undertake. If the vizier’s son was insulted by a slave’s approach, Kesi would bear the reprimand. And Jendayi had been practicing a song for Efrayim—what better time to sing it than tonight?

  “Be it according to what you have said,” Jendayi answered. “Tonight, when we have made camp, find the younger son of Zaphenath-paneah. If he will speak with you privately, tell him the next time I am asked to play alone, I will sing and play for him. I do so in appreciation for the kind treatment I received while I lived in the vizier’s house.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Now be silent, I must practice until the fingerings are perfect.” Jendayi fumbled for the small practice harp in the basket with her. “I don’t know why I listen to you, Kesi. Akil will surely disapprove and scold me. But I must know if the vizier’s son remembers. I must know if he might be willing to take me from Pharaoh’s house.”

  As her fingers closed around the neck of her harp, the dark memory of her recurring dream passed over her like a shadow. Her cold and stony heart had clattered into Anubis’s scales on too many nights. She had glimpsed love only once in her life, but she would follow where it led her, no matter how perilous the journey.

  As the sun began to sink toward the western horizon, the caravan circled and made camp. Kesi held tight to the rim of the basket as the moving mountain of camel flesh dipped and sank onto the ground, then she helped Jendayi out of the other basket so the herdsmen could water the animals.

  “Are you still going to do it?” Jendayi whispered, clinging to Kesi’s arm as the camel clambered to his feet and shuffled away.

  “Later, after we have eaten,” Kesi said, moving toward the huddled women who clustered around Akil. “But first I will see that you are sheltered and fed.”

  Kesi left Jendayi in a hastily erected tent, brought her mistress a hunk of crusty brown bread and some dried goat’s meat from a supply wagon, then wrapped a shawl around her head in the manner of the Hebrew women. As the unloading progressed, Kesi saw that the camp had split into two nearly perfect concentric circles: Egyptians in the forefront, Hebrews at the rear. Into which camp had Zaphenath-paneah and his sons settled?

  She looked out into the darkness and spied the vizier’s white-and-gold tent rising like a phoenix at the confluence of the two groups. She dropped the covering veil and moved forward, relieved that she would not have to search among the Hebrews.

  An Egyptian slave dipped her head in greeting as Kesi approached the outer periphery of the vizier’s tent. The sides had not been unrolled; the tent remained open for all to see the vizier inside. He sat on a light wooden chair, a delicate, elegant piece of furniture that looked out of place in the midst of the wilderness.

  Kesi lingered among a group of slaves, her eyes skimming over the tent’s inhabitants. The Egyptian nomarchs had been invited to eat with the vizier; they lounged on cushions and pillows, their postures relaxed, their eyes merry with wine.

  The compact captain of the guard stood at the vizier’s side, his sharp eyes roaming over the crowd as his hand hovered near the hilt of the dagger in his belt. For an instant his eyes caught Kesi’s, and a tiny tremor of fear shook her when he lifted an eyebrow as if to say, You do not belong here. She lowered her gaze and turned, hoping to escape into the crowd, but before her guilty feet had carried her four steps, a hand caught her elbow. Another alert warrior escorted her to the muscled captain of the guard, who had moved outside the tent.

  “You wear the garb of Pharaoh’s slaves.” The captain’s eyes hardened with speculation. “Why do you take such an interest in the vizier’s dinner? Have you no work to do?”

  “I have work,” Kesi stammered, keeping her eyes downcast. “I am on my mistress’s bidding.”

  “And who is your mistress?” He dipped his head to better see her face. “I don’t recognize you.”

  “My mistress is Jendayi, Pharaoh’s harpist.”

  The guard lifted his chin as if satisfied with her answer, but a slight hesitation remained in his hawklike eyes. “What business does Pharaoh’s harpist have in the vizier’s tent?”

  Kesi clasped her arms across her chest. “My mistress used to live in the vizier’s house.”

  “Go on.”

  “She asked me to find one of the vizier’s sons. They are…friends.”

  She expected anger, but amusement flickered in the guard’s eyes. He shifted his weight and tapped his chin with one finger. “Let’s see—who did I hear discussing the little harpist just this morning? One of my young masters, as I recall, praised her beauty to the skies.”

  “You jest!” Kesi clapped her hand over her lips as soon as the words escaped her.

  “I do not make idle jokes.” The captain lowered his voice. All signs of severity vanished from his face as he stepped closer and bent to whisper in Kesi’s ear. “The vizier’s son has often confided in me of his regard for the little harpist. Only providence and propriety have kept him from declaring his feelings. I daresay the lad is bold enough to approach Pharaoh himself to beg for her release.”

  A thrill shivered through Kesi’s senses. Surely the gods had arranged this meeting. “I have a message for the young man,” she said, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I should deliver it personally, but I do not want to venture into that tent. No one knows me, and too many people would wonder what business I have there.” Her eyes met the guard’s. “Just as you did.”

  “You are wise to be discreet, for one does not speak openly of coveting one of Pharaoh’s slaves,” the captain answered, grinning. “This is a risky business, so I will give him your message myself. And you may tell your mistress that Tarik, captain of the vizier’s guard, owes her a great debt, for years ago the beauty of her music inspired me to propose marriage to my own wife, Halima. We have married, and I am very happy in love.”

  Kesi smiled in pleased surprise. “Then my mistress bids me tell your master that on account of her fond memories in Zaphenath-paneah’s house, that she will play and sing tonight for him
alone.” Her eyes flitted over the gathering in the firelit tent. “Even though she plays for the vizier’s entertainment.”

  “Then let us not keep love waiting,” the guard replied, smiling as he moved away.

  Jendayi bit her lip in concentration, forcing her fingers to fly over the strings of her harp. Akil would cut out her tongue if he knew what she planned tonight, for one did not ordinarily sing of love during a funeral procession, no matter how long and protracted the excursion might be. But Kesi had bubbled with jubilation on her return; the message had been delivered.

  More shocking than the delivery, however, was the news her maid had gathered from the captain of the vizier’s guard. “Even now, the vizier’s son thinks of you!” Kesi crowed, unsuccessfully struggling to keep her voice low. “The captain says the young man is bold enough to beg Pharaoh for you!”

  Jendayi’s fingers trembled now; they seemed unusually cold and stiff. Why? She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt nervous. Playing was as natural to her as eating and sleeping; she thrived on creating intricate improvisations that bewildered or exhausted other harpists. Akil had long stopped trying to direct her solo work. When given the signal to take the lead from the oboist or lutist, Jendayi played the melodies in her head, producing remarkable sensations of sound, rippling passages that drew breathless admiration from all who heard. But tonight her voice would command center stage; the glissandos of the harp would be only a frame around the painting.

  “Mistress, Akil waits outside. The vizier calls for music.”

  Jendayi stood and brushed her damp hands across the linen of her gown, then pulled the harp into the circle of her arms. Tonight, through her music, she would offer her heart…and wait to see if it would be accepted.

  While the musicians played a steady stream of dinner music, Menashe struggled to keep his face composed in bland, pleasant lines. Since Tarik had brought him news of Jendayi’s intention, his heart had alternately lurched in anticipation and twisted in the agonies of despair. The harpist intended to sing for him tonight, Tarik had reported, but what if she sang of the brutality of noblemen or the sufferings of life? What if she offered a sympathetic song to ease the passing of his grandfather, or, even worse, a song to console him for not receiving the firstborn’s blessing? Perhaps the palace gossips had filled the girl’s ears with news of Menashe’s humiliation, and she intended only to soothe him with sweet music.