By Way of the Wilderness (6 page)

“I have evil reports of your activities,” Jafari said. He tore the meat from a bone with his teeth, chewed it fiercely and then washed it down with red wine, allowing it to spill over and run down his chin and clean-shaven chest. He did not allow even one hair to remain on his body, for parasites might lodge there and hence defile the high priest of Ra.

“You have been negligent in your temple duties. Weeks go by without a single visit from you.”

“Have you been told this or have you seen it for yourself?”

“Don't be insolent to your priest!” Jafari shouted. “You well know I speak the truth. Your offerings have been sparse.” Jafari swept the food away with his arm, and the silver dishes clattered onto the stone floor. A slave scurried to clean them up, cowering from Jafari's shouts of rage. Finally the priest mastered himself and said more quietly, “I have another charge. It is reported to me that you are spending time with the Hebrew slaves.”

“I have been studying the brick-making process.”

“For what purpose?”

“To see if it could be made more effective.”

“More effective? The brick-making has always been effective.”

“If you will permit me, I would like to offer a suggestion.”

“A suggestion? What is it?”

“We have better sense than to wear out our animals. We keep them well fed, and we let them rest. We are not so wise with the slaves. They burn out quickly. This is not good economy.”

Jafari grew silent then, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Slaves are different from animals.”

“I am glad you see that, sir.”

“Don't be insolent! They are different because they are capable of rebellion. Animals are not. We must keep the slaves weak or they might overcome us.”

“Personally, O Priest of Ra, I am not afraid of what starving slaves might do.”

It was a bold statement, and Jafari's face flushed red. “I will not argue this with you! You are being watched, Moses. I am giving you this warning. You think you are protected because your mother holds her hand over you, but you go too far.”

“I am sorry you should say so,” Moses said.

“Out! Get out! Amend your ways!”

Moses bowed and left without another word, his head held high, his body proud. As soon as he was outside, Jafari motioned for a tall, hawk-faced man with glittering eyes. “Nodi, watch him.”

“We always watch him, sire.”

“Find some fault that would bring him before the pharaoh. He must not live.”

“We will watch him, sire.”

****

Aaron listened intently as Moses repeated the essence of his visit with the high priest of Ra. When Moses was finished, Aaron shook his head. “You must be careful, brother.”

“How can one be careful when our people are dying by the hundreds? They are starved and beaten as if they were animals!” Moses cried.

The two men were sitting alone at some distance from the Hebrew slave camp. Moses had gone to Aaron to tell him what he had seen and what he was thinking. “Something must be done, Aaron. I know that I am not the one to speak, for I have ignored my people for years, but now I see with fresh eyes all of the indignities heaped upon our people.”

“You are an impulsive man, Moses, and this is good … and bad. Sometimes there is need for immediate action, and that is where you specialize. But I am different from you in that way. All my life I have watched the injustice of the Egyptian lords as they grind our people into the dust. I have waited, and now I believe your return to us is a sign.” Aaron leaned forward and studied Moses' face. Finally he said, “You must use your influence to help your people.”

“Influence? But I have none.”

“Ah”—Aaron nodded emphatically—“but you could have. Your mother is the favorite of the pharaoh. He listens to her.”

“That would never free our people, Aaron,” Moses said. “Surely you must see that.”

“I think it might. You are in too much of a hurry, Moses. You must be patient.”

“Patient? Our people have been patient for hundreds of years.”

“That is what God told the prophets long ago—that we would be slaves for four hundred years. But He also promised that we would be set free.”

The two men talked earnestly, Aaron doing most of the talking as he explained the ancient prophecies.

Moses finally turned and put his inquisitive dark eyes on his brother. “What do you want, Aaron, for yourself and for our people?”

It was the opportunity Aaron had been waiting for. “Our people need a form of religion they can see and handle. It is not enough that God is a spirit. Men must see things.”

“See what? If your god is a spirit with no body, what could they see?”

“They could see ceremonies that would be pictures of the qualities of God,” Aaron said eagerly. He had thought this out carefully, and now words spilled from his mouth. “The Egyptians know this well. That is why they have so many ceremonies, so many temples, so many—”

“So many idols,” Moses interrupted. “Surely you can't mean this.”

Aaron was a perceptive individual and knew he had gone too far.

“Well, of course we do not want idols. But there is nothing wrong with ceremony. It gives people something to cling to. Now, back to the question at hand. Go to your mother. Have her beg the pharaoh to lighten the load on our people.”

“That is not what I want. I want them to be free.”

“That will come. One step at a time, brother—one step at a time!”

****

Moses was no longer sure of who he was. All his life he had known himself only as Moses, Prince of Egypt, but now another identity had suddenly arisen within him. Moses the Hebrew. Moses the servant, not of the gods of Egypt but of the formless god whose name could not even be spoken aloud but who had made all things.

Moses struggled with this intently, and he found much relief while sitting at the feet of the oldest of the elders. Zuriel was older than anyone knew, more than a hundred. He was kept as a treasure of the Hebrew people, for he remembered sitting at his great-grandfather's feet, and his great-grandfather could remember as a small child the Hebrews serving under the elderly Joseph's benevolent reign.

Day after day Moses went to Zuriel, soaking up the stories of his ancestors. Zuriel's body was frail, but his mind was still alert, and he remembered the stories in great detail. His old eyes were faded, but they glowed as he spoke of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob.

Moses sat still as a stone, listening intently as Zuriel spoke of Jacob's death.

“He was not as good a man as his grandfather Abraham,” old Zuriel said, nodding his head constantly. “But he was a crafty fellow. He had twelve sons, and his twelve sons became the twelve tribes of Israel.” He looked over at Moses and smiled toothlessly. “We know you are of the tribe of Levi, one of those sons.”

“How do we know all this? It was so long ago.”

“We are not a strong people in many ways, but we Hebrews are strong on tradition,” old Zuriel said. “We guard what we have heard and repeat these stories over and over to keep them firm in our memories. We pass these along to our sons, and they pass them to their sons. Our traditions are everything to us.”

“Tell me about the other sons of Jacob out of which our tribes came.”

“Reuben was the firstborn and would have been the leader of Israel's sons, but he forfeited his birthright by sleeping with his father's concubine. Had he become the leader of Israel, his tribe would have been the most significant, but that never happened.”

“Which one of the sons
did
receive the birthright?” Moses asked.

“Ah, you go right to the point. It was Judah.” The old man began to chant in a voice that was weak at first, but grew stronger as he recited the ancient prophecy:

Moses straightened up, relieved to hear this. “Well, I do not have to worry about being the leader of Israel, for I am not of the tribe of Judah.”

Zuriel's old eyes blinked; then he leaned forward and whispered, “There is one coming who will be the Great Redeemer. He will be like no man we have ever known. But until the Great Redeemer comes, God will use men of flesh and blood to serve and to save His people.” Zuriel reached out his hand, and Moses took it in his strong hand. The old man's hand felt as fragile as the bones of a tiny bird, but they suddenly tightened on Moses' strong hand.

“I think you are one whom God has chosen to be
this
kind of redeemer.”

The words sent a tremor of fear through Moses. “I have no desire to be a leader.”

“That has nothing to do with it. Abraham had no desire to leave his homeland, but God commanded him, and he had no choice but to go. Others of our family have also been chosen when they did not expect it. God has reached out and touched them and put them in directions they never dreamed. You, I think, will be one of these men, Moses of the tribe of Levi!”

****

Princess Kali listened as Moses repeated the story of what he had been doing. She had already been warned by her spies that the high priest had given instructions that Moses would be followed and every word he said carefully scrutinized.

Now she leaned forward and took both his hands in hers. “Oh, son, why must you pursue this?”

“I must help my people.”

“Perhaps we could work together. I will speak to Pharaoh. The burden of the slaves could be lightened with one word from him.”

“That is what Aaron said, but I am not interested in lightening the load. The Hebrews came to Egypt as free men, and they have been enslaved by the pharaohs. They must be set free.”

Fear came into Kali's heart and was reflected in her eyes. “That can never be.”

“Perhaps not, but I must go join my life to those of my brothers. If they suffer, I must suffer also.”

Kali did all she could to persuade Moses not to follow this course. She felt frightened for him, but finally she saw there was no changing his mind.

Moses put his arms around his foster mother and held her tightly. “I love you dearly, my mother, but something that I cannot explain is pulling at me. I must go and join the fate of my brothers.”

Despite the miserable lives of the Hebrews, they maintained a reverence toward marriage unknown in Egypt. This irritated the Egyptian taskmasters.

One of the most loving couples among the tribes were an older man called Yagil and his wife, Berione. Yagil was some years older than his wife and had been in declining health for years. Berione was an attractive woman, despite her hard life as a slave, and often had to fight off the attentions of the Egyptian taskmasters who sought to seduce all the attractive young Hebrew women.

Yagil had awakened early and attempted to get out of bed, but when he sat up, he began to cough furiously. He grabbed for a cloth that he kept by his mat and put it over his face, his body racked by spasms.

Berione was already up, and coming to her husband's side, she knelt beside him waiting for the coughing to subside. She took the cloth and saw that it was spotted with blood. She put her arm around him and said, “You cannot work today, husband.”

“I must. The taskmasters will not let me lie idle.”

“But you can't work if you are sick.”

“What do the Egyptians care if a Hebrew is sick?” Yagil fought off the impulse to cough again and got to his feet. He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I must go.”

“Here. I have fixed your breakfast.”

Yagil sat down cross-legged and took the bowl of soup that Berione had placed before him. He had little hunger, for the wasting disease that had struck his lungs had sapped his appetite. He ate what he could and got up, trying to hide his weakness from Berione. “I will go. If I do not, our whole group will be punished because I'm not there to help make up the count.”

Berione put her arms around him and kissed him, then stood at the opening of their hut as he slowly walked out. She watched as he joined the group of men who trudged silently toward the brickyard, then turned back inside the hut, her heart filled with apprehension for her husband.

“You don't look like you can work today, Yagil,” one of the men said to him, but Yagil only shook his head. “You're sick,” the man insisted. “You need to be in bed.”

Yagil did not have the strength to answer. He only shook his head and continued walking, each step a misery for him. Several times he had coughing spasms, and the rag that he kept to wipe his face was now thoroughly soaked with his blood.

When they reached the brickyard, Yagil climbed down into the pit and began the endless treading of the clay.

The day passed interminably for the old man, and by late afternoon he had lost all feeling in his lower body. He had coughed until his ribs were hurting, and finally he felt himself slipping down into the mud.

But he did not fall, for strong arms held him up. Yagil's body was racked with coughing, yet still he turned to see who had picked him up. He did not recognize the face, which was healthy and strong, not weak and bony and starved. The eyes of the man were what Yagil noticed most. They were almost like twin beams of light, and the voice was different from the voice of slaves.

“Brother, you cannot do any more. I will help you.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend.”

Twenty minutes later one of the guards came to check on the workers in the mixing pit. He looked down and saw Yagil being supported by a tall, muscular man. He did not recognize the slave and shouted, “Let that man go!”