The Pharaoh's Daughter (40 page)

Anippe watched them go, confusion pouring salt in her freshly wounded heart. “Why would you ask to stay at Qantir? Was this something you and Sety conjured up without asking Pirameses's or Sitre's permission?”

Mehy's eyes swam in unshed tears. “No, Ummi. Vizier Pirameses specifically told me to have you ask Jad Horem as soon as the ship docked in Avaris.”

She pulled him into a ferocious hug while the royal guests loitered and whispered and stared. The games had begun. Mehy's military training was still a month away, but Pirameses had already started the mind-bending rigors meant to break her boy's tender spirit.

“Come, my son. We'll stop by the linen shop. Mered is anxious to see you.”

But before they reached the exit, Ankhe stepped into their path. “We must talk, Anippe.” She glared at Mehy. “Alone.”

The sun had set long ago, but Mered lingered at his shop, having only moments ago finished the beading on Queen Mutno's robe for the feast. Amram had crafted an exquisite gold collar with intricately inlaid gemstones in a garden scene. The beading on the robe needed to be subtle, so as not to overwhelm the jewelry, and Mered had reworked it just in time for the queen's handmaid to pick it up. The musicians were playing in the main hall, the music wafting on the night breeze.

Mehy—graduating from the Kap. Where had time gone?

Miriam appeared at his shop door, breathless. “Mered, you must come home!”

Startled, he grabbed his chest and chuckled. “I just finished. I'll be right there—”

“Mered. Now!” Her face was the color of linen, and his heart swelled into his throat.

He jumped to his feet and ran. Out of the workshop, past the peasants' market stalls, around the soldiers' barracks, down the hill, and finally, finally, into the craftsmen's village.

A crowd gathered outside his door. Somber faces. Women weeping. Men looking heavenward.

Amram emerged, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

“Amram?” Mered stumbled toward him.

The old man braced Mered's shoulders with his hands. “Shiphrah and Jochebed are with her. They did everything they could.”

And then came the baby's cry. Mered looked at Amram, confused.

Amram's chin quivered. “Puah gave you a son with her last breath. His name is Jekuthiel.”

“No.” Mered stumbled past those blocking his door and fell into his small home where Shiphrah and Jochebed washed his wife's body. Aaron's young
wife, Elisheba, nursed a newborn—Puah's newborn. “No. Out, get out! All of you, leave us alone!”

No one moved.

Amram grabbed his shoulders from behind, then pinned his arms at his side, and shoved him through the dividing curtain to the rooms he and Jochebed shared.

Mered fell to his knees. Aaron offered him a cup of beer, but Mered couldn't breathe. How could he drink? A baby cried. Women wailed. This was a dream. It must be a nightmare. Darkness closed around him.

“Mered.” Shiphrah stood over him.

How much time had passed? He glanced around the room. Amram was gone, and Mered was propped in a corner of Amram and Jochebed's room. He noticed blood on Shiphrah's robe—Puah's blood.

She crouched beside him. “I'm sorry I didn't send for you in time. Puah wanted to surprise you when you came home from the shop. Her delivery went so quickly. I sent Miriam as soon as I saw signs of trouble. It was all so completely normal … until—”

“Until my wife died.”

Shiphrah dissolved into a heap beside him, sobbing. “In any childbirth death, there are warning signs—but not Puah. Her lifeblood drained away in moments. She was here and then gone. She kissed her perfect boy, named him, and said good-bye.”

Jochebed appeared through the curtain, wiping her hands on a soiled cloth. “Mered, the men need to know if you want Jered, Ednah, and Heber to see their mother before they take the body to the caves.”

Take the body?
Mered resisted the urge to scream.

“I want everyone to leave us till dawn. The children may say good-bye at daybreak. Leave me alone with my wife.”

Both women stared at him, mute. He stood, not waiting for their opinion or approval, and returned to his room.

Jochebed and Shiphrah slipped out the main entrance. Aaron and his wife must have taken the baby home with them. Only Puah remained.

Mered sat on a cushion beside her body. They were alone. More precisely,
he was alone, and Puah had been gathered to Mother Sarah's bosom. He was alone—to raise a daughter and three boys.

How could he do it? He'd seen Heber at the quay this morning, but what did a four-year-old eat? How long must he sleep? Did he do house chores or village labor? He'd seen Ednah grind grain, but could she do laundry, make beer, or cook? Jered worked as an apprentice at the linen shop, but could he help Mered take care of their family?

The newborn
—Jekuthiel. “Fear of God.”

Had Puah been afraid during her last breaths?
El-Shaddai, did You deal gently with my beloved, or have I prayed to the wind these many years?
How did the Hebrew God redeem a life from death? They didn't have tidy stories of Egyptian warring gods, the underworld, and the afterlife. A Hebrew's faith was based solely on a God who kept His promises—a God who gathered His people to Abraham and Sarah at death to wait the fulfilling of His covenant. But where was the land God had promised? How much longer would Israel labor in bondage?

“Are You there, El-Shaddai?” he screamed.

No answer.

Mered stared at his wife's lifeless body and whispered, “If You're there, El-Shaddai, at least show me why You took her from me.” He lifted Puah's cold hand to his lips.

Would his faith die with his beloved? Should he bury El-Shaddai in the caves with Puah? Perhaps he would decide by dawn.

Do you feel different after your graduation feast—grown up, smarter?” Anippe twirled Mehy's princely lock around her hand, while his head nestled on a pillow in her lap. These were the moments she cherished, their quiet talks in her private bathhouse.

He studied his hand in the moonlight, inspecting the familiar three dots she'd drawn there after the feast. “I guess I feel a little grown up. I should be able to make more decisions.”

Anippe hid a smile, wondering what decisions he had in mind. “Really?”

“I think I should choose which god you draw on my hand.” He held his arm straight up, examining it at a distance. Three dots in the shape of a pyramid.

Bullfrogs croaked, crickets chirped, and an owl wondered “who.” Anippe giggled. “You see, even the owls await your decision. Which god would you choose?”

“Ummi …”—Mehy spoke with appropriate adolescent disgust—“I'm serious.”

“I'm sorry. All right.” She didn't care which god he chose as long as he never tired of their special time together during these summer visits. Or this bathhouse—comfortable, secluded, where no one intruded. “Which god would you choose to watch over you and me?” Anippe removed the leather tie from his lock, loosening his curly, brown hair.

“I would have Seth, god of chaos and darkness, watch over us. He's the god of the Ramessids, after all.”

The proclamation came like a blow, robbing her of breath.
Seth reborn.
That title had somehow forced Sebak to stay away from Avaris, away from her and Mehy. But she couldn't speak against the Ramessids' patron god. “Hmm. May I explain the reason I chose Amun-Re and then allow my grown-up young man to make his decision?”

He sat up, straight and tall, refusing her attempt to rebraid his sidelock. “I know already. Amun-Re created all things—including all gods.”

Anippe nodded. “I chose Re because he's greater than Seth. The creator is greater than chaos and darkness.”

“Mmm.”

She noted his knitted brow and let him continue pondering as she reached for his sidelock. He swatted her hands away.

Footsteps startled them both.

Ankhe stood on the tiled path, cheeks aflame, torch in hand. “You didn't come as I asked. I told you I wanted to speak with you after the feast, Anippe. You didn't come, so Mehy will hear what I have to say.”

“Ankhe, I was waiting until Mehy was asleep. We're talking, and then I was—”

“No more excuses, and no more time to do the right thing.” Ankhe marched toward them, placing her torch in the stand. “I've lived in shame at Memphis for five years.”

“I know it's been difficult, but I plan to ask Abbi Horem to transfer you—”

“The other tutors treated me like a leper, Anippe, and your son …”

Mehy puffed his chest and lifted his chin. “I don't have to listen to you anymore, Ankhe.”

“Mehy!” Anippe's heart sank. “You will not speak to your aunt that way.”

Ankhe lunged for Mehy, snatching him from Anippe's side. She held a flint knife at his throat. “I'm tired of hearing what you plan to do, what you hope to do.” Ankhe looked down into Mehy's frightened face. “You're the son of Hebrew slaves, yet you're treated like a prince, and I'm the slave.”

Anippe stepped closer, speaking gently. “Please, Ankhe. Tell me what you
want. I can talk with Abbi Horem. Do you want to live at Gurob? We can arrange it.”

The knife trembled, and a small drop of blood appeared on Mehy's neck. He squeezed his eyes closed and whimpered, sending a stab of panic through Anippe's body.

“Tell me what you want, Ankhe!”

“I've been assigned to tutor a Hittite prince, Anippe. No marriage. No children. No life of my own.” Her eyes blazed. “A Hittite prince!”

Mehy cried out as the blade dug deeper.

“No, please, Ankhe. Let him go.” Anippe held up both hands, begging.

Mehy's eyes were wild with fear, Ankhe's wild with hate.

“You've left me no choice, Anippe. No hope.”

No hope.
Miriam's dream years ago—the story of Cain and Abel—came rushing back. El-Shaddai's warning:
If hope is gone, the brother becomes the sister.

“Please, Ankhe. Don't lose hope. I'll have you removed from the Kap—whatever you wish. We have each other, Ankhe.”

“I want Nassor. Make the match, or I tell the king your son's name is Moses, and he was saved from the Nile twelve years ago.” She smiled then, something Anippe had rarely seen. “Wouldn't the nobles enjoy watching Horemheb's judgment on a daughter who deceived him these many years?”

“I believe the king will be interested in a whole web of deception.” A male voice pierced the night, startling Ankhe. Mehy elbowed her and wrestled the dagger from her grasp.

The young Ramessid from Anippe's chamber door stood in the moonlight, sword drawn. “Drop the dagger, boy, and kick it toward me.” Mehy obeyed, and the guard leaned on his sword with a superior smirk. “I followed the amira's sister into the chamber and have been listening from the shadows. It's been quite entertaining.”

“I'll pay for your silence,” Anippe said, clutching Mehy to her chest.

“I don't think so. Your sister seems to think you don't keep your promises, and I'm inclined to believe her, considering she's been your slave for … how long has it been?”

Ankhe spit on his sandaled feet, which erased his smirk.

He raised his head slowly, blood lust in his eyes. “A common-born Ramessid must find a way to distinguish himself from other soldiers. Uncovering your deception may earn me a promotion into Pirameses's fighting unit. Now, move.” He pointed toward the villa with his sword. “After you, Amira.”

Anippe put her arm around Mehy and lifted her chin, pausing beside the young guard. “If you're half as smart as you think you are, you'll request Commander Nassor's presence at our meeting with Pharaoh.” She looked him up and down. “You'll want a witness, or the king will silence you like he would a locust.”

He gulped as she walked by. Her only hope was Nassor's intervention. He could silence the guard, and Anippe would beg him to marry Ankhe. It was the only way they could keep Mehy's secret.

She couldn't bear to consider the alternatives.

The young guard whispered something to several guards on their way across the complex. She could only hope he was summoning Nassor. By the time they arrived at Abbi Horem's door, Nassor was waiting—with Mandai.

Anippe nearly wept with relief. Two of the men she trusted most in the world. Only Mered would have been greater encouragement.

Nassor and Mandai stared in silent question, and when the young guard began his explanation in the outer hall, Nassor struck him—nearly sending him to the ground.

“Never speak of the amira's private affairs where others might hear.”