The Pharaoh's Daughter (45 page)

Nassor's coffers had grown fat on the villa's free production, so his greed had turned to human fare. He offered Hebrew women to his guards as incentives, payments, and rewards, and Nassor had his eye on Miriam.

Mered was running out of excuses to keep her away from the shop.

Jered and Heber had noticed Mered's caution. That morning, seven-year-old Heber had asked why Miriam didn't walk to the workshop with them anymore. Jered, the ever-sage older brother, had explained that she cared for Amram now that his falling sickness kept him in bed, his fits of shaking making him unable to work. Mered was thankful he didn't have to answer. He'd told Miriam he needed her to help Bithiah with little Jeki and the chores. All excuses, but effective in keeping her away from Nassor's hungry eyes.

“What are you doing, Father?” Jered's deep voice startled him. The boy grinned and plopped down on a pile of uncut flax stalks. “Do you need help?” He pointed to the unfurled scroll Mered had been pretending to read.

“No, no. I'm just going over some figures.”

“Really? Because I was sitting with the bead workers—making sure Heber learned the craft without pocketing the beads—and you haven't looked at that papyrus scroll since you sat down.”

Mered sighed and rolled up the scroll. His son was growing up too fast.
“I'm thinking about Bithiah.” It was partially true. He always thought about Bithiah.

“Do you ever think about Mama anymore?” Jered's tone had an edge as he examined his sandals.

Mered jostled his son's shoulder, trying to draw his gaze. “Of course. I think of your mother every time I hear a baby cry. She loved assisting Shiphrah at births.” He forced his son's chin up and met his sad eyes with a grin. “And I remember what a fine cook your mother was every time poor Bithiah tries a new recipe.”

Finally a chuckle from his firstborn—quickly gone. “Do you love her? Bithiah, I mean.”

Mered's heart hammered in his chest. He'd been wondering that himself lately. “I think so.”

“I need to know because—” Jered raised his chin, almost defiant. “I think I may love someone.”

“Well.” Mered nodded, stalling for time. He wasn't prepared for this conversation. When had his son grown dark whiskers on his chin? “Well.”

“You said that already.”

“Yes, well.”

Jered lifted an eyebrow and glared. “Father, don't you want to know her name or why I love her or when we plan to marry?”

“Plan to marry? You're not ready to marry, Jered. I don't even know who she is.”

“I'm fifteen years old. Aaron was married and had a child by fifteen.”

Mered scrubbed his face, frustration mounting. “Aaron moved in with the girl's parents and became apprentice to his father at the metals-and-gem shop—only two years before Amram's illness.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Both Aaron's and Elisheba's parents sought El-Shaddai's counsel, and Aaron began preparing to take Amram's place in the shop. Everyone watched for God's active confirmation during the process, Jered. You've decided to marry, but have you considered El-Shaddai? Have you asked His opinion?”

“Not everyone hears from God like you do, Father.”

Another male voice stammered an intrusion. “Am I interrupting an imp-p-p-ortant conversation?” Master Mehy offered a sheepish grin from the workshop doorway. “Hello, Mered.” He gave Jered an awkward nod.

Nassor stood beside the master, glaring at Mered, but the linen keeper ignored him.

“Master Mehy, welcome home.”

“Yes, welcome, Master Mehy.” Crimson rose on Jered's neck. “Father, I'll keep an eye on Heber at the beads.” He fairly ran down the long center aisle. Jered and Mehy, while so close growing up, now seemed like a pigeon and a dove—not natural enemies, but certainly belonging in different nests.

Without subtlety, Mehy turned to his estate foreman. “Thank you for the escort, Nassor. You may leave us now.”

“But Master Mehy, I—”

“Thank you, Commander. Leave.” Mehy's three years of military training had honed his authority and lessened his stutter.

Nassor shot Mered another warning glance before marching away.

Mehy stood with his feet apart and hands clasped behind his back, accenting his well-muscled shoulders. “Let's talk beneath our palm tree.”

Mered directed Mehy out the door into the noisy world of Avaris's bustling Egyptian peasants. Their market stalls lined the pathway to the quay, tainting the view from their favorite tree. But it was still the most private place to talk. Their conversation would be lost in the commotion.

Each year since Mehy's military training had begun, he'd returned home with Pirameses and the other Ramessids from the Sile fortress. Mered noticed Pirameses's troop ship conspicuously missing from the dock and realized Master Mehy had come home early this year.

Mered leaned back against the rough trunk and waited for his young master to bare his heart, but silence stretched into awkwardness until Mered could stand it no longer. “Has something in particular brought you home from Sile earlier than expected?”

More silence. Concern laced with dread tightened Mered's chest, but he wouldn't ask again. This young soldier must open his heart when he was ready.

They watched geese fly overhead and skate across the Nile. A bennu heron
waited on the shoreline for its prey to swim past. Mered's left arm was in the sun, so he scooted over to find shade.

When he glanced at the master, Mehy was grinning. “Comfortable now?”

Laughing, Mered pointed to the small space between them. “Well, if your shoulders hadn't grown a cubit since last summer, I'd have more shade.”

Mehy's laughter faded as he pulled a braided leather cord from beneath his brass-studded breastplate. He wrapped it around Mered's wrist and then lifted the linen keeper's hand to his forehead—a sign of respect. “I win this award for you each year, Mered. You're the only family I have left.”

Mered choked out his thanks, wishing he could embrace Mehy—but no slave would be so bold. Though aching to tell him Bithiah kept the previous two years' awards beneath her sleeping mat, Mered kept silent. The deception gnawed at him, but lives depended on it. “I'll keep it safely hidden with the other two.”

“I won't be winning any more training honors, Mered.” His tone was cryptic, haunted.

“Of course you will. You're Sebak's son. Master of Avaris.”

“When the king's barque arrives for the Lotus Feast next week, Jad Horem, Pirameses, and the royal advisors will plan a new offensive against the Hittites.” The news landed like a rock in Mered's belly. “Pirameses can't send you to war yet. You're fifteen years old with barely three years of training.”

“He's sending Sety with me—without any Sile training.” Mehy turned his head slowly. “He said he'd train his son on the b-b-battlefield.” His tongue tripped over the final word, evidence of his fear.

Anger, fear, and disbelief combined to steal Mered's words. What could he say to a terrified boy? Every instinct as a father wanted to protect him—as Amram would if he could. But Mered couldn't protect himself—or Bithiah or Miriam or anyone else he loved. As Amram had once told him, they were all in God's hands.

Steadied by the reminder, Mered asked, “Why now, Master Mehy? Why launch an attack on the Hittites during sowing season?”

With a wry grin, Mehy seemed to ponder Mered's question. “Ah, yes. Strategy. Pirameses says Egypt's sowing is the Levant's harvest—something
about we'll live off the fruit of their land and not run low on supplies like they did when Jad Horem led the attack years ago.”

Mered nodded, contemplating how much to confide about his days as supply chief in Horemheb's army. Did this boy realize the level of depravity he was about to encounter? “Does Vizier Pirameses ever talk about your abbi Sebak, the role he played in the battles fought with your Jad Horem?”

Mehy turned slowly, his cheeks white as natron powder. “What do you know of Abbi Sebak's role in battle, Mered?”

Mered's heart broke. “I was the supply chief who helped get needed provisions to King Horemheb's army the last time they marched on Kadesh.”

The boy returned his gaze to the quay. “I am the son of Sebak, Seth reborn. I know what is expected of me on the field of battle, Mered.”

El-Shaddai, please, no.
Mered grabbed Mehy's shoulders, shaking him. “You are not Seth reborn, and your abbi was a kind and gentle man. He was plagued by demands, tormented by his choices. Men are not gods, Mehy. There is only one God, and His name is El-Shaddai.”

Mehy shrugged off Mered's hands and sniffed back tears. “Sit back, Mered.”

The linen keeper pressed himself back against the tree. He waited, head bowed, for his master's verdict. Had he gone too far?

“I go to battle representing my ancestors, Mered. Abbi Sebak and Ummi Anippe will be watching from the underworld. Jad Horem will remain in Memphis to implement his Great Edict and ensure the rebuilding of Egypt, so I am the only member of our family that can fight. I must bring them honor. I must be Seth reborn.” He reached for Mered's hand and squeezed it gently. “I must be who they've trained me to be, my friend.”

Anger, guilt, and submission churned in Mered's belly. He yearned to tell Mehy the truth.
You're the son of a faithful Hebrew who loves El-Shaddai and trusts Him with your life.
Instead, he wiped the moisture from his cheeks and tried to ignore the deep ache inside. “Of course, Master Mehy. I will pray to El-Shaddai for your protection—just as I prayed for your Abbi Sebak. Is there any way I can help prepare for your journey?”

“I want to see Miriam.”

Startled, Mered tried to imagine a benign reason a handsome fifteen-year-old soldier would want to see a beautiful twenty-one-year-old slave girl. “Of course. She works for me in the linen workshop. You can see her there any—”

“No. She must come to the villa … to my bathhouse. Tonight.”

Mered swallowed his rising panic. Master Mehy's interest would be worse than Nassor's—if he intended what most Egyptian men intended when they summoned a Hebrew slave girl. Did Mehy know she was his sister? As an Egyptian prince, did he care?

Before Mered could form a well-phrased question, the master stood and offered his hand to help his linen keeper stand. “Make sure she arrives before dusk. I'll have guards escort her home when I'm finished with her.” Mered accepted the proffered hand, and Mehy pulled him to his feet, pointing to the gifted leather braid around the linen keeper's wrist. “I will make you proud when I fight the Hittites, Mered.”

He walked away, his broad shoulders and powerful stride reminding Mered of a younger Amram. “El-Shaddai, protect your handmaiden, Miriam,” he whispered.

“Protect Miriam from what?”

Mered whirled to find Jered's face clouded with anger. He lifted his hands to explain—or at least form a plausible half truth.

But Jered forgot Miriam when he saw the braided leather band around his father's wrist. “Where did you get this?” He glanced down the hillside path, where Master Mehy was just entering the villa. “Mehy gave you this? Why does Bithiah have two of these hidden under her sleeping mat?”

“How do you know what she has hidden under her mat?” Mered was indignant at his son's snooping but also anxious to divert his intuitive mind.

“I may sleep on the roof, Father, but I'm a part of this family, and I know more than you think about what does and doesn't happen on Bithiah's sleeping mat.” Comprehension dawned on his features—at first gentle like the early inundation and then the flood of his fury. “Bithiah is the amir—”

Mered clamped his hand over Jered's mouth, grinding out his threat between clenched teeth. “If you are the grown man you claim to be, you will consider the many lives at stake—and you'll never speak those words again.”

Bithiah had been awake most of the night, waiting for Miriam's return and worrying about her two youngest boys. At times like these she missed Ankhe. She would have woken her and chattered on about her fears. Turning to cuddle with three-year-old Jekuthiel, she whispered into his dreams. “You will not plug rat holes at dawn, my precious boy—and neither will Heber.”

The moon was well past its zenith, and she still wasn't sure how she'd keep that promise. The plan would undoubtedly involve deceiving Mered, since he'd refused her repeated pleas to exempt their boys from the task.

“My children will do their duty like all other slave children,” he'd said.

Well, other slave children didn't fill the hole in her heart as Jeki and Heber did. She'd cried until she was sick when Heber had helped Hur previously. Tomorrow would be the first time Jeki was old enough to share in the awful task.

A heavy-footed pair of soldiers drew near their outer curtain and halted. Bithiah lifted Jeki's sleep-sodden arm from her throat and eased off her mat in time to meet Miriam at the doorway.

Miriam gasped. “Why are you still awake?”

Bithiah grabbed her arm and led her back outside. “I wanted to hear what happened with Mehy.” She refused to believe Mehy would harm Miriam—as Mered feared—but Ramessid training changed people. Bithiah peered into Miriam's troubled eyes. “Are you all right?”

“He wanted me to sing for him.”

Relief came like a wave, and Bithiah pulled Miriam into a fierce embrace. But the girl was shaking. Bithiah released her. “What happened? Something's wrong.”

“Mehy also asked me about El-Shaddai, and—”

“He wants to believe in the Hebrew God?”