The Pharaoh's Daughter (9 page)

How could a giant sound like a child? Startled at his vulnerability, she grasped his hand. “I'm happy when you are with me.”

And it was true. If she could forever see her reflection in his eyes, she would never fear again. If she could always live in his embrace, she would never yearn for another.

But what would happen when he asked her to bear a child? What would happen when he returned to battle? What then … what then?

“Come, wife. Let me introduce you to your new household.”

The Hebrews had raised their hearts and voices to welcome Master Sebak and his bride when they disembarked Pharaoh's royal barque. Even King Tut, seated on his gilded palanquin on six Medjays' shoulders, had glanced over his shoulder to see the source of the ruckus. Master Sebak strutted as if he were the king of Egypt, his new bride at his side.

Mered chuckled at the memory. Sebak had been as nervous as a schoolboy when he'd docked his ship at midday to finalize preparations for the royal family's arrival. True to his character, when the work was done, he'd permitted every Avaris slave—skilled and unskilled—to gather at the quay and welcome the royal guests. A grand entrance before the main event.

Mered hid behind an acacia tree in the villa's garden entry, vicariously enjoying the wedding feast. The meal was long past. Musicians played a lively tune while dancers swirled veils around half-drunk guests. The dark date beer had been much appreciated. Mered must congratulate the brewer.

Sebak's young bride was lovely—Amira Anippe, they would call her—and she looked like the goddess Isis in the wedding gown Mered had designed. It was the sheerest
byssus
sheath his shop had ever made, the Avaris symbol woven proudly into the selvage. The pleated sheath draped over an equally sheer gown with gold thread and precious stones sewn into the pattern of a palm tree—the Egyptian tree of life. The new amira had gasped when Mered presented it to her.

“
Masterful
,” she'd said. Sebak had squeezed Mered's shoulder with approval—praise worth more than ten weeks' allotment of grain.

“Don't you have a wife at home?” A low voice startled Mered, and a strong hand whirled him around.

“Master Sebak.” Mered bowed deeply, ashamed of his spying. “Forgive me. I was … I wanted to see …”

A deep chuckle drew his gaze. “Get up, Mered. I'm not angry with you.”

Relief washed over Mered, and the joy on Sebak's face emboldened him. “Your wife is beautiful, my lord. I pray El-Shaddai's blessing on a long and happy life together.”

His master received the words graciously, as he did each time Mered mentioned his God.

Returning his attention to his bride, Sebak sighed. “She is beautiful, isn't she—and it emanates from within, my friend.” His features clouded, and he nodded in the direction of his uncle, master of neighboring Qantir. He and Pirameses had been rivals since their fathers died, leaving the boys neighboring estates. “Not like Pirameses's young wife. That woman poisons everything she touches. Our estates are too close to keep the wives apart, but I don't want her tainting Anippe's inner ka.”

Mered nodded his agreement but wasn't sure how he could help keep one amira from influencing another.

“Anippe plans to stay busy by using her design and weaving skills in your linen shop, my friend. Perhaps she'll be too busy to learn the bad habits of Qantir's amira.”

Startled at his master's candor, Mered wasn't sure which topic to address first—the Avaris amira in his workshop or the Qantir amira's bad habits. He chose the safest. “I look forward to introducing the amira to our linen processes as soon as she's ready, my lord.” In truth, he cringed to think of any Egyptian in his workshop, but he would try to be hospitable.

“Good. Good.” Sebak clamped a hand on Mered's shoulder. “Anippe will come to trust you as I have, Mered. And if she feels comfortable in your workshop, she'll spend less time in Qantir picking up bad habits from Pirameses's wife.”

Mered knew the bad habits included entertaining traveling merchants and disposing of slaves as if they were fleas on a dog.
El-Shaddai, guard our amira's heart and give the Hebrews favor in her eyes.

Sebak stood mesmerized, gazing at the wedding feast. “Isn't she stunning, Mered?”

“She is, my lord, and she seems quite taken with you as well.”

He turned, eyes bright. “Really? Do you think so? Because I think I love her.” The words tumbled out, seeming to surprise even him. “Can it be love when we met only a few days ago?”

“A heart follows no rules, my lord. My wife and I grew up together and were betrothed as children, but our love grows deeper each day.”

“I want to protect her, spend every moment with her. Her face fills my dreams, and her body beckons me—”

“Yes, well …” Mered cleared his throat, cutting off additional descriptions of his master's passion. “Whether you love the amira now or a year from now, you'll enjoy exploring every new experience with your wife.”

“And I am ready to explore.” Sebak grabbed Mered's shoulders and shook him with delight. “It's time. Go home to your wife, my friend, while I take mine to our chamber and—how did you say it?—‘
enjoy exploring every new experience
.' ”

Mered watched his master return to the feast, passing the dancing girls and their floating veils as if they were old maids in rags. He greeted the men's table first, bowing deeply to King Tut and offering lavish praise on his successful hunt in the Fayum—two wild oxen, a lion, and a hippo. Sebak offered only a curt nod to Vizier Ay, noticeably aloof toward Egypt's governor. The groom then bowed to his uncle Pirameses, master of neighboring Qantir. He was Sebak's nearest relative, and because he was higher on the family tree, decorum dictated respect—though Pirameses and Sebak were nearly the same age. Pirameses extended his well-muscled arm, and Sebak gripped his arm, forearm to forearm—even tonight a test of wills. The two men were flint against flint, casting sparks whenever they were in the same room. A silent exchange, and Sebak moved on to his father-in-law, General Horemheb.

The groom knelt before Anippe's abbi, and the room fell silent. “I am
honored to guard your greatest treasure. Know that I will cherish her and protect her with my life, General.”

Sebak bowed his head, and Horemheb placed a hand on his head. “May the mighty Isis, goddess of magic, marriage, and motherhood, bless your marriage and visit your chamber this night.” He winked at his wife, Amenia. “So that many grandchildren provide for my future.”

The guests exploded in celebration, and the young bride tucked her chin, appropriately shy. Musicians resumed their melody, and the dancers whirled and spun at the edges of the room. Queen Senpa nudged Anippe to her feet, and the bride's handmaid seemed moved to tears—not overly sentimental, but rather unsettled. The girl stepped into the shadows, removing herself from the celebration, and watched with a granite expression.

Sebak approached the women's tables, hand extended. “Come, my love. It's finally time to live as husband and wife.” As Anippe reached for his hand, he swept her into his arms, and carried her from the main hall.

Her mother, Amenia, reached for her Hathor-shaped sistrum—a percussion instrument of two oxen horns with bronze discs strung between them—and struck it on beat, jingling in rhythm behind them. One of the guests commented that her training as a chantress in the temple of Amun-Re granted her the right to accompany the newlyweds to their chamber and offer her blessing.

Mered didn't understand Egyptian gods and symbols and legends, but neither did most Egyptians. Only the pharaoh and temple priests made sacrifices, and most noblemen added their own color to the legends. Egyptian peasants endured ever-changing stories of the gods, depending on which version best served the current political powers.

At least El-Shaddai was unchanging—though many Hebrews had given up hope of His ancient promises. Abraham's God hadn't spoken to a child of Israel since the days of Joseph.

But Mered knew He existed. The stories of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were too vivid, too exact—the people too flawed and God too merciful—to be illusion. Someday El-Shaddai would speak again, and Mered would be ready.

The fading sounds of celebration drew him back to the feast. This night of
love made him hungry for his own bride, Puah. While wedding guests lingered, Mered slipped through the north garden gate, snagged a torch, and picked up a stray stick before walking into the night. Jackals and hyenas couldn't keep him from his wife tonight.

Anippe watched Ummi Amenia over Sebak's shoulder. Amenia rejoiced in her chanting, seeming lost in the rhythm of her jingling sistrum. Sebak's stride matched her tempo, gently rocking Anippe in what should have been a calming sway. But her heart pounded as the sounds of celebration dwindled in this distant hallway. It seemed they'd walked forever. How big was the villa? Anippe shivered, her nerves getting the better of her.

“Are you cold?” Torchlight reflected in Sebak's eyes—and concern, always concern for her.

“A little.”

“I have extra robes in my chamber for you.” He kissed her forehead. “You won't be cold long.” His eyes were hungry, promising more than robes to keep her warm.

At the end of the long hallway, he turned right, where a suite of four doorways were clustered and Ramessids guarded each one. Dressed in bronze-studded leather breastplates and kilts with leather girdles, these soldiers stood at strict attention as Sebak halted before the first door. “You may open for my bride.”

Ummi Amenia's chanting ceased as did her sistrum's beat, and the Ramessid opened the chamber door without comment or a glance at his commander.

Sebak placed Anippe's gold-and-jeweled sandals on the tile. She wasn't sure her shaky legs would hold her, but Amenia cupped her elbows and held her gaze.

“You are daughter of Horemheb, sister of King Tut, and now wife of Sebak.” Amenia placed a hand on the big man's forearm, drawing him into their circle. “Love each other well. Trust each other only. Give to each other always.”

She turned and hurried away before Anippe could cling to her.

Anippe began to tremble.

Sebak laid his hands on her shoulders, and she jumped as if he'd stabbed her. Sliding his hands down her arms, he pressed a whisper against her ear. “Shh, habiba. I won't hurt you.”

She looked through the open door to the waiting chamber. Dimly lit with only two small lamps, the darkness meant to swallow her. Paralyzed with fear, she commanded her body to move, but she could think only of what tonight could mean.
Pregnancy. Childbirth. Death.
She'd barely tasted love, and now she must die?

Still measuring her fate, she was again swept into her husband's arms and carried to the future she both longed for and mourned. Beyond the dimly lit chamber was an attached private courtyard, revealing the clear night sky. Sebak shoved the heavy cedar door closed with his foot.

Anippe's heart hammered. “I should go back and check on my sisters. Ankhe was crying, and I saw Queen Senpa wince when she reclined at the table. Truly, she grabbed her belly. If something happened to the baby while she was here, I couldn't forgive myse—”

He covered her mouth with a kiss, hungry at first, but then he gently pulled away. “I will never hurt you, Anippe. No need for tears.”

His words both reassured and startled her. She hadn't realized she was crying.

She nodded, still shaking, and then closed her eyes, sending a river down her cheeks. He curled his arms, drawing her into his chest. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on to the one who was ripping her away from all she held dear. This man she didn't know but who promised safety—the man who was about to place her life in grave danger.

“I'm frightened.”

He buried his face in the bend of her neck and whispered, “I know.” He carried her up two steps and past a curtained partition, laid her on his feathery-soft mattress, and knelt beside her on the floor. “I will cherish you.” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. “Tonight.” And kissed her wrist. “And tomorrow.”

Fire shot through her veins, and a single oil lamp illumined the lazy grin she loved.

“May I join you on the bed now?” he asked.

Suddenly finding it hard to breathe, hard to think, and impossible to speak, Anippe simply nodded. She would check on Ankhe and Senpa in the morning. She would even meet the underworld gods in childbirth. Nothing could smother the ecstasy of this night as Sebak's wife.