The Pharaoh's Daughter (13 page)

With one arm, he held her. With the other hand, he removed his own wig. Curiosity drew her eyes upward. Her gentle giant was completely bald, the skin hidden by his wig several shades lighter than his face and neck. He was radiant, handsome, confident—hers.

“You are the most beautiful woman in the world to me, Anippe.” He stroked the thin hair atop her head, examining, adoring. “You need no wig or paints to please me. You need only be honorable, faithful, and loving to our children.”

He kissed her again, but she couldn't mock him by returning his passion. How dare she imagine her heart weighing favorably on Anubis's scale?

She pressed against his chest, and he rolled aside. “Come, my love,” she said. “We should prepare our candles to take to the quay for today's Feast of Lotus.”

His wounded expression nearly drew her back. “Tell me again why we chose today as the Feast of Lotus.”

She replaced her wig and scooted off the bed. Donning only her sheath, she scurried into their sitting room before he could retrieve her. “We didn't choose today for the feast, remember? You chose to celebrate the first day of inundation with your send-off to battle.” Anippe heard her husband rifling through baskets in their bedroom behind the partition. “What are you looking for?” she asked.

He peeked his bald head around the dividing curtain. “I should wear my uniform today, but I can't find my cudgel.” Gone before she could suggest where a stray cudgel might hide, Sebak continued his frenzied search, while Anippe nibbled on the fruit they'd shared after their meal last night.

He'd returned from the stables in much better humor, as the husband she knew. The man she loved. They feasted on marinated goose with cucumber yogurt sauce and roasted lamb seasoned with garlic and onions. Fresh fruits and vegetables were sparse, and they ate mostly dried dates and figs, since harvest season had passed.

Sebak had dangled a dried fig, and as she opened her mouth to receive it, he had whispered, “Are you carrying my child?”

The night had been perfect until that moment. Thankfully, he dropped the fig into her mouth, giving her a few moments to chew and think of an answer.

After a swig of honeyed wine, she forced her features into a seductive pout. “It's too early to tell, habibi.”

He placed his hand on her stomach and whispered against her cheek, “Perhaps we should celebrate the Feast of Lotus tomorrow with the new year. As the inundation waters bring fertile silt from the south to nourish our land, perhaps an offering of lotus candles at the Avaris quay will ensure fertility in the amira's womb.”

“But I thought we'd spend your last day alone together.” She kissed him deeply, pressing her will. “I don't want to share you with the whole estate.”

He groaned but pulled away. “Wait right there.” Hurrying to the door, he flung it open and spoke to the Ramessids on duty. “Nassor, summon the estate foreman. He knows I return to duty tomorrow, but I've decided to celebrate the Feast of Lotus as a good-bye gift for the whole estate. The foreman will need to get the chief baker and brewer to work all night, and craftsmen to fashion the silver lotus candleholders.”

“Yes, my lord. Right away.” Nassor and another Ramessid marched into the darkness, while the other two remained.

Sebak slammed the door, delight in his eyes. “It will be wonderful. We'll make the day about celebration and new life—not about good-byes and—”

Death.
He'd stopped before the word tumbled out, but Anippe's face must have revealed her horror.

Rushing to her, he had swept her into his arms and buried his head in the bend of her neck. “We will sing for the lotus tomorrow and carry our candles to the Nile, dreaming of the day I'll return to you. But know this, habiba. You are my dream, and I will hold you in my heart every moment I'm away.”

“Found it.” Sebak appeared from behind their bedroom partition, triumphantly bearing the knotty-wood cudgel. Blood still stained its surface.

Anippe turned, wiping away tears, and rang the Hathor-shaped chime. The sooner Ankhe brought their morning meal, the sooner they could take candles to the quay and return to the cocoon of their private chamber.

Mered and Puah walked hand in hand toward the Nile, following friends, family, and Egyptians toward the Avaris quay. They walked slowly. Puah's queasiness had subsided but hadn't completely disappeared during the past few weeks. Her belly was rounding like a lovely little melon, and they prayed daily for a daughter.

How could any Hebrew hope for a son while the threat of Pharaoh's edict still loomed?

Puah had counted thirty baby boys in the craftsmen's and unskilled's camps. Fearing God more than Pharaoh, neither midwife obeyed Pharaoh's edict, but Ramessid guards cast three newborns into the Nile. Though the slave camps mourned their loss, the twenty-seven baby boys spared brought some measure of solace.

Gossip among the camps said Master Sebak had forbidden Ramessid death squads in the craftsmen's village. No one knew for sure, but Mered believed the master was simply too enthralled with his bride to order regular Ramessid inspections of both camps.

The amira also seemed too distracted to visit the linen shop. Mered wasn't at all disappointed she stayed away. His only contact with Anippe had been in his home—when she threatened his wife.

He still prayed for the young amira—that she would cease her deception. He obediently delivered Puah's small baskets to Ankhe on the first day of each week, placing the bundles on his desk and waiting for two sacks of grain to mysteriously replace them. Mered knew nothing of midwifery, so he dared not guess the contents. But of one thing he was certain—his wife's life depended on it.

“Where's your candle, my friend?” Master Sebak swatted Mered's back, nearly tumbling the linen keeper down the dusty hill to the quay.

Regaining his footing, Mered chuckled. “I don't need a lotus-shaped silver pot to carry my prayers to El-Shaddai. He knows my dreams no matter what shape they take.”

The amira peeked around her husband's large frame. “Then why do you
and Puah even attend our lotus feast?” Her painted smile did little to mask the bite in her tone.

Puah squeezed Mered's hand, warning him to tread lightly. Neither of them had seen the amira since the day she visited their home. “We come to honor Master Sebak and pledge our loyalty to you, Amira, while he's away.”

“Humph.” She turned away, her cheeks and neck growing crimson.

“Thank you, my friend.” Sebak placed a hand on Mered's shoulder. “And thank you, Puah, for taking care of the women on both estates. My wife has kept me distracted …” Sebak noticed Puah's swollen abdomen and looked as if he'd swallowed a bad fig.

An awkward silence ushered them partway down the path until Mered couldn't stand it any longer. “We estimate she'll deliver during the first month of sowing season.” He lifted an eyebrow. Would Sebak mention the king's edict?

“Congratulations, my friend.” Master Sebak's gaze searched the gathering crowd at the shore, and then a slow smile shone as bright as the midday sun. He gathered Anippe in his arms and kissed her gently. “You have a heart of gold, my wife. Mered, you should thank your amira for her kindness.”

Confused, Mered glanced at Puah for clarity, but she looked as puzzled as he felt. “Of course. I do thank her … but for what exactly?”

Sebak lowered his voice, glancing around to ensure he wouldn't be overheard. “Anippe asked that I discontinue patrols in the craftsmen's village. My guards have enforced Pharaoh's edict only on the unskilled plateau between Avaris and Qantir.” He gazed at Anippe adoringly. “You knew Puah was expecting and wanted to save their child, didn't you?”

“Well, I …” Anippe ducked her chin, speechless.

So the rumors were true. Master Sebak had ordered patrols only in the unskilled village. But how had Anippe discovered Puah's pregnancy? Even Mered's linen workers were only now discovering she was expecting.

“We're very thankful, Amira.” Puah leaned forward, capturing Anippe's gaze. “I hope someday to be as helpful when you need my service.”

Sebak's eyebrows shot up, and he slid his arm around his wife's waist.
“Perhaps the gods arranged our meeting today, Puah. Anippe thinks it's too early to be sure, but I may have an heir by harvest.”

Puah's color turned to limestone gray. She tried to swallow several times before answering. “You must be very pleased.”

Sebak was utterly ecstatic, seeming oblivious to Puah's discomfort. “When should you examine her to be sure there's a child? How should she proceed? Should she rest more? Eat certain foods?”

Mered noted veiled fury in Anippe's eyes and interceded before she exploded. “Perhaps Puah could visit the villa and discuss the ways of women with the amira later.” Placing his arm around Puah, he tried to comfort while lightening the mood. “Master Sebak and I could stomach talk of war and livestock better than the stories Puah tells me after a birth.”

Both men chuckled, while the women stewed in their separate pots. Mered had no idea what trouble boiled between them. Surely Puah would tell him if it was serious.

Puah stopped abruptly, causing the sea of candle-toting worshipers to flow around the two couples. “If the amira is pregnant, Master Sebak, how should Shiphrah and I send news to you? Will anyone know your whereabouts?” Anippe turned her back, covering her face. Sebak's joy fled, and Mered sensed this had been a topic already discussed by the newlyweds. A topic of great pain.

“No one in Egypt can know my location—at least, not right now. Perhaps later. Perhaps when …” Shaking his head, the master turned to embrace his wife. Whispering, coaxing, he kissed her forehead and drew her into an embrace so tender, Mered felt like an intruder.

Whatever faults Anippe had, she had quenched the loneliness in Master Sebak's heart and loved him well. For this alone, Mered would stem his disdain and serve her faithfully. “What about the messenger that came yesterday to deliver your orders from General Horemheb? Could he become your designated courier to and from Avaris?”

Anippe's head popped up from Sebak's consuming embrace, and she stared at him with doleful eyes. “Surely Abbi Horem could assign one messenger to
carry news to all Delta estates. That messenger could check for personal updates from Mered before leaving Avaris.” She stroked his cheek. “Please, Sebak. No one would have to know.”

Mered's heart twisted.
No one would have to know.
More deception.

“You must promise never to ask my location, Anippe.” Sebak held her shoulders. “I will not risk lives for the sake of a child.”

Anippe laid her head on Sebak's chest and glared at Puah. “Nor would I willingly risk a life for the sake of a child.”

Confused, Mered looked to his wife for answers, but Puah's head was bowed, her fingers laced into white-knuckled fists. Anippe had spoken a hidden message, but what? She was angry with Puah, but why?

A meaty hand clamped down on Mered's shoulder. “It's a worthy suggestion, Mered.” Sebak whirled him around, and they resumed their walk toward the quay. “I'm sure when General Horemheb hears he has a grandchild on the way, he'll be happy to spare one messenger to exchange that and other vital news with the Delta.”

Anippe lay on her bed, waiting for Ankhe to bring her midday meal. Sebak had been gone for two days, and she'd left the chamber only once—to find Ankhe when she didn't answer the chime. Anippe rolled off the bed and lumbered into the sitting room, spying the new water clock that had been delivered soon after Sebak's skiff sailed from the quay.

Anippe dipped her finger in the slender-mouthed vase, barely skimming the water's surface. Her only visitor each day was a priest of Seth, who tended the clock. The temple of the patron Ramessid god was housed at Qantir but shared by both estates. Avaris focused on production rather than religion and boasted a thriving bakery, brewery, oil press, winery, linen shop, metal shop, ceramic shop, and a dozen other skill-based workhouses. Qantir, according to Sebak, housed a temple among other pomp and fluff.

A veritable army of Sethite priests filled every water-clock vase on both estates at precisely the same time each day. A small hole in the bottom of each vase slowly released a small amount of water by which one could track the hours of the day. Anippe examined the level of the water—her only proof that time at Avaris did not stand still.

She suspected the priests' regular visits to her chamber served a dual purpose since the water clock appeared the day after Sebak's departure. The priests
presented regular offerings to the dread god of darkness, and they no doubt expected a frightened young widow, now alone in her villa, to increase her offerings.