The Pharaoh's Daughter (18 page)

Was this the new normal—Ankhe thinking she could manipulate and command whenever she pleased? Anippe massaged her temples again and took a deep breath. Better to choose her battles. “It's a good plan, Ankhe. Thank you.” Anippe examined Ephah from head to toe, taking in her raised chin and narrowed eyes. “Ephah and Jochebed will remain in my chamber tonight with the children. I can't have them walking out the door with two baby boys, and I dare not keep one in my chamber and risk him crying out.”

Ephah glared at Ankhe. “You said I'd sleep on a down-stuffed mattress tonight.”

Anippe tried to hide a grin. It was good for Ephah to learn quickly not to
trust Ankhe. “Ephah, you and Jochebed can use cushions from the bathhouse to make beds on the sitting-room floor.”

“All right then,” Ankhe said on her way to the door. “Don't wake me in the morning.”

When the door closed behind her, Jochebed hurried toward the pitcher of water. “Let me get clean water for your bedtime bath, Amira.”

“No, Jochebed.” Anippe held her new son in one arm and stilled Jochebed's fidgeting with the other. “My new handmaid will do that. You and Miriam should make your beds.”

Ephah jerked the pitcher from Jochebed's hand. “Will someone at least hold my baby while I work?”

“Of course, child.” Jochebed's tender words were wasted on the maid. Ephah thrust her son at the older woman and disappeared behind the servant's partition. Jochebed turned to Anippe. “She'll get better in time. Women are sometimes emotional after a birth.”

Anippe looked into Jochebed's kind eyes and then down at Miriam's bright smile. The gods had given her a son from a loving family. For this she was truly grateful. Only one question nibbled at the edges of her heart. How could she ensure their silence when their service was no longer needed?

SIX MONTHS LATER

Master Mered, I've got the amira's designs for you.” Miriam skipped across the sandstone tiles of the linen shop, waving two scrolls and initiating chuckles from every worker she passed.

Mered received the scrolls with a frown, glaring his scoffing workers back to their tasks. Cupping her chin, he captured her gaze. “Miriam, remember what we talked about? There's no need to call me ‘master.' I'm a Hebrew slave just like you and the others.”

“Yes, but you don't dress like us. Why is that?”

Mered heard snickering from behind the vertical looms. He'd lived with ridicule for his Egyptian style—even suffered an occasional brawl—but his workers generally understood why Master Sebak required it of him. “I dress this way because I must sell linen to Egyptian and foreign traders, but my heart and soul are dedicated to El-Shaddai. The Lord doesn't judge a man by his hair and clothes but by his thoughts and deeds.”

“Will El-Shaddai judge King Tut for being so mean?”

“Shh.” Mered grabbed Miriam and covered her mouth. He whispered against her ear, “You must never say such a thing. Not all Hebrews are loyal to our people, Miriam, and if an Egyptian hears you've spoken against their king, it's death for you and your family.” He released her and saw tears welling in her
eyes. Pulling her back into his arms, this time to comfort her, he laid his cheek atop her head. “I'm just trying to protect you, little one. These walls have ears.”

“Well, these walls tell me the king is coming to Avaris.”

“What?” He pushed her away again. The poor child no doubt felt like laundry on a river rock. “Where did you hear this?”

“A royal messenger brought a message to Amira Anippe this morning, saying King Tut wants to be here when her first baby arrives. His barque arrives tomorrow.”

Mered's mind began to spin. Anippe's child was still a month from term. Would the king stay in Avaris that long? Would the amira come out of seclusion to greet him?

“Master Mer—” Miriam clamped her hands over her mouth as if reining in wild horses.

“You can call me simply Mered.”

“All right. Simply Mered.” She giggled but then sobered, her little brow wrinkled with concern. “When King Tut comes, will he make the guards throw Puah's baby into the Nile?”

Mered pressed his fists against his eyes, trying to erase images of infants' bodies rushing among the waves, decayed along the banks, half-eaten by feasting crocodiles. The Ramessid patrols had continued their gruesome task after Sebak's departure. Shiphrah and Puah still refused to kill the boys, making sure they were absent at the moment of birth—usually waiting outside the doorway in case of complications.

But Puah couldn't be absent at the birth of her own child, and they were most certainly not throwing their son into the Nile—or setting him adrift in a pitch-covered basket. Had Amram's youngest son lived? Mered shook his head and rubbed his face. How could a boy in a basket be saved when God let so many others perish?

“Mered, are you crying because Puah's baby is a boy?” Miriam patted his forearm, stirring him from his thoughts.

He released a deep sigh and stared into those deep pools of innocence. “No, Miriam. Puah will have a girl. We will have a daughter.”

She rested her elbow on his desk and sighed. “Well, that's good. Maybe you should tell the amira, because she seemed worried Puah might have a son.”

Mered turned on his stool and gathered her into his arms. “And why might the amira think Puah would have a son?”

“Because Shiphrah sent word this morning that Puah was having birth pains, and the amira said she'd pray to her gods that Tut wouldn't throw the baby in the Nile.”

Mered leapt from his stool, sending it skidding across the tiles, and raced from the linen shop without a backward glance. Why hadn't Shiphrah sent for him? Down the hill toward the craftsmen's village he ran, stumbling more than once. Perhaps rolling down the hill would be faster.

He passed a herd of pigs, scattering a few, which earned him the ire of the herdsmen. He wound his way through a group of slaves on their way to weed another field. This year's inundation had left the Delta's soil rich and black, growing grain to record heights, ripe and full. He passed it all with fresh awe at El-Shaddai's creative wonders.

“My wife is having a baby!” Mered shouted, receiving more than one strange look as he rounded the corner of the first long house.

But then his joy drained away, and his heart nearly failed. Huddled near his doorway, a knot of old women blocked the entrance, while toddlers played all around them. His legs turned to water but somehow carried him home.

A woman near the back of the crowd noticed his approach. “Oh Mered. Your darling Puah will bear your child by evening—perhaps a little later.” Her pink-gummed smile nudged aside his overwhelming fear.

“Is she well? May I see her?”

“Oh, a husband should never see his beloved bearing their child. If that man is kind, he would never touch her again. If he is wicked, he would despise her baser instincts.” She elbowed his midsection. “You go back to the workshop. Let Shiphrah take care of your Puah, and let us old crones take care of the little one.”

Mered rose on his tiptoes, trying to see beyond the gray heads clogging his doorway, but it was no use. Puah was safely sheltered within the bosom of
womanhood, and he was an intruder here. He would do as he was told and return to the workshop—but he would discover all he could about the king's visit.

El-Shaddai, please let my child be a girl.

Anippe paced in her chamber, wearing a groove in the tiles between her bed and the courtyard pillar. “We must stop him. Tut can't come to Avaris until after I've given birth.”

Ankhe rolled her eyes. “Anubis will sprout wings and sing Hathor's love song before you give birth, sister.”

The young handmaid, Ephah, giggled, and Anippe shot her a glare that would have killed a meeker soul. Ankhe had become Ephah's protector, and the girl had become almost as lazy as the king's younger sister.

Ankhe shook the unfurled papyrus delivered by the messenger that morning, royal seal still dangling. “Our brother won't wait for his visit. This scroll was sent from Bubastis yesterday.”

Anippe growled, hating that Ankhe was right—again. Her sister had become more arrogant since moving into the private chamber across the hall from Anippe.

“We'll tell Tut you're ill and forbid him to enter your chamber for fear of rousing the gods' displeasure,” Ankhe said.

Incredulous, Anippe stopped her pacing. “Ankhe, we do not forbid King Tut to do anything. Besides, he's Horus incarnate—son of Isis, who is the goddess of healing. Not even a wheezing cough or weeping sore would deter the great Pharaoh.”

“Well, if he enters your chamber and finds you as skinny as a bulrush, we'll both die.”

A knock sounded on the door to Jochebed's adjoining chamber. Ankhe glared at Ephah when she stood to answer it. “The amira isn't well and doesn't wish to be disturbed.”

Anippe raced toward the door, glaring at her sister. “No wait, Jochebed.”
She unlatched the door and swung it open. The wet nurse stood with Ephah's baby on one hip and Anippe's son on the other. The young prince lunged for his ummi, and Anippe reached out to take him. He was such a big boy these days, sitting by himself, rolling to the toy of his choice, nearly crawling.

A moment of sadness shadowed Jochebed's face but was quickly replaced by a tender smile. Was Jochebed becoming too attached? Spending too much time with the child?

“Shiphrah sent an update,” Jochebed said a little too brightly. “Puah is doing well and will most likely deliver before the sun rises.” She lingered, looking longingly at Anippe's son. “Would you like me to take him back so you and Ankhe can continue your talk?”

“Thank you, Jochebed, no. I'll call you when it's time for his next feeding.” Anippe turned to the lazy maid. “Get out, and take care of your own child.”

The girl shot a pleading glance at Ankhe, as if she might defend her, but for once, Ankhe remained silent. Jochebed gave up the second child, her empty arms making her look pitiful as she disappeared behind the closed door. Surely Miriam would return from the linen shop soon. Anippe had given her the designs to take to Mered long ago.

Anippe latched the door and held her son close, inhaling the sweet scent of lotus-scented oil Jochebed applied after his baths.

Ankhe broke the spell. “Tut will never believe he's a newborn.”

“I know.”

“How will we continue the deception?”

“I don't know.” Anippe sang to her son, a made-up song. He giggled. She danced and swayed, delighted at his squeals.

“He'll kill us both if he finds out.”

“And my life will have been a happy one, Ankhe.” She stomped her foot, perched the baby on her hip, and stared at her painfully glum sister. “I haven't waited for others to give me a life. I didn't demand fortune, influence, or leisure. I have lived the life the gods gave me. Perhaps if you stopped whining about all that's wrong, you might find a way to make it right.”

Anippe hurried toward the bathhouse before Ankhe could ruin what remained of their last day on earth. If Tut discovered their deceit, at least she
could take today's memories with her to the underworld. Placing her precious bundle on a cushion near the canal, she let him explore his basket of trinkets—his favorite was the gourd rattle Jochebed had made.

Wrapped in her son's innocence, she hadn't heard Ankhe's approach. “Why haven't you named him?” When Anippe didn't answer, her sister pressed on. “I know why. You're afraid if you name him, Anubis will know he exists and take him away. But every child needs a name.”

But what if she chose the wrong name? Anippe was still tormented by the name the Great Wife, Nefertiti, had given her—
Meryetaten-tasherit.
Why name her son now, when his future—and hers—was so uncertain?

She pulled up her knees and rested her chin there. “I want his name to hold lasting meaning, Ankhe, and I don't yet know who he is—or what he'll become.” She looked again at the miracle she'd drawn out of the Nile. “I've heard Jochebed call him
Moses.
I asked her about it, and she said it meant
‘draw out
' in Hebrew. For now, I'll name him Moses, but I can't give an Egyptian name yet.” She looked up at Ankhe, who stood towering over her. “And that's the end of it. Understand?”

To her utter and grateful surprise, Ankhe nodded and sat beside her. “I do understand, and I think I know how we can save both Moses and ourselves from Pharaoh's wrath.”

Anippe offered her a rueful grin. Ankhe was stubborn, petulant, and exhausting—but she did have good ideas. “Tell me.”