The Pharaoh's Daughter (52 page)

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about.” He kissed her gently, a grin still on his lips. “Your stomach has been upset, and you've been extra sensitive to smells recently.”

She didn't respond.

“And you've been sleeping longer than usual in the mornings. Have you been extra tired or simply lazy?” His eyes danced with mischief.

“If you want me up at dawn, you should jostle me when you rise.”

He chuckled. “Bithiah, how long since your last red flow?”

“I can't be pregnant, Mered. We're grandparents.”

“It doesn't matter. If God grants it, we'll have a child.”

She began figuring the courses of the moon and realized she had skipped last month's flow.

Mered scooted closer, slid the bowl aside, and pulled her close. She curled into him, letting his warmth repel the returning chill of fear. “The child that grows within your womb is our child, wife. You and El-Shaddai will protect him until he greets the world. In this single act—the creation and sustaining of life—a woman and El-Shaddai share a special bond, one that a man can never know.” He kissed her forehead. “Treasure these months, and I will cherish you and our child forever.”

“What will we tell the children?”

He laughed again, and she giggled. “Since Ednah told us last week that she and Ephraim are expecting, we can tell them our grandson will have an uncle to play with.”

“Or our granddaughter an aunt to play with.” Bithiah snuggled closer into his chest, the weight of the truth growing heavier by the moment. “What if Shiphrah and Miriam are busy at Ednah's birth and can't help me? What if my body's too old to deliver a child? What if—”

“What if we have ten more happy, healthy babies before we age to one hundred and ten and die at perfection?”

She shoved him away. “I haven't even had this one, and you want ten more?”

With a roar, he rolled her onto their sleeping mat, laughing, playing, loving, wanting, adoring. She saw it in his eyes. All she'd ever hoped for.

“If I am to bear your child, Mered, I must ask one thing.” She grew serious and combed her fingers through the gray hairs at his temples.

“Anything, my love. Name it.”

“Heber and Jeki sleep on the roof, and we get the main room.”

He smiled wryly and glanced down at the bustling quay. “All right, but I'm going to be late for the workshop this morning.” He buried kisses in her neck, and the bowl of gruel was forgotten.

EIGHT MONTHS LATER

Mered walked the aisles of vertical looms, inspecting the fibers, the weave, the designs. Forty men now stood or sat at their craft, deftly working the warp and weft. Someday Jered would manage this alone. How would Mered know his son was ready?

Bithiah was due to have their first child any day, and he'd readily trusted her pregnancy and delivery to El-Shaddai—even after losing Puah in childbirth. Why then was he so hesitant to entrust the linen shop to his firstborn son? The question plagued him. Maybe he loved his work too much and trusted his son too little. Or was it deeper?

El-Shaddai, could I trust You if You asked me to give up everything—as Anippe did?

The thought was staggering and made him yearn for his wife. Her transformation had been remarkable. She was remarkable, because she'd learned to trust in El-Shaddai completely. Mered realized it was time to give Jered more responsibility at the shop—because he must trust El-Shaddai completely.

Feeling God's pleasure, he wiped away tears and raised his head. Nassor stood before him.

“I didn't want to interrupt.” Disdain tinged Nassor's voice. “Since you were weeping like a jilted maiden.”

“How can I help you?”

“Master Mehy will see you in his chamber.” Nassor spoke the words like a curse and shoved Mered toward the door. “Your linen sales are down. Perhaps he'll finally send you to the mud pits where you belong.”

Mered kept walking—past the garden and down the corridor—using every drop of restraint to stay silent. Linen sales were down because Nassor had stolen more linen this year, selling it in the peasant market to line his own pockets. He settled on a bland reply. “I'm thankful we have a gracious master. Aren't you, Nassor?”

A sudden blow, and Mered found himself on the floor. A kick to his side, and he rolled into a ball, covering his head for protection.

“You will never address me as an equal, Hebrew. Is that understood? We helped the amira long ago, but don't imagine we're friends.” Nassor kicked him again. This time Mered heard his fingers pop, and he cried out. “Get up, linen keeper, and straighten your robe.” He grabbed one of Mered's arms and jerked him to his feet.

Mered stood on wobbly legs, walking and blinking away black spots in his vision. Hand throbbing, he paused at the masters door while the estate foreman knocked with his spear and ground out a threat.

“If you breathe a word of our scuffle, your sons will be in the mud pits by dusk.”

Trying to straighten to full height, Mered smiled when Mandai answered the door. The Medjay took one look at his stooped form and opened the door wider. “Master Mehy, perhaps you should see how efficiently your estate foreman obeys your commands.”

Nassor's grip on Mered's arm tightened, and the linen keeper tried to stand taller, but his ribs were almost certainly broken.

Mehy sat on his couch, expression unchanged. “Nassor, I could use a man like you at my new post. When I'm finished meeting with Mered, you and I will talk about your future.”

The estate foreman shoved Mered through the door and puffed out his chest. “Thank you, Master Mehy. I'm honored. You won't be sorry.”

Mandai supported Mered with one arm and closed the heavy door with the other. “Don't speak until we get to the bathhouse.” He kept his voice low and supported Mered's left side.

Mehy led the way and quickly cleared pillows off the bathhouse couch. Mered noticed the large scar across the boy's left shoulder, well healed but evidence of a serious gash. He'd only seen the master once since the injury, soon after his return to the estate.

“Your shoulder wound has healed well, Master Mehy.” Mered's voice was breathy. Each word pained him.

“I'm in better shape than you are at the moment.” Mehy lowered him to the couch. “I'm sorry, Mered. I thought assigning Nassor to escort you directly here would keep him from touching you.”

Mered waved off his concern with his good hand, and Mandai eyed his broken fingers.

“These don't look so bad.” Mandai yanked them into place, and Mered screamed. “You see? They're straight again.”

Mehy pulled some reeds from the river and handed them to the Medjay. “Here, use these to wrap them.” Mandai went to work, and the master clapped a hand on Mered's shoulder. “Wrap some linen around your chest when you return to the shop to support your ribs. Nassor is a brute. He'll leave with me and Mandai in the morning on the troop ship to Nubia.”

“Nubia? Why are you going to Nubia?” Mered thought of his pregnant wife at home. She wouldn't be happy about her son going so far away.

“Jad Horem is sending me to Nubia for my protection.” Mehy waved away Mered's concern. “Back to Nassor's transfer. Do you know of a more trustworthy Ramessid officer to replace him—one who could manage the estate and treat the Hebrews fairly in my absence?”

Mered considered the few Ramessids he knew who were both honest and kind. Most men of higher character served as military officers or noblemen. “There is one man, Gadiel. He oversees the peasant market and to my knowledge has never taken a bribe.”

“Gadiel. I remember him.” Mehy nudged Mandai aside, winding the last
reed around Mered's hand. “When our friend here leaves, send for Gadiel. I'll inform him of his new position as estate foreman. He has much to learn before I leave for Nubia tomorrow.”

Mandai stood over them and laid a hand on Mehy's shoulder. “You should tell the linen keeper about Nubia. Perhaps Mered's one God can help us. I've seen his prayers work before.”

Mehy sighed and rolled his eyes, but Mered noted a slight grin. “Even my Medjay speaks of El-Shaddai.”

“Perhaps you could start by telling me about your injury,” Mered suggested. “I've heard stories from my linen workers, but I'd rather hear the truth from you.”

Mehy tucked in the end of the reed, securing the wrap around Mered's hand. He sat on the ground beside the couch and sighed again, seeming weary beyond his years. “The stories are undoubtedly grander—and happier—than the truth, my friend. Mandai was commander over both Sety and me. We encountered heavy Hittite resistance along the coastal route. Sety lost a chunk of his thigh to a Hittite swordsman. I tried to pull him to safety, but the same warrior slashed open my shoulder. Mandai rescued us both.” He recited the story like a merchant reading a supply list.

“At least you're alive, Mehy, and your courage to help Sety sounds remarkable.”

“Vizier Pirameses doesn't think it so remarkable. He blames both Mandai and me for his son's injury. Sety will walk again but never fight. Jad Horem made him high priest of Seth's temple in Qantir, and his ummi Sitre chose a bride. They marry within the month. Pirameses is furious.”

His countenance faded into resignation. “Jad Horem named me Son of Cush—governor of Upper Egypt. I think he meant to remove me from Pirameses's fury. Instead, he stirred it further because Pirameses—who was vizier over both Upper and Lower Egypt—is now my equal. That's why I leave tomorrow for the Nubian fortress of Buhen with Mandai as my bodyguard.” He laughed without humor, too cynical for a boy of eighteen. “And Nassor will become the new
Seth reborn.
He's more suited for the role than I ever was.”

Mered could only stare at the miracle before him. A Hebrew babe, saved in a basket, reared a prince, and raised to Pharaoh's right hand. “Do you remember any of the stories Jochebed or Miriam told you growing up?”

Mehy tilted his head and grinned. “That's an odd question. I remember a few. Why?”

“Do you remember the story of Joseph? His Egyptian name was Zaphenath-Paneah.”

Mehy's geniality fled, his face suddenly pale. “I know Zaphenath-Paneah's policies allowed migrant Canaanites—Hyksos—to rule Lower Egypt until the Ramessids expelled them.” He stood, signaling their meeting's end. “Don't ever mention his name again. Jad Horem has protected me from Pirameses thus far, but if you compare me to this Joseph, no one can save me.”

Mandai patted Mered's shoulder and then pointed to his hand. “Change the reeds each day, and rest your hand. It should heal in a few weeks, my friend.”

“Thank you.” Mered pushed himself off the couch, gaining a little help from both men. He turned to Mehy and squeezed his shoulder. “I won't mention the Hebrew's name to you again, Master Mehy, but I will never stop mentioning your name to El-Shaddai. May my God bless you and keep you and be gracious to you. May His face shine on you and give you peace.”

He turned to go, praying his last words would seep into the boy's soul on his long journey to Nubia.

Bithiah sat in the only chair they owned and measured her growing hips by how much they hung over the seat. She felt like a hippopotamus and almost certainly looked like one—though she couldn't be sure since Mered had hidden her bronze mirror the day he found her crying at her reflection. If persistent swelling, constant burping, and endless sweating were previews of childbirth, Shiphrah should simply drown her in the Nile at the first contraction. Her fear of death had been consumed by abject misery.

“Mama, where should I put the parched grain?” Ednah stood at the curtained doorway with her cute round belly, two heavy trays of grain in hand. How could anyone be so lovely while pregnant?

“Set it by the cooking pots. We'll shuck it when we're finished making beer.” She appraised her daughter's youth and grace and wondered again why El-Shaddai had allowed her—a grandmother—to conceive a child. Since she no longer believed in Egyptian gods or their tricks, she must trust in El-Shaddai's good plan. “Did your father say when he'd be home?”