Chapter 23

Scribe

Hunched over the worn papyrus, the slave whose name had once been Joseph sat crossed-legged on the ground with a thin, reed-like writing utensil, a stylus, lying on the ground beside him. He closed his eyes, straightening up and squinting hard, as if the effort he exerted would somehow clear the jumble of characters crowded together on the battered scroll. It was one thing to know enough to recognize certain words within a known context, but to have to strip this complex language down to its most primal units and learn them one by one—each character representing a sound, or a combination of sounds, or sometimes an entire expression—there were just so many of them.

Yawning, he opened his eyes again and looked back down at the papyrus sheet with its intricate markings—names and ideas and abstract concepts all transmitted through these fragile sketches on a material of flattened river plants. For some time now he had been practicing reading those fragile sketches and writing them out himself on broken shards of pottery, sitting with other young scribes in training for hours a day in the nearby temple while the priests taught them the sacred art of the Word. Great creative potential was unleashed through the act of writing, they were told, as well as the act of reading and speaking aloud the words that were written, as if the breath of the scribe imbued the copied symbols and rituals with life, blending what was written and what was real, and releasing into being that which until then was represented only symbolically as text.

As the young trainees were executors of this sacred craft, exceptional behavior was expected of them. They would be important members of the community throughout their lives, yes, but most important, they were to stay solemnly aware of the sacredness of the powers with which they were now endowed as masters of the Word.

All of which was very grand, Joseph was sure, but during the nights when he sat alone in Potiphar’s house, trying to fill up the gaps in his mastery of even the basic spoken language, he could often feel a low, pounding tension radiating behind his eyes, and he slept with the pain when he could read no longer.

He rubbed the back of his neck, straightening up again in a stretch, before focusing once more on the document in front of him. It was a story about a courtier who fled from Kemet at the death of the king only to find chaos and disorder beyond the country’s borders, out in the regions where the Asiatic tribesmen dwelt in states of various incivility. He had just gotten to the part where the exiled courtier prayed to return to Kemet, in spite of the prosperity and riches he had acquired in his foreign sojourns, when he suddenly sensed someone watching him.

He raised his eyes and smiled.

Djeseret stood, leaning her shoulder against the brick arch lining the entryway into the room. “What do they have you reading now?” she asked.

“It’s about Sinuhe,” he told her. “This is how you say it? Sinuhe?”

“Ah,” she said, “the Tale of Sinuhe,” and moved across the floor in a rustle of thin linen. She was wearing one of her long, full wigs, and golden jewelry, inlaid with green stones, bound her upper arms and wrists. He smiled as she sat down beside him. “Where are you?”

Joseph looked down at the manuscript. “He wants to go home.”

“Has he found success and riches yet?”

Joseph nodded. “But he still wants to go home.”

“He does go home,” she said, “eventually.” Then she glanced at him. “Does it . . . make you think about—?”

“This is my home now.” He didn’t meet her eyes. “Potiphar is kind to me.”

She smiled. “Potiphar thinks you’re very smart. He was telling me that the way you reorganized the field-planting project has been a huge success. He said your suggestions were brilliant.”

Joseph glanced at her. “I just saw it,” he admitted. “In a dream.”

She laughed. “Your dreams are much more useful than mine. You must have a gift.” The golden bracelets on her wrist jangled as she gestured. “Blessed by the gods. Maybe by Sobek himself, hm?” She nudged him. “Sa-Sobek, Son-of-Sobek.”

“Ah,” he said, “Sobek,” and picked up his stylus. The wooden rectangular slab where the stylus rested when not in use had two small, circular indentions carved into the wood, one of which was filled with black ink and the other with red. Joseph dipped the stylus into the small pool of black ink and, in the upper corner of the much-copied record, set to work, his wrist flicking deftly around the design. With a grin, he pointed to the tiny crocodile now crouched along the uppermost border in the corner of the manuscript. “Sobek.”

“Can you write your name?” she asked.

He nodded and drew what looked like the small figure of a goose in front of the crocodile. “Sa-Sobek,” he said. “I think the crocodile will eat the goose.”

Djeseret laughed again, and Joseph chuckled with her. “And you’re using the sacred writing, too,” she said, “not just the scribal script. Potiphar will be very impressed.” She smiled. “Can you write my name?”

He thought for a moment, stylus poised. Then dipping it quickly back into the ink, he sketched out the characters, using the space underneath the crocodile and the goose: a serpent, followed by a knot, then an open mouth, and finished by a little mound that looked like a half-risen sun peeking over the horizon. “Djeseret,” he pronounced.

“I like how you drew the serpent,” she said, and he smiled. “And what about your real name?” He glanced at her. “Joseph?” She looked down at the papyrus. “How do you write it in your language?”

Next to the crocodile, and moving faster than with the foreign characters, Joseph drew the simple strokes quickly—a few dashes, a circle, a backward-facing hook.

“Joseph,” he said.

She looked down at the foreign name. “Do you think much about your people?”

He shook his head.

She was quiet a moment. “Do you have brothers?” she asked. “Sisters?”

He glanced over, his head bare and his eyes lined. “One brother,” he said. “One sister.” He smiled a little. “She is kind, like you.”

Djeseret smiled too. “A small family, then.”

“My mother wanted many.” He shrugged. “But . . .”

She nodded. “I understand.” Her smile became a little sadder. “Me too.” She held up her fingers with the number. “I am married four years but no children.”

Joseph looked up toward the ceiling, thinking. “My mother—nine years.”

“Nine years,” she repeated. “Are you the oldest?”

Joseph’s expression seemed to indicate that his thoughts were outpacing the language he had to express them. Finally, he just said, “Yes.”

She was watching him. “I’m sure they miss you.”

“My mother is dead.” He swallowed. “She was very good. Very beautiful, in all ways.” He pressed a hand over his chest. “She is still . . . close to me.”

Djeseret lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He gave another shrug. She looked back down at the papyrus, and it seemed that neither wanted to meet the other’s eyes.

Finally, Djeseret said, “I felt very lonely when I first came to live here. I had to leave my family. Not like you did, but . . . I still missed them.” He glanced at her, and she gave a weak smile. “It’s hard to come to a new place. For a while you don’t fit.” She paused, trying to rethink her words. “You have no place.”

He thought about that, then nodded.

“But you’ll find a place.” She tapped the papyrus. “Maybe you’ll be like Sinuhe too and find lots of riches in your new country.”

Joseph looked at her. “Sinuhe was free.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe someday your master will make you a free man. That can happen.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Of course.” She smiled again. “Why do you think Sinuhe wanted to come home to Kemet? This is the most civilized place in the world.”

Joseph set his stylus back down on its platform with the little ink pots. “So,” he asked, “you have found your place?”

“I’ve tried to.” She shrugged. “I guess . . . I don’t always know what my place is.” She rubbed one hand over her arm, jangling the golden bracelets around her wrist again. “Sometimes I think Potiphar is . . . disappointed, maybe, that he chose me for his wife.”

“Oh, no,” Joseph shook his head. “I’m sure he’s very glad. And you are lucky.” Djeseret wouldn’t fully recognize the sudden conviction in his voice, couldn’t know that he saw the shadows of his sister when he looked at her. “Potiphar is a good man.”

She lowered her eyes. “Yes.” She looked back, and Joseph, seeing the sudden sadness in her face, reached out instinctively, setting his hand on her arm, the way he so often had with Dinah. She blinked, and looked down, and then looked back up at him.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” she said, her smile wobbling. She pushed herself back to her feet, setting her jewelry tinkling softly with her movements. Joseph looked up as she stood and watched as she moved away. She didn’t glance back at him as she brushed through the entryway and out of sight, and he was left sitting alone, holding the papyrus where their names were written—hers bridging the gap between his new name and his old one, binding the two halves back together.