Chapter 24

Genesis 43:18–23

Head lowered, Zaphenath moved down the road leading to the royal prison, walking quickly, when he caught sight of the serious-faced Amon hurrying up the road toward him.

“Tjaty,” the young man panted, falling into step beside him, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Zaphenath glanced at him. “For what?”

Amon wrinkled his nose. “Weren’t we supposed to meet to review the granary levels?”

Zaphenath thought for a moment, then rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he muttered, “you’re right. Forgive me.” He beckoned for Amon to keep moving alongside him. “Talk to me while we walk. Something else has come up.”

Amon began rattling through the numbers he could recall while Zaphenath listened. Then seemingly out of nowhere, he glanced over and said, “Amon?”

Cut off mid-sentence, Amon asked, “Yes?”

Zaphenath paused a moment. “I assume you know how I came to know your father.”

Amon looked at him, and Zaphenath could see, as he so often saw, a flash, a flicker, a haunting whisper of a face that had once been so very familiar. Then Amon nodded.

“Has anyone ever asked you about why you work with me?” Zaphenath asked. Amon glanced away and shook his head. Zaphenath saw the hesitation. “Amon.” Amon looked uncomfortably back at him. “It’s important that you tell me.” Zaphenath kept his eyes focused firmly on the young man’s face. “Do you understand what I’m asking?”

“Yes.” Amon looked away. He was small and lithe, with the sort of elegant features that Zaphenath himself possessed, the inheritance of boys who closely resembled their mothers. “But I don’t think I look anything like you.”

Zaphenath blinked. “Is that a joke?”

Amon sighed. “It was supposed to be.”

Zaphenath glanced toward the sky, so expansive and piercingly blue, and his hands shifted uneasily on the scroll clasped behind his back. Then he heard Amon say, “You don’t need to worry, Tjaty. I know what happened.” Zaphenath looked at him, and Amon smiled slightly. “My father told me.” Then he held out a hand. “Do you want me to take the scroll?”

Zaphenath, watching him, handed over the papyrus.

“Are you going to the prison?” Amon asked. “I’ll come with you.”

Zaphenath was quiet for a moment before he said, “Then there’s something else I must explain to you.” He paused. “And, perhaps, ask of you.”

Benjamin, son of Jacob, glanced up at the structure’s mud-brick ceiling, as he had done every few minutes since he and his brothers had been escorted with minimal ceremony into what appeared to be the designated place for their reunion with the man who had imprisoned Simeon. Their camels, laden with gifts from their father and quite out of place amidst the small braying donkeys that the local people used to haul their burdens, had already been led away, albeit with the promise of eventual return. The brothers themselves had been escorted from the entrance of the city to the royal prison, whose interior was really quite comfortable and cool and where, this time, they were allowed to remain outside the holding cell.

Now they stood quietly together, waiting, under the wary eyes of the guards. Indeed, the last several miles of their journey into Kemet had been marked by the particular acknowledgment of the guards at each outpost along the highway leading in through the borders of the land. Someone had known they were coming, and someone had put out the word that they were to be watched for.

“Is that where you were held?” Benjamin asked, voice quiet, gesturing with his head toward the enclosed space at the other end of the room. Judah, who was standing beside his youngest brother, glanced over and nodded. Four men, Judah had confirmed for himself, were still imprisoned there. They gazed up at his foreign face with distrusting eyes when he peered in.

“Do they not like Canaanites?” Benjamin asked, his voice still soft.

“Not these,” Judah murmured, glancing around at his brothers.

Benjamin nodded, looking up at the ceiling again, and swallowed. “So where’s Simeon?”

“Not where we left him.” Judah took another quick look toward the enclosure he had scrutinized so closely when he first entered the room—scanning the faces once, twice, and once more in disbelief—but his brother was nowhere to be seen, and Judah had no way to ask the guards what had happened to him. All he could do was wait, with his father’s most beloved son standing wide-eyed beside him, and pray that he had not made the mistake of his life in bringing Benjamin back here.

He could hear footsteps approaching and turned toward the sound, feeling the energy among his brothers—tense, alert, and watchful—and a sudden shakiness in his hands, revved by the pounding of his heart.

The silhouette of a man appeared in the entryway of the prison. Judah squinted, trying to see against the glare of the sun. Then he watched as the figure stepped inside, moving with a certain deliberateness, pausing in the sudden cool. The guards inclined their heads respectfully, and Judah glanced at Benjamin, who stood, watching. The official (Judah assumed he was some sort of official) was clad in a crisp linen skirt, and his lined eyes stood out sharply against the framing that his wig afforded his curiously boyish face. Judah could not help but glance down, a little self-consciously, at his own coarse desert dress and at his hands, still covered with dust from the two-week journey.

The official, whose face was entirely unfamiliar, did not speak; instead, he stood, simply looking at the bearded brothers. After a moment, they began to lower their bodies and press their knees against the hard prison floor. Lowering himself along with the others, Benjamin raised his eyes, hoping to sneak another glance. Realizing that the man was staring straight at him, he quickly focused his gaze instead toward the ground.

Seemingly satisfied, the official turned to the guards, speaking quietly, and the guards nodded. Turning back to the family, the official walked closer, stepping slowly, keeping his eyes firmly on the faces of the assembled men. He stopped when only a few remaining paces separated them. One of the guards stepped up alongside him.

The man turned to the guard and spoke quietly. The guard nodded.

“You may rise,” the guard said, his accented words indicating that some time had passed since his last use of their language. As the Canaanites shuffled their way back to their feet, the guard asked, “Where is your remaining brother?”

Judah moved forward, taking Benjamin by the arm and stepping out of the protective gathering.

“This is our brother,” he said.

Reuben moved after them. “Please,” he said, and lowered himself once more to his knees. “I do not know what caused the mistake,” he spoke with averted eyes, “but when we returned from our last journey, we found the silver we had used to buy the grain mistakenly placed”—he was picking his words carefully—“within our sacks. We’ve brought back the correct amount and more, with gifts for the vizier.” He shook his head firmly. “We are not thieves.”

The official tilted his head slightly toward the guard as the man gave a hurried translation, looked at Reuben, and shook his head. “There was no record of any missing payment,” they were assured.

Judah dared to raise his eyes, watching.

“No,” Reuben insisted. “I am sure—”

The official waved a hand, speaking quickly, and the guard shook his head. “We keep very careful records. Everything was paid in full.”

For a moment, Judah stared in disbelief and then lowered his eyes again, lest he should appear disrespectful.

“Then let us give the money as a gift,” he heard Reuben say, “and we will present the vizier with other gifts as well.”

“The vizier thanks you for your gifts,” the official told them, “and you will be most welcome to present them, but first, you are to come with me.” He gestured for Reuben to rise from the ground as the guard translated. The official clapped his hands, and the guards in the room advanced. Instinctively, Judah put an arm in front of Benjamin, pushing him back into the throng of brothers, but the man called out another command, and the guards paused.

“You are to be escorted to a safer place,” the guard assured them, turning to the brothers, the slightest of bemused smiles on his face.

The other guards stepped closer and, appearing somewhat less menacing, indicated that the brothers should follow. Judah watched the finely dressed official turn and walk from the room, becoming a darkened shadow as he marched back out into the sunlight. Looking uncertainly at the others, Judah followed, and his brothers moved along after him. The watchful, suspicious gaze of the remaining prisoners followed them to the last.