“Y ou two! Come away from there!”
Mandisa snapped her fingers at the two giggling slave girls who lingered in the doorway of the north loggia. With fewer manners than ignorant children, they had partially hidden themselves behind a pair of painted columns to gape at the dusty travelers milling about in the vestibule. At Mandisa’s rebuke, the two young ones bowed their heads in shame.
Mandisa stepped forward to herd the girls away from the open doorway. “Ani will be far less gentle than I if he finds you away from the kitchen.”
“But, my lady,” the first girl said, a glint of wonder in her eyes, “they are so strange a group! So much hair covers their faces!”
“We were wondering—” the second slave lifted her fingers to her lips to suppress another giggle “—if they are as hairy all over. Look! Hair sprouts even from the throats of their garments!”
Despite her best intentions, Mandisa cast a quick glance through the doorway. She was accustomed to seeing foreign dignitaries in the vizier’s vestibule, for since the advent of the famine representatives from all the world’s kingdoms had come to buy Egypt’s grain. But the men who now stood in the house wore neither the richly patterned garments of the Assyrians nor the carefully pointed beards of the Mitannis. They were clothed in the common woven garments and animal skins of herdsmen. Compared to the shaven Egyptians, they were as hairy as apes, with hair to their shoulders and long, full beards.
What madness had possessed Tarik when he allowed this rabble through the gates of the vizier’s villa?
She dismissed the question; the steward undoubtedly had his reasons. “Not everyone lives as the Egyptians do,” she said, turning back to the ill-mannered slaves. She placed a firm hand on each girl’s shoulder. “Now away with you, get back to your work in the kitchen. If the vizier has agreed to meet these men, he may want to feed them, and you may be sure that hairy men are hungry men. So hurry back to your grinding, lest Ani or Tarik find you out here.”
The two girls scurried away at the mention of the steward and the captain of the vizier’s guard. Mandisa smiled, grateful that her words carried weight with someone in the house. Lately her son Adom had balked both at her requests and her suggestions, reminding her again how stubborn twelve-year-olds could be.…
She folded her hands, ready to seek her mistress, but paused outside the vestibule, curiosity overcoming her finely tuned instincts. The men beyond were like thousands of others who had come to Egypt in this second year of famine, so why had this particular group of Canaanites been invited to meet Egypt’s royal vizier?
The strangers did not appear wealthy or highborn. Theirs were the faces of sunburned herders; they gripped their staves with broad and callused hands. Generous strands of gray ran through several of their heavy beards; only one or two possessed unlined faces. They stirred, their hands and eyes shifting as if at any moment they might have to reach for a knife or spear to defend themselves. With one look, anyone could see these unruly shepherds had run as wild as the wind since infancy.
Mandisa bit her lip. She had seen men like these before. Her father and brothers were herdsmen. Like dogs, they marked their boundaries and charged any lion, bear or stranger who dared violate their territory. They, too, had habitually worn an uneasy look.
Memories came crowding back like unwelcome guests and Mandisa closed her eyes, refusing to entertain them. Whoever these men were, they had nothing to do with her past or present. They would probably not be allowed to waste more than five minutes of the vizier’s valuable time.
A snatch of their conversation caught her ear and Mandisa tensed, recognizing the Canaanite tongue. The sound stirred up other memories of a time before Idogbe the Egyptian carried her away from her clan. She reached for one of the pillars, steadying herself against the tide of strong emotions she could not stanch, then realized that the men in the room beyond had grown silent.
“This Egyptian prince has pretty slaves, I will not deny that.” A sharp voice cut the silence as she opened her eyes. The man who had spoken stood apart from the others, his hands on his hips, a confident smile upon his face. An air of command exuded from him, and at the sound of his voice the entire group turned toward Mandisa.
She ducked behind the column, her cheeks burning. She had not meant to be seen! They must think her as ill-mannered as the two slave girls. And she was not a slave, but a free woman and the personal maid to Lady Asenath.
“Ah, you startled her,” another man said, a thread of reproach in his voice. “You should not be so brash, Shim’on. She will tell her master that we are brutes and then we shall never obtain what we have come for.”
“We will, Levi, never fear,” the commanding man answered. “We will get our grain and leave Egypt as soon as we can. But what is the harm in admiring a pretty face while we are here?”
Mandisa flew out of the hallway and flattened herself against the wall separating the vestibule from the north loggia. How foolish she had been, allowing these rough men to gawk at her. If they had not been ignorant foreigners, they would have known by her dress that she was no slave.
She shuddered in humiliation. The powerful one who spoke had appraised her like a stockyard animal, then allowed his gaze to cling to her face as she burned in embarrassment.
By all that was holy, she hoped these herders were guilty of robbery or treason. She’d love to see them squirm before her master. Especially the bold one who had propelled her into such an undignified and hasty retreat.
Wrapping the rags of her fragile dignity about her, Mandisa peeled herself from the wall and went in search of her mistress.