M andisa tried to follow the rising babble of the brothers’ conversation until she felt the light touch of a hand upon her arm. “The master seeks you,” Tarik whispered, lingering behind a column as the prisoners bickered in the center of the chamber.
Mandisa turned and followed Tarik into a small room off the great hall. The noble Zaphenath-paneah sat motionless on a bed as if his mind and body were benumbed. His eyes were red with weeping, and dark stains of kohl streaked his cheeks.
“Please, Mandisa, freshen my toilette,” he said, offering her a fragile smile. “I must not appear weak before them.”
He offered no reason for his behavior, and from Tarik’s mystified expression Mandisa intuited that the master had not explained his connection to the troublesome men in the hall. She reached into a cosmetics box she carried for such emergencies and reapplied the master’s face paint in swift, sure strokes. Within a moment he had assumed his former regal appearance, but his voice was unsteady when he thanked her.
“Here.” She pulled a scrap of linen from a basket on the floor. “Let them think, if necessary, that the desert winds have elicited a cough.”
He took the square of linen and crumpled it in his hand, then leaned forward as if to stand up. “What are they arguing about?” he asked. “Were you able to hear?”
“They are quarreling over who should remain behind,” she said, folding her hands. “The spokesman, Re’uven, says the one called Shim’on should remain in Egypt, for he has no wife waiting in Canaan. But this Shim’on—” she felt her cheeks color as she said the bold one’s name “—says he has a sister and six sons who need him.”
“Six sons.” A wistful note echoed in Zaphenath-paneah’s voice, and Mandisa felt her heart contract in sympathy. The single sorrow that lay over the vizier’s household resulted from the fact that the royal physicians had warned Lady Asenath that another child would certainly hasten her death. She had borne two healthy sons during the days of plenty, then had suffered three miscarriages, the most recent of which had occurred during the time of the Nile’s last flooding. That unborn child nearly dragged Lady Asenath with it into the Otherworld.
Now the mistress’s womb lay as barren and shallow as the starving Nile. Zaphenath-paneah had consoled his wife with tenderness and compassion, assuring her he loved her even though he would no longer visit her chambers when she might conceive a child. He was content with her and two sons, he often told her, especially since his responsibilities to the kingdom and Pharaoh often drained him of strength.
“But you renew me,” Mandisa had heard him whisper to his whimpering wife one afternoon, “you and Efrayim and Menashe. I am blessed beyond measure, for your smile alone is enough to strengthen my heart, soul and body.”
The master looked as though he needed one of his wife’s smiles now. He remained absolutely motionless for a long moment, then stood and moved toward the hall with long, purposeful strides.
Drawn by curiosity and duty, Mandisa and Tarik followed.
With the full intensity of his brothers’ eyes upon him, Yosef mounted the dais and turned toward them. “Tarik will take the one I chose to prison,” he said, speaking in Egyptian. As Mandisa translated in a breathless voice, Yosef lifted his hand and pointed squarely at Shim’on.
The man was a thorn. Twenty years ago, he had been one of the first to call for Yosef’s death after they dropped him into the pit. Before that, at every family gathering, Shim’on had managed to find a reason to needle the others. As strong as an iron chain and as unyielding as a rock, his opinions inevitably divided the brothers. In Yosef’s day, even the women had learned to avoid him.
Without Shim’on, the others would have a more peaceful journey home—seventeen or eighteen days of relative calm. Yaakov would not have to hear Shim’on’s negative version of their encounter with the Egyptian vizier, and Binyamin would not have to make the long journey to Egypt in the company of a murderous madman. For an instant Yosef wished he’d had enough forethought to order Levi’s detention, too, for he and Shim’on usually united to cause trouble. But of the two hotheads, Shim’on was the most likely to erupt.
At Tarik’s command, a column of guards moved into the knot of Canaanites and separated Shim’on from the others. As a pair of guards advanced to bind the captive’s wrists, the burly shepherd lunged, grabbing and neatly breaking one guard’s arm over his knee.
Two guards grabbed for Shim’on’s right hand and were then launched across the room; another had the misfortune of connecting face-first with Shim’on’s fist. Yosef heard the snap as Shim’on’s punch broke the man’s jawbone. A shoulder throw sent another pair of guards crashing to the floor. One foolish fan-bearer, who thought to enter the fray with only the pole of his fan for a weapon, found himself lying at Shim’on’s feet, the breath snuffed out of him like a winking candle.
A melee broke out, the dignity of the chamber vanishing as full-throated shrieks echoed from the high ceiling and bounced among the pillars. Most of the cries came from Shim’on and the injured guard, for the other brothers cowered against the wall, their expressions ranging from embarrassment to sheer horror. Mandisa, Yosef noticed, covered her eyes, rather than watch the spectacle.
As the wounded retreated, the lance-bearers tightened their circle. Though the captive still crouched in a position of menace, his allies had fled; the fight was over. Tarik waded through the injured guards to catch and bind Shim’on’s flailing fists; another Egyptian shackled and hobbled the shepherd’s feet with a length of rope. He could still run, but he would not get far.
Yosef smothered a grim smile. He should have warned Tarik. A man did not grow up with eleven brothers without learning how to fight. And it was not on mere whim that the others had named Shim’on “the Destroyer.”
With Shim’on bound, Yosef looked out at the brothers with a dispassionate stare. “The rest of you may go. But if you return, you will not see this one again unless you bring your younger brother and thus prove your own words. Then you may come and trade for food in peace.” He paused, concern and contempt warring in his soul, as Mandisa translated in a trembling voice.
“I give you one warning—use the grain of Egypt for bread, not for seed. Nothing will grow for five more years. Now go,” he rushed on, aware of a disturbing quake in his self-control, “and may all be well with you and your father.”
The trumpets blared as he stood. Amid a blizzard of mingled shouts from the brothers, the guards led Shim’on out of the room. Ignoring their farewells, Yosef left the hall through another exit.
Safe from prying eyes in the small adjoining chamber, he turned to Tarik, who had followed. “Listen carefully,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Do not return the man to Pharaoh’s prison, but prepare a secure room in my house. Do not withhold from him any luxury save that of his freedom.”
Tarik blinked. “Is this a wise course, noble vizier? He is an unruly sort.”
“I do not believe he will hurt anyone here. He is a shepherd. He obeys the law of fight or flee. I should have warned you.”
“My men should have been better prepared,” Tarik answered, his face flooding with color. “Their shameful performance—”
“They did well.” Yosef rested a hand on his hip. “Shim’on is strong. And he has always been dangerous.”
If Tarik was relieved by Yosef’s assurances, he didn’t show it. “And what of the others, my lord?”
“Allow them to purchase grain-rations from my own granaries, but have the scribes return each man’s silver to the mouth of his sack.” He clapped a hand on the captain’s bronzed shoulder. “I can’t take silver from my own brothers.”
When surprise blossomed on the guard’s handsome face, Yosef held up a warning finger. “Not a word to anyone. My wife knows the truth, and Mandisa. But no one else.”
“Should Ani be told?”
Yosef gave Tarik a conspiratorial wink. “Ani is a wise man, but his wisdom is forever flowing from his tongue. He will not be harmed by not knowing.”
Tarik bowed. “Is that all, my lord?”
Yosef paused. “They will need fresh donkeys and provisions for their journey. Have Ani make preparation for these things, then send the brothers away as soon as possible.” He grimaced. “The sooner they are home, the sooner they will return and take their troublesome brother with them.”
Tarik’s usually stern mouth spread in a toothy grin. “It shall be done as you say, my master.”
Shim’on stared around the room in wonder. After his outburst, he had expected to be thrust into another prison pit, one even more barbaric than the first, but instead he had been marched through the villa’s courtyard and given a private room within the walls of the vizier’s palace. Why?
Skins, cushions and fresh linens covered the low bed of polished wood and the neck rest had been padded with the softest down. A pitcher and basin stood on a stand near a high window that brought in fresh light and air. Next to the bed, a half dozen lotus blossoms floated in a bowl of water and scented the chamber with a sweet aroma.
Shim’on sank onto the seat of an elaborately carved chair and fingered his beard. He could imagine several explanations for this unusual treatment, but the most obvious answer was that Egypt’s vizier was a lunatic. Alternately hostile and forgiving, this ruler had already demonstrated capricious whims of fancy. Shim’on had heard that the Egyptians were a cheerful and superstitious lot; this Zaphenath-paneah probably hoped to pacify some god by allowing Shim’on to enjoy a few days of luxury before relegating him to some dungeon of torture.
But though the chamber was pleasant and probably better furnished than half the houses of Thebes, Shim’on was no city dweller. He wanted the open spaces of the earth around him, the spiraling stars above. Not for him the sweet scents of lotus blossoms and delicate taste of dainty shat cakes; he longed for the earthy perfumes of goat and cattle dung, the robust flavors of desert-toughened meat and rough breads sweetened with wild honey.
Yes, Shim’on reflected, lifting his eyes to the rectangular window higher than his reach, for a man of the wilderness, in time even a king’s palace could become a prison. Perhaps Zaphenath-paneah was not insane after all.
Tarik summoned Mandisa and Ani, the steward, to the foyer off the vizier’s bedchamber. “Our master is with Pharaoh for the rest of the day,” the captain said, lifting his head in unconscious pride, “and he has instructed me to tell you what we shall do with this captive in our house. We three shall deal with him. None of the others shall have access to the prisoner.”
And two of us, Mandisa thought, watching Tarik with an observant eye, know who and what he is. But though he is the vizier’s own brother, he is dangerous, too powerful to be held here…
The steward bowed his bald head as a sign of respect, an unnecessary gesture because Ani was at least as important as Tarik in the villa’s social system. An Egyptian steward ran the house, overseeing and orchestrating every action from simple housekeeping and meal preparation to the fields, granaries and livestock. And though Ani looked like a little wet bird, behind his self-deprecating facade lay a dynamic mind, a force born of wisdom and certainty. Of no steward in Thebes was more expected, and none of the others came close to duplicating the elegance and prosperity of Zaphenath-paneah’s estate.
“I was curious about the man,” Ani admitted, his lined mouth cracking in a smile. “I found the circumstances of this morning quite… unusual. ”
“We are not to talk of this man with the children or the other servants,” Tarik went on. “His needs are to be met daily.”
The captain’s eyes turned toward Mandisa. “If you are willing, lady, the master asks if you will consent to take the prisoner his food and tarry if he feels the need for conversation. There are few here who speak the Canaanite tongue as fluently as you do.”
Mandisa paused. She knew her master well enough to know he would not command her to obey his wish, for she carried a full workload attending to the vizier’s wife and sons as well as Adom. She had every right to decline the job of caring for a captive with the temperament of an underfed lion, especially when the smoldering flame in his eyes frightened her.
But no one else spoke his language. And she knew the pain of not understanding or being understood.
“Do not worry. I will get one of my guards to tend to him,” the captain said, waving his hand.
“There is no need, I’ll do it,” she said, avoiding Tarik’s eyes.
“So be it.” The captain tilted his head as if he weighed her motives. “If at any time you wish to surrender this responsibility, you may.”
“I understand.”
“I see.” Tarik pressed his lips together. “The master will periodically ask you for news of this captive. You are to speak freely with Zaphenath-paneah, apprising him of anything that happens with the prisoner while he is with us. Such information may be useful in the future.”
“Of course.” Mandisa lifted a brow and turned toward Ani. “I am not accustomed to working in the kitchens. Halima is a kitchen slave. May I have her help to prepare the captive’s meals?” She looked back to the captain of the guard. “And is it permissible for me to take Halima with me when I visit this herdsman? I would fear for my safety if I ventured into his room alone.”
Tarik and Ani studied each other, then Ani folded his arms. “If it is to fulfill the master’s wish, you may use any slaves you please.”
“I see no harm taking the girl with you,” Tarik added. “But no one else is to visit him. Only we three, and the slave Halima if you need her. Of course, if you feel threatened at any time, you may call one of the guards to stand outside the door.”
Mandisa nodded. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything else?” Ani asked.
“No.” Tarik thrust his hands into his sword belt. “Let us hope the uncouth beast remains silent and does not disturb the household. I will beg the gods of Egypt to swiftly return his brothers so we may be rid of him.”