“U se the green eye color today, Mandisa,” Asenath said the next morning, peering into her looking brass with a perturbed expression. “We are going to visit my father at Heliopolis. He mustn’t think that I look tired or aged.”
Mandisa managed a diplomatic laugh as she picked up the delicate alabaster kohl pot containing her mistress’s favorite color. “You are five years younger than me, my lady. If you are aged, then I am as old as Pharaoh’s beard.”
Asenath stared into the mirror, then burst out laughing. Though only twelve and unable to grow a beard himself, Amenhotep wore the royal beard of state on all official occasions. The long, narrow braided hairpiece, attached to the king’s chin by straps which hung over his ears, had been worn by a succession of pharaohs, including Hatshepsut, a woman who ruled in her young son’s place for twenty-one years.
Mandisa smiled at the light of joy in her mistress’s eyes. After the death of her last baby, Asenath had been troubled and depressed for many months. She had done nothing but lie on her bed and moan that she had nothing to offer her husband. But on this morning, at least, Asenath seemed happy to put the past behind her.
“What will you wear, my lady?” Mandisa asked. She pulled the polished stone applicator from the narrow tube and gently stirred the iridescent mixture that would sparkle like the waters of the sunlit Nile on her mistress’s eyelids.
“I think,” Asenath answered, closing her eyes while Mandisa applied her cosmetics, “I shall wear the new beaded gown wrought for me last week. And the fringed wig with many layers. My father has an appreciative eye for the new fashions.”
“A good choice, my lady.” Mandisa lowered the alabaster container and picked up the black kohl pot to outline her lady’s eyes. As she stirred the applicator in the narrow tube, she wondered if she dared ask what had brought on this desire to visit the priest of Heliopolis. Mandisa could not remember Asenath ever venturing out to visit her father. The venerable priest had come to Thebes only three times: once to pay his respects upon Pharaoh’s coronation, and twice to congratulate his daughter after the birth of her sons.
“I know what you are thinking.” Asenath looked at Mandisa with a faint gleam of reproach in her eyes. “You may as well ask. You’ll worm the answers out of me sooner or later.”
Mandisa felt an unwelcome blush creep into her cheeks. “It does not matter why you want to visit your father, my lady. My only wish is to serve you.”
An easy smile played at the corners of her mistress’s mouth. “Then serve me well in this—whatever I may do in Heliopolis, you need not mention it to my husband.”
Mandisa bowed her head. “As you wish. But if you have need of anything, I am certain my lord the vizier would move heaven and earth to procure it for you.”
“What I need the vizier cannot procure for me,” Asenath said, picking up the looking brass again. “And I have tried to move heaven, but my prayers to the invisible God have availed nothing. I will speak to my father and sacrifice in his sacred temple. Then we shall see if my petitions are successful.”
Mandisa hurried through the hall of the villa toward the spacious kitchen. She had less than a quarter of an hour to say farewell to Adom, take the vizier’s captive his daily ration and meet her mistress in the courtyard to join the caravan to Heliopolis. For an instant she regretted her decision to serve the rugged Canaanite—she was a ladies’ maid, after all, and unaccustomed to the ways of brutish goat herders, even if they were the vizier’s half brothers. But Zaphenath-paneah had asked. And since the day he had found her abandoned, impoverished and desperate enough to sell herself and her son into slavery, she had not been able to refuse her gracious master anything.
She found Halima in the kitchen, her round face flushed by the heat from the fiery ovens. “Hurry, help me prepare the tray and let us be on our way,” Mandisa said, wiping a trickle of perspiration from her forehead. Her braided wig seemed unusually hot and heavy, and she found herself wishing she could go bareheaded like Halima.
Halima pressed her hands to her ample chest and cast Mandisa a frightened glance. “Must I go with you again into that room?”
“Yes.”
“But he is so loud! You did not hear him, for his room lies far away from the family quarters, but yesterday he screamed for more than an hour. Though I couldn’t understand a word of what he said, I’m sure he cursed us, our master and even Pharaoh himself.”
“Then he shall answer to us, our master and even Pharaoh,” Mandisa said, placing a tray in Halima’s outstretched hands. Rummaging through baskets, bowls and jars, she selected foods she thought the man might like—a hearty helping of ox meat basted with sweet-scented honey, a bowl of brown beans and chickpeas mixed with lotus seeds and flavored with marjoram, coriander and dill. She grabbed a slice of bread that had already been softened with water, and a jug of beer flavored with pomegranates and figs.
“This platter is fit for Pharaoh’s table,” Halima said, eyeing the food with a covetous glance, “but the loathsome toad to whom it is going will not appreciate one bite.”
“He’s not a loathsome toad,” Mandisa said, moving through the doorway ahead of Halima. “A loud one, perhaps, but not loathsome.”
Shim’on stiffened as he heard the wooden bolt slide away from the door. The treble murmur of voices informed him that the two women stood outside; the pretty one who spoke his language and the hefty one with eyes as wide and nervous as a rabbit’s.
He bit back an oath, annoyed that they did not send someone more daunting to deal with him. Did no one know or care that a son of Yaakov was imprisoned in this heathen’s house? Yaakov was Yisrael, the keeper of God Almighty’s covenant promise to bless the entire world! Yaakov was a leader among the people of Canaan, a wealthy man and a respected one. And Shim’on was his second-born son!
The door opened; the timid woman held it while the pretty one walked in and placed the tray on a stand near the bed. She had courage, he had to admit, especially since he had recently decided to do whatever he could to make the Egyptian vizier regret his decision to imprison a son of Yisrael.
The woman swallowed hard, lifted her chin and boldly met his gaze. “Have you need of anything today?” she asked, speaking his language. “Have you any news for my master the vizier?”
“I want proper food.” He made a face as he poked a finger into the mushy bread. “Real meat cooked over charcoal, not boiled to mush in a pot.”
She turned away, ignoring him. How dare she! His mouth tightening with mutiny, he scooped up the hunk of meat and flung it across the room. True to his aim, the congealed glop missed her head by inches and struck the wall. Like a living creature, it clung to the painted plaster, then slid downward, marking the wall with a sticky brown trail.
The timorous woman squeaked and covered her mouth with her hands, but the slender one wheeled toward him, her hands on her hips. “If you continue to waste your food in such a way,” she said in the tight tone she might have used to scold a child, “you will starve. The vizier’s cooks do not feed men who do not appreciate their efforts.”
“I would rather starve with my brothers than eat this rot.”
“Your brothers,” she said, tossing the words at him like stones, “are neither starving nor complaining. The vizier sent them away with bags of Egypt’s best grain and their treasure, as well. They have their silver, their bellies are full and, because you are gone, they are enjoying peaceful quiet—probably for the first time in their lives!”
“Careful, woman.” Rancor sharpened his voice. “She who uses a sharp tongue will cut her own throat.”
“You’d do well to heed your own advice,” she answered, picking up the tray. Without another word, she turned to leave.
“Wait,” he called, putting out a hand to stop her. She jerked away at his touch, revulsion on her face.
“What sort of game is your master playing?” he asked, choosing to overlook her expression. “Why does he accuse my brothers of spying and then fulfill their request to buy grain? And why would he return their silver?” He lowered his voice. “Is he truly mad?”
She paused, a flutter of apprehension shadowing her face. “I do not question my master,” she answered, moving toward the door. “And you should not. His way is not always my way, but he holds my life in his hands—as he holds yours.”
“He holds nothing of mine,” Shim’on retorted. He lay back and crossed his hands under his head. “And yes, I have a message for your master. Tell him I defy him. Tell him I intend to make his life miserable. Indeed, I will make you all miserable until he releases me. Or let him kill me, I care not. But if my brothers return and learn that I am no longer here, your master will have to deal with Yaakov of Hebron.”
The slender woman handed the tray to the fearful slave, then turned and faced Shim’on, every curve of her body speaking defiance. “You will not order me around,” she answered, lifting her chin. “I am not a slave, but a free woman and handmaid to Lady Asenath. I am here because my master cares whether or not you are comfortable. If I were you, I would try to show a bit of gratitude.”
“Your master may rot in Sheol!” Shim’on retorted, rolling to his feet. He clenched a fist, ready to strike something, but she saw the gesture and hurried through the doorway.
“If anger is your meat, you may have it for dinner,” she said, throwing him a bright smile. “We will take ourselves out of your way.”
He picked up a vase and flung it toward her, but the woman slammed the door. Amid the shattering of pottery, Shim’on heard the bolt slide into place.