A n hour before the bark of the sun god was to begin its journey across the dark sky, Tarik steadied the lamp in his hand and urged the flame to strengthen itself. When the coiled papyrus wick burned steadily, he held the lamp aloft and moved through the dark courtyard, checking to see that his master’s orders had been carried out. Zaphenath-paneah had been quite explicit: each Canaanite’s bag was to be filled to the brim with grain, then each man’s silver was to be returned to the mouth of his sack. Tarik was to personally take the master’s exquisite silver divining bowl and hide it inside the youngest brother’s sack.
Moving steadily in the darkness, Tarik patted the sides of the restive donkeys and fumbled with each sack until he had checked all eleven. Then he slipped the silver bowl from a pouch under his cloak and buried it under the grain of the last donkey’s load.
All was ready.
Half an hour later by the waterclock, Ani stood with Tarik on the wide porch as the eleven sons of Yaakov strode out of the villa and into the courtyard. The palm trees along the villa’s walls stood black against the brightening sky as the brothers took the reins of their donkeys. Ani cleared his throat and stepped forward to bid the brothers a final farewell. Zaphenath-paneah, he told them, wished them a safe and prosperous journey. Speaking for the others, Re’uven thanked Ani for his master’s hospitality and promised to give the vizier’s greetings to their aged father.
The loud one, Shim’on, lingered a moment in the courtyard, looking around as if to imprint the villa upon his memory, then waved toward the portico where Ani and Tarik stood. “Farewell, Egyptians,” Shim’on called, flashing a tight, grim smile. “Forgive me, but I hope we never meet again.”
“I share your feelings,” Tarik called, resting his hands atop his sword belt. Then, in a lower voice, the guard murmured puzzling words. “If only he knew.”
Knew what? Ani lifted a questioning brow toward the captain of the guard, but Tarik kept his eyes fastened to the departing men and did not speak again.
As the last donkey disappeared through the gate, a soft sound broke the stillness of the early morning. Ani turned to see Mandisa weeping in the shadow of a papyrus-shaped pillar. Despite the Canaanite’s brazen attempt to run away with Tizara, Mandisa apparently still harbored deep feelings for him.
“My dear child,” he said, walking to the young woman’s side. “If you loved him, why didn’t you let him know?”
“I did,” she answered, running the back of her hand along her wet cheek. “But he did not understand.”
The shaded finger of the shadow clock seemed to be mired in the space between one black slash on the horizontal rod and the next, but finally the shadow moved. An hour had passed since his brothers’ departure. Yosef’s nerves tensed, half in anticipation and half in dread, as he turned to Tarik.
“It is time,” Yosef said, his heart thumping as his gaze crossed the captain’s. “Go after them.”
Tarik gave a whirling salute and sprinted to join his men in the courtyard. After moving to his balcony, Yosef saw over twenty assembled battle chariots, each manned with a driver and an expert archer. The horses pawed the dust in eagerness, their heads straining forward, their tails arched.
Would this show of force intimidate his brothers into surrendering Binyamin? For an instant Yosef wondered if his plan was elementally unfair. Perhaps part of him wanted them to give Binyamin up—Yosef could keep his brother in Egypt where they could enjoy sweet fellowship and make up for twenty-two stolen years.
But if they surrendered Binyamin, their shame would prevent them from ever returning to face the vizier of Egypt. And Yisrael and his children would starve in the famine. Yosef could not believe that God Shaddai would allow such a thing to happen.
From the corner of his eye, Yosef saw Tarik jog across the sandy courtyard. The captain yelled out the command to mount up and leaped onto the back of his chariot. As the other drivers watched, Tarik lifted the vizier’s standard with one hand and gripped a side rail with the other. At this signal, the villa’s gates opened wide and cracking whips snapped the air. Amid the swirling dust, noise and confusion, Tarik’s chariot peeled away and the others followed in a parade of swift, efficient force.
Shim’on felt a strange and tangible rumbling begin to move along the ground, like a storm coming out of the Sahara. Strong and unreasonable anxiety spurted through him. He stopped and lifted a hand to quiet his brothers, but they had already fallen silent. Their faces clouded with uneasiness as they turned to look back. Toward Egypt.
The earth trembled with the force of galloping horses, and the brothers’ donkeys flapped their ears at the prospect of facing their regal cousins. Finally, rising from a valley of sand, the source of the sound appeared. The sun glinted off the bright opulence of a fleet of bejeweled chariots that stirred up the desert and pressed toward them in a V formation. The quiet morning echoed with the roaring shout of the approaching storm, and yet above the tumult Shim’on could hear his heart battering against his ears.
What evil was this? Were they never to be free from the power of the Black Land?
Before he could consult his brothers, the swift Egyptian guard had surrounded them completely. As the other sons of Yisrael stood in astonished silence, Shim’on widened his stance and put his hands on his hips, ready for a showdown. He had thrown aside the softness of Egypt like an uncomfortable garment; his blood now stirred with familiar energy and old passions. If the Egyptians wanted a fight, they had come to the right place. His home, the desert.
“Not now, brother!” Yehuda called a warning. Shim’on held his stance, waiting.
The circle of Egyptians broke, and Tarik rode forward in a chariot that gleamed with gold. The captain’s mouth had gone thin with displeasure.
Re’uven, Levi and Yehuda looked to Shim’on. You know him, their glances seemed to say. You handle him.
“Life and health to you, Tarik.” Shim’on dropped the reins of his donkey as he took a step forward. The two men exchanged careful, simultaneous smiles. “Why do we meet again so soon?”
Tarik grasped the frame of his chariot, shifting his weight to his arms. “My master Zaphenath-paneah has sent me to ask you one question.”
“Which is?”
Tarik’s cold, proud eyes raked over the brothers. “Why have you repaid good with evil? My master fed you, sheltered you and provided for you, yet one of you has taken the silver bowl he uses for divination. You have committed a shameful wrong.”
Shim’on stared at the captain in utter disbelief. “Why does your lord accuse us of such a thing? We would never steal from him. If we were thieves, my brothers would not have returned the silver they found in their sacks when they reached Canaan. Why would we want to steal from the vizier’s house?”
Shim’on felt a hand upon his arm; Yehuda had come to stand beside him. “You may search us,” Yehuda said, his voice steady and calm. “And if you find your master’s bowl among us, the guilty one shall die and the rest of us will be your master’s slaves. For I tell you the truth, the bowl is not here.”
“I will search you,” Tarik answered, his mouth twisting into a wry smile. He gestured to his guards, who dismounted from their chariots and tightened the circle around the brothers. “And the guilty one shall pay for his crime. The man with the cup shall be my master’s slave, but the rest of you shall be held innocent of this offense.”
Knowing that his bag did not contain the missing bowl, Shim’on stood motionless while his brothers scrambled to untie their sacks. The Egyptians watched the unloading with keen interest, and Tarik insisted upon personally searching each brother’s load. He would begin with the eldest brother, the captain announced, and work his way through the line to the youngest, so no one would be overlooked.
In Re’uven’s sack the Egyptian found the double amount of silver he had brought to Egypt.
“So you are not thieves?” Tarik asked, looking squarely at Shim’on. “Obviously, you are not the innocents you pretend to be.”
At the sight of the silver, Shim’on wondered if they would all be imprisoned, but Tarik said nothing else and moved on to Shim’on’s donkey. Apparently Zaphenath-paneah cared little for silver, but had sent his captain after only the divining bowl.
Shim’on had already reloaded his donkey by the time Tarik reached Binyamin. Confident that the vizier’s captain had made an embarrassing blunder, Shim’on urged the others to load their donkeys, as well. He had just stepped forward to help Levi with a stubborn strap when he heard Re’uven cry out.
Shim’on whirled around. From the sack on Binyamin’s donkey, Tarik lifted the unmistakable silver bowl and held it aloft. Shim’on gazed at it in despair, the spark of hope in his breast completely extinguished.
Tarik lowered the bowl and tucked it under his arm. “Only this man needs to return with me,” the captain said, studying the others with a curious intensity. “The rest of you are free to return to your father in Hebron.”
“We will not leave him,” Yehuda answered, his stentorian voice rumbling through the murmurs of sorrow. “I would rather die in Egypt than face my father without my brother.”
“Almighty God, why?” Re’uven wailed, ripping his cloak in agony. “One was arrogant, the other a thief—why are the sons of Rahel a curse to us?”
“It matters not,” Shim’on answered, resolutely swinging Levi’s sack onto the donkey’s back. He reached for the girth straps and secured the load. “We will go back to Thebes with Binyamin. I have spent a long time in the vizier’s house, so perhaps he will listen to me and show mercy to our brother.”
And if not, someone else in the villa might be persuaded to plead on their behalf…if he had not offended her too severely.