The Pharaoh's Daughter (30 page)

Anippe pulled him into her lap and transferred the wiggling gecko to Miriam's care. “What is your name, habibi?”

His dark brow furrowed. “Which one?”

She smoothed the little creases from his forehead, realizing she should have explained this much sooner. “Did you know your ummi has two names like you do?”

Wonder lit his sparkling brown eyes. “Who are you, Ummi?”

“I am Anippe, but I was once called Meryetaten-tasherit.”

“I like Anippe better.”

She chuckled and hugged him close. “Me too, and I don't talk about my secret name, Meryetaten-tasherit, with other people because—well, because it's a secret name.”

Pondering, he fell silent, his brow wrinkling again, this time into deeper lines. “Why must your
Mariasniten-kanusit
name be secret?”

She choked back a giggle and thanked the gods he'd asked the question. Widening her eyes, looking right and left, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Because even Amun-Re has a secret name.”

“He does? What is it?”

Ankhe sighed and rolled her eyes. “It's a secret. That's the point.”

Anippe shot a warning glare, cowing her belligerent sister. “We can't know Amun-Re's secret name because it will drain away his power. The more people who know our secret names, the less power we have.” She lifted her arm, exposing her muscle. “See how strong your ummi is? That's because I don't tell people my secret name.”

Mehy's immediate pout told her she'd bungled the lesson.

“What? What's wrong?”

“You and Ankhe and Miriam already know my secret name. And Jochebed. And those three guards I told.”

“But we're the only ones, right?” She lifted his arm and felt his little muscle. “I think you could grow a big strong arm—if you don't tell anyone else your secret name.”

“Okay, Ummi.” He nestled against her. “Does anyone know Amun-Re's secret name?”

“Yes, habibi. Do you want to hear the story?”

He nodded and yawned. She'd have to keep him awake. He didn't have time for a nap before Qantir's amira arrived.

“The Lady Isis became vexed that the sun god Re still ruled all the gods—though he'd grown old and tired. But no one could defeat him because they didn't know his secret name. One day Re spit on the ground, and Isis stirred his spit with Egypt's black dirt and made a worm. When the noble Re walked in his splendor, as he did each day with the pharaohs and other gods, the black worm stung him—” Anippe jumped and tickled Mehy's belly until he dissolved into giggles and squeals.

“Go on, Ummi. Tell the rest.”

“The great god Re opened his mouth but could not speak. His limbs burned, and his jawbones chattered. The worm's poison worked its way through him. His companions—Hathor, Nun, Seth, and the great gods—could not
help. Finally, Isis drew near. ‘Tell me your secret name, divine father.' And when he could no longer stand the torment, Re divulged the name, giving Lady Isis power over life, health, magic, and motherhood.”

“So what is Re's secret name, Ummi?” His eyes, full of wonder, gazed at her as if she herself were the great goddess Isis, knowing every answer of life.

She hugged him and whispered, “Every ummi knows Re's secret name, my son—but only you, me, and Miriam must know your secret name. Do you understand? You will lose all your power if anyone discovers the name
Moses.
”

Anippe waited for Qantir's amira in the garden, alerted by her guards that Sitre had sailed around the bend of their estates by skiff rather than cross dead-man's plateau for her visit. Anippe wondered if the famously cruel amira had ever experienced the inhumanity of the plateau's mud pits and fields.

Hearing sandals clicking on tiles, Anippe's heart raced.

Ankhe leaned over and whispered, “Stop fidgeting with your jeweled belt.”

Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to include Ankhe and Mehy in the meeting, but she thought her son might provide a welcome distraction if the conversation turned awkward. Miriam brought a pitcher of honeyed wine with a tray of fruit and cheese for refreshment.

Pirameses's wife, Sitre, appeared in the arched doorway, her shape as finely sculpted as an alabaster pitcher, and—according to Gurob gossip—her heart made of the same cold stone.

Anippe stood to greet her, surprised when a little boy toddled around the corner, handmaid chasing him.

“I told you to tend him,” Sitre barked at the maid, halting both her and the boy where they stood. The Qantir amira returned a practiced smile to Anippe. “Forgive our disruptive entrance.”

The little boy, perhaps a year old, peered out from beneath thick, dark eyebrows—almost a single line shading his deep brown eyes. He reminded Anippe of Sebak. The boy had already spotted Mehy. His expression brightened at the sight of another little one.

Anippe extended her hand, calling Mehy closer, and tried to assuage Sitre's discomfort. “I'm glad you brought your maid's son. Mehy will enjoy a playma—”

“This is my son, and his name is Sety.”

Speechless, Anippe gripped Mehy's hand tighter. How could Sitre have a son so young, when their Ramessid husbands had been at war for nearly four years?

Miriam dislodged Mehy's hand from her grasp and took the boys and the handmaid to a shaded corner of the garden.

Mouth suddenly desert-dry, Anippe croaked, “Would you like a glass of wine, Sitre?”

As Anippe returned to the table and cushions, she nodded at Ankhe, hoping her sister would simply pour the wine and not choose to display her independence. Ankhe poured three goblets full.

Sitre lifted her cup as if to toast. “Vizier Ay's henchmen should be glad they stopped at Avaris and not Qantir. I would have let Ramessid soldiers do the talking.” She sipped slowly, watching Anippe over the rim of her cup.

“I'm sure others would have handled the situation better than I.” Anippe picked up her goblet, sipped the nectar politely, and returned it to rest.

“Well, I have been a Ramessid a bit longer than you, so I suppose I've grown accustomed to their military minds.” Sitre appeared to be the same age as Anippe—perhaps a few months older. How much longer could she have been a Ramessid? By all accounts Pirameses had stayed in Qantir after their wedding less time than Sebak had remained in Avaris.

Growing tired of the game, Anippe asked the question she couldn't get out of her head. “How old is your new little Ramessid? Sety, is it?”

Sitre set aside her wine and gazed at the handmaids and boys at the opposite end of the garden. “He's over a year old, and I've only recently gotten my figure back.” She picked up the wine again and sighed, returning her attention to Anippe. “Babies are tiresome, aren't they? Crying, vomiting, messy little creatures. Aren't you grateful for nursemaids and tutors?” She chuckled, assuming they were bonded in maternal understanding.

But Anippe sat utterly stunned. “What will Pirameses do when he finds
out?” Sebak had hinted at his uncle's ruthlessness in battle. What would he do when he returned to find his wife had born another man's child?

“Pirameses knows the nursemaid cares for Sety and expects the child to have tutors—at least until he goes to the Memphis School of the Kap.” She studied Anippe's expression, and understanding dawned. Sitre's eyes widened, and she cackled so loud, the doves scattered from the acacias. “Oh, you thought Sety was the son of another lover?”

Anippe felt her cheeks grow warm. “Our husbands haven't been home in almost four years. How can he be—”

“Your husband hasn't been home in four years, Anippe.” No more laughter—only Sitre's stone-cold stare.

Anippe felt as if the ground shifted beneath her feet. “What do you mean?” She hated herself for asking, but she had to know. “Pirameses came home to you? When?”

Sitre downed the last of her wine. The triumph so evident moments ago drained away with the dregs. “Sety's a year old. You figure it out.”

Pain, greater than any Anippe had known, twisted inside her chest. Why had Pirameses found a way to visit his wife but Sebak hadn't?
He doesn't love me.
It was the only answer that made sense. Was anyone left on earth to love her? Abbi Horem, perhaps—but would he return in time?

Sitre stared at Anippe while Ankhe refilled her cup. “The last merchant I slept with said the Egyptian army had advanced to Kadesh and ruined his business in Palestine. Lucky for me. He gave me a lovely Persian vase.”

Anippe schooled her features and felt a pang of pity. Had Sitre expected shock? Horror? Anippe had grown up with hundreds of bored and lonely noblemen's wives at Gurob, and their stories were the same. “If you sleep with so many merchants, how are you sure Sety is the son of Pirameses?”

“Look at that heavy brow, Anippe. All Ramessid men have it. Haven't you noticed?”

Anippe thought of Mehy's light brown eyes and thin brows. The sun was suddenly too warm—the company too cold. “Thank you for coming, Sitre, but I'm not feeling well. Please excuse me. I must go lie down.”

EAST OF BYBLOS, NEAR KADESH

Mered had never been so miserable in his life.

He and Mandai had traveled for sixteen days. Skiffs, camels, and then a trader's ship on rough waves in the Great Sea that made Mered wish for Sheol. They'd purchased supplies with the goods they sold in Byblos and begun their trek across the mountains. The gash in Mandai's side had healed adequately, enough that Mered could barely keep up. They'd both purchased heavier robes to brave the colder nights in the mountains since they didn't dare light a fire and draw attention to themselves.

“Please, Mandai.” Breathless and aching, Mered eyed the steep rise above him and leaned against a rock face. “I can't go any farther. I need to stop for the night.”

The Medjay continued climbing as if he hadn't heard. Mered knew him well enough by now—he'd come back when Mered didn't follow.

From this vantage in the mountains of Amurru, Mered gazed south into Canaan—the very ground El-Shaddai had promised to Abraham with an oath. Mered's grandfather had described it during family mealtimes.
El-Shaddai will one day deliver us from Egypt, and we'll walk on the rich, fertile soil of God's promise. Soon. Soon.

His grandfather had died twenty years ago and had never walked anywhere but the dusty paths of Avaris. Hadn't El-Shaddai said four hundred years of slavery? How many years had it been? Hadn't anyone counted?

Mered checked the shepherd's trail ahead. Mandai hadn't returned for him yet, but he would. The Medjay was stubborn but resourceful. He knew to follow mountain trails, avoiding trade routes in the Jezreel and Hula valleys, since the heaviest fighting occurred on open plains. The Egyptian army had been fighting toward Kadesh for months, pushing back the Hittite rebels, gaining back hard-fought ground.

“How much farther tonight, Mandai?” Mered shouted, but he heard no answer. The Medjay had been in a foul humor since Mered insisted on using the warrior's linen robe to wrap his blistered feet. He still had his leopard-skin loincloth. Wasn't that what Medjays were supposed to wear?

Prodded by his friend's stubborn silence, Mered pushed back to his feet and set his hand on a secure outcrop, ready to climb the small rise. “Wait for me, I'm—”

“I assure you”—a large, dirty soldier extended his hand from a boulder higher up—“your Medjay is waiting for you with my men.”

Both terrified and thrilled to see an Egyptian soldier, Mered accepted the proffered hand. “I notice the emblem of Seth on your armor and assume you're a Ramessid.” Polite conversation while being rescued seemed appropriate.

The hulking officer hauled him up the rise effortlessly and then wrenched Mered's arm behind his back. “And I see by the linen under that woolen cloak that you're pretending to be Egyptian—but your Hebrew accent says you and your Medjay are slaves on the run.”

Trying to think beyond the pain in his twisted arm, Mered gasped, “Good guess, but wrong.”

The soldier pressed harder.

“We have a message for General Horemheb.”

“Prove it.”

“The Medjay and I came from Avaris and Qantir—we also carry messages for Sebak and Pirameses from their wives. Surely if you're a Ramessid, you know my Master Sebak. I am Mered, his chief linen keeper.”

The officer released Mered's arm and examined him face to face. “Why would anyone send a linen keeper with a message?”

Mered glanced beyond the officer's shoulder and saw Mandai lying face down. “What did you do to him?” Without waiting for an answer, Mered hurried to help his friend. Rolling him over, he noting a bleeding gash on his head.