The Pharaoh's Daughter (36 page)

Nassor bent to lift Mutno from the carpet, but Horemheb stopped him with a word. “Trust. I've trusted you with my daughter and this estate for three years, Ramessid. I know you can be kind.” He leaned forward, challenging. “Can I trust you to be cruel when your king demands it?”

Without flinching, Nassor lifted a single brow. “I am worthy of your trust, my king. Cruelty is a Ramessid's native tongue.” He bowed, hoisted Mutno over his shoulder, and strolled from the main hall to the sound of Horemheb's laughter.

Mered recorded the marriage for history and turned aside to vomit.

Anippe carried her terrorized son from the feast; his legs wrapped around her and locked at the ankles. Would he ever let go, ever stop shaking? Would she?

She hurried down the long corridor to her chamber, not waiting for an escort or even looking behind her. Nassor's brutality loomed in her mind. How could her compassionate protector have become a monster in a day's span? She hadn't seen him since he'd declared his love for her—and she'd refused him. When she left her chamber for the feast, another guard had taken Nassor's place. Was her refusal the reason for his bloody wrath on those prisoners? Were all men bloodthirsty jackals?

Rounding the corner, she shouted at the guard at her chamber. “Open the door!” He obeyed promptly and closed it behind her.

Anippe collapsed on the cushions in her sitting area, sobbing. She tried to calm herself but noticed a shadow in the dim lights and screamed.

“It's me, Amira,” Miriam said, kneeling beside the embroidered couch.

“What are you doing there?”

The girl wiped her cheeks. “I've been praying to El-Shaddai for you and Mehy.”

Anger rose like bile in Anippe's throat. “Well, your god did nothing. My son—”

Mehy lurched from her arms toward Miriam, burying his head in the handmaid's shoulder. Miriam cradled him. “Shh, you're safe now. Come, sit down. Your ummi and I love you very much.”

Miriam lifted her round doe eyes, and Anippe struggled for composure. “Take him to the bathhouse. No one will bother us there.”

They walked without torches along the tiled path, thankful for moonlight to guide their way. Anippe wrapped her arm around Miriam, who placed Mehy between them on a cushion under the thatched-roof shelter. His shaking had subsided in the dark stillness.

“Habibi, look at me.” Anippe brushed his cheek and gently tugged on his princely sidelock.

He lifted his sandy-brown eyes. “I-I d-d-don't w-want to s-s-see …” He shook his head and buried his face in Miriam's side.

Stuttering? Her bright, articulate boy was stuttering? “Mehy.” Her voice
broke. What could she say? How could she remove the images imprinted on his mind?

Miriam cradled him in the bend of her arm, rocking and whispering. “Remember your name, Moses. You were
drawn out
of the Nile because El-Shaddai has a special calling and purpose for your life. Everything that happens—good and bad—prepares you for what's next.” She paused and kissed his head, letting her words settle into his heart. “I don't know what happened in the main hall tonight, but El-Shaddai was with you—and He's protecting you, Moses. Just like He protected you when your ummi Anippe found you in the basket on the Nile—”

“That's enough.” Anippe glanced over her shoulder and then up and down the river. She pulled Mehy away from Miriam, cradling him against her. “You cannot speak of his birth—ever.” Her throat tight, she saw the pain in Miriam's eyes and regretted her harshness. “I know you believe in your god, and you're trying to help, but if Abbi Horem ever discovers I've deceived him …” She thought of Senpa lying on the floor without a head.

Mehy stirred in her arms and then met her gaze. “I w-won't ever t-t-tell my s-secret name, Ummi. I'd l-l-lose my p-power like Re, when Isis t-t-tricked him.”

Anippe hugged him, laughing and crying. “Yes, habibi. You're so smart.” She reached for Miriam's hand while still embracing her brave boy. “Perhaps Miriam's god has saved you for a great purpose, but we must never tell anyone else about it. Understand?” She hardened her gaze at the handmaid. “Only we three will ever speak the name
Moses.
Do you understand, Miriam?”

“I will never speak of Moses to anyone.” Miriam kissed Anippe's hand but then held it, her brow lifted in challenge. “Neither will I speak to Moses of any god but El-Shaddai.”

Anippe's temper flared. How dare a handmaid dictate to her?

Mehy turned to Miriam, a tentative smile playing at his lips. “The song, Miriam. Sing me the song,” he said, stuttering only a little. He rested against Anippe's side, pulled her arm over him like a blanket, and placed his feet in Miriam's lap.

The Hebrew girl opened her mouth, and out came a tune that reached the
heavens. “El-Shaddai is my strength, my song. He is my God, and I will praise Him, my father's God, I will exalt Him …”

Anippe couldn't hold back tears. Thankful for the darkness, she wiped her cheeks and stared down at Mehy. His expression was releasing the night's tension and fear. She lifted her face to the night breeze, listening to the Nile's high tide. Frogs and crickets accompanied Miriam's melody, and in the distance Anippe heard Abbi Horem's guests retiring to their chambers. She leaned over, quieting Miriam with a hand on her arm—but still heard echoes of her tune on the night breeze.

Mehy sat up, alert. “The s-slaves, Ummi. They're s-singing Miriam's song.”

Confused, Anippe searched the girl's peaceful face for answers. “Why are the slaves singing tonight? I've heard them hum while working in the linen shop, but I've never heard singing all the way from the craftsmen's village.”

“They sing for you, Amira—and Mehy and me. Mered went home to his wife and son earlier today because El-Shaddai answered Puah's prayer through your kindness. The whole camp rejoiced that he'll return as chief linen keeper, but they're concerned for Mehy going to school, and you and me going to Gurob. The Hebrews pray and sing to El-Shaddai for us all.”

“Why would a Hebrew god help Egyptians?”

“El-Shaddai knows everyone.” Miriam kissed Mehy's nose. “Regardless of our names.”

Regardless of our names.
Fear surged through Anippe. She'd wagered both her life and Mehy's on fooling the gods, and now there was One who knew Mehy as Moses and knew Moses as Hebrew?
Terrifying.

Her panic subsided, however, as the rhythmic, lilting song of the faithful Hebrews continued. How could she deny its effect? Perhaps this god was real. Perhaps he wouldn't seek her destruction like Anubis or Seth. But where did he fit among her other gods?

She pulled Mehy close, resting her chin on his head. “Miriam, how long since you've seen Jochebed and Amram?”

The girl tried to smile, her cheeks quivering with the effort. “A while. Father delivered a necklace to Ankhe before the harvest festival, and Mother brought baskets to the villa shortly before sowing season.”

“Go home tonight.” Anippe wound a dark lock of her handmaid's hair around her finger. “Mehy and I will sleep in my chamber. I'll have two chamber guards escort you to your parents' home as a show of gratitude for the slaves' song. Why don't you go pack your spindle and wool as a gift for Jochebed. I'll get you another when you return to the villa—two days, and we leave for Thebes.”

“Oh, thank you, Amira.” Miriam hugged her and hurried through the courtyard and into the chamber without a backward glance.

Anippe looked down at her son in the moonlight.
Two days.
They didn't have much time to say good-bye to those they loved in Avaris. Inhaling deeply, Anippe breathed it in. Home. She would miss the dear Hebrews she called friends.

“Ummi, can we pray to El-Shaddai?” Mehy's brown eyes shone in the moonlight. “Mered and Miriam do.”

Anippe knew little of the Hebrew god. “Do you think El-Shaddai would hear the prayer of Egyptians, habibi?”

“Miriam said he knows us—even our secret names.”

Anippe swallowed a new wave of fear. “You can pray, habibi, but make sure the Hebrew god doesn't reveal our secret names to others.”

If Abbi Horem truly became a god at his coronation, she couldn't chance divine gossip.

The pink hues of dawn were fading, and Horemheb's men were already loading the king's barque to sail. Mered hurried toward the villa, prodded by Miriam's night of terror. The girl had enjoyed two wonderful days in the craftsmen's village with her family, but last night's dream roused terrified screams that awakened the households on both sides of their dividing curtain.

The moon had passed its zenith when Amram and Jochebed shoved aside the curtain, cradling a trembling Miriam between them. Aaron had peered from behind Amram, eyes wide. “My sister had a bad dream.”

Puah had pushed herself off their sleeping mat. “I'll warm some goat's milk for the children.” One of the Ramessid wives had given her a jug of milk earlier that evening for helping with her birth.

Amram and Jochebed guided Miriam to the single chair in the room, while the rest of their families gathered round to hear her describe the dream.

“I saw a beautiful garden. No weeds, only flowers and fruit trees and endless rows of vegetables. Flocks of sheep and goats grazed in green pastures that stretched to the horizon. One boy, my age, tended the sheep. He played a flute. A beautiful, lilting tune. An older boy, perhaps eighteen or twenty, approached him from behind and struck his head with a rock.” Her eyes glistened, her lips trembled. “The older boy stood over the dead boy and laughed, and then he …” She shook her head and squeezed her eyes closed.

“Tell Mered, daughter.” Amram patted her shoulder. “It's no small matter to be entrusted with El-Shaddai's message.”

Mered shot a glance at his friend.
El-Shaddai's message?
He was tempted to chuckle—until he saw the fear in Amram's eyes that nearly matched his daughter's. “Tell me, Miriam. What happened to the laughing boy in your dream?”

She lifted her light brown eyes swimming with tears. “He was changed—and became Ankhe.”

The words stole Mered's breath. He could almost envision it: the laughing boy melting, twisting, roiling into Anippe's troubled sister. The image was terrifying. But had El-Shaddai truly spoken to Miriam, or was the nightmare stirred by slave gossip about Horemheb's violent feast?

Rather than challenge the distressed girl, Mered aimed his doubts at Amram. “What makes you believe Miriam's dream is a message from El-Shaddai?”

Miriam tugged on his sleeve. “Because the voice—more like a song, really—said, ‘If hope is gone, the brother becomes the sister.' And I can't get the tune or those words out of my head. They keep playing over and over in my mind.”

Puah offered Miriam the warmed goat's milk, and Mered glanced at Amram. One wiry gray eyebrow lifted. “I told you it was a message from El-Shaddai,” Amram said.

They'd all tried to go back to sleep, but who could rest when El-Shaddai had visited their longhouse? He'd been silent since the days of Joseph, His people seemingly forgotten.

Mered lay awake until the eastern horizon glowed deep purple. Then he leapt out of bed to accompany Miriam to the amira's chamber.

He'd never visited Anippe's chamber without being summoned, but last night's dream was reason enough to knock on her door.

“Miriam, slow down,” he called.

At thirteen, the girl had grown tall and slender, her round eyes and curls transformed from cute to alluring. She'd reached the age of marriage, but there would be no match until the amira chose a man. As Anippe's personal
handmaid, Miriam was under her authority—and her protection. Mered glanced toward the quay as they approached the villa's main entry and prayed the amira took precautions to protect Miriam from guards and oarsmen on their long journey.

A flurry of preparation permeated the estate. Horemheb's men loaded the king's barque and three other ships for the ten-day journey to Thebes. Perhaps Miriam would be safe with the royals on the king's barque. Mered rubbed his face, frustrated at his looming dread after last night's dream.

He and Miriam crossed the threshold and found the villa interior equally frantic. Servants bustled from kitchen to chamber to storeroom to quay.

Mered and Miriam were nearly knocked over by the cook, who never left her kitchen. “I don't know why I have to carry baskets of grain to a stinking ship.” The old woman panted and huffed as she elbowed past Mered.