The Pharaoh's Daughter (6 page)

Mered rounded the corner to an all-too-familiar sight. A Hebrew woman cowered beneath the watchful eye of a Ramessid guard, trembling as she picked up the pieces of a broken bread mold. The baker lived a few doors down from Mered in the craftsmen's village, but this woman lived with the other unskilled laborers on the plateau between Qantir and Avaris.

“Dead-man's land”
was what the unskilled Hebrews called the elevated fields and mud pits connecting the neighboring villas, where they barely survived in mud-brick long houses. Avaris and Qantir shared the slaves who lived on the plateau and divided equally the products of their labor.

A few Hebrews were deemed messengers between estates, beaten if they couldn't transfer a scroll from Avaris to Qantir in the time required to serve and eat a meal. Many unskilled slaves worked fields of grain, vegetables, vineyards, and fruit trees. Others tended flocks and herds of cattle, sheep, goats, and pigs. When slaves were punished, they were sentenced to the mud pits. Day after day of mixing, molding, drying, and carrying the building blocks of Egypt. All of it occurred in the muddy, desperate world overlooking two pristine Egyptian villas.

The woman picking up the clay pieces was one of the fortunate unskilled slaves. Though she lived on the plateau, she was shuffled between the villas and gardens of Qantir and Avaris for menial tasks. The unlucky women worked their short earthly lives in dead-man's land under the constant abuse of hungry, hot, and weary Ramessid guards. Since both Master Sebak and his uncle Pirameses, the master of Qantir, were soldiers and seldom in residence, lower
ranking family members managed the slaves—men of lesser distinction and even lower character. They treated the Hebrews no better than they treated pack animals.

Mered turned away and decided to visit the brewery first.

The open corridor and cooler evening air provided welcome relief. Mered inhaled deeply, clearing his head. Life would be better when Master Sebak returned. His intolerance for slave abuse spread quickly when he thrashed a guard nearly to death last year after finding a Hebrew maid beaten and cowering in the garden. Ramessid guards, though never kind, were at least restrained while the master was in residence—but how long could it last? Would Egypt's fiercest warrior sleep in a warm bed with his young wife while his men continued to fight the Hittites?

El-Shaddai, please give my master a nice, long respite. If not for his sake, for the sake of Your people, Israel.

Torches in their metal wall shafts lit the sandstone path as Mered passed the hive-shaped granaries. Wishing he'd brought a stick to stir the path in front of him, he kept vigilant watch for rats and vipers near the grain. He didn't want to surprise a cobra tonight.

The scent of soured mash drew him. A few more steps, and he entered the bustling world of Avaris's brewery. Unlike the bakery, which used petite clay bread molds, the brewery dealt in huge vats of crumbled bread, fermented at different stages, poured through giant sieves, and flavored in huge bowls with dates, nabk-berries, and pomegranates.

The chief brewer spied him as he entered the door. “Mered, come sip the latest batch.” A rotund man and happier than any Hebrew should be, the brewer almost certainly sipped the latest batch too often.

“Thank you, but no. I've come to make sure we'll have a hundred large amphorae of Master Sebak's favorite beer for the feast.”

“Of course. Of course.” The brewer wrapped one arm around Mered's shoulders and rubbed his chin with the other hand. “Now, which is Master Sebak's favorite beer?”

Dumbfounded, Mered opened his mouth, but no words came. How could the chief brewer forget the master's favorite beer?

“Bahaha! I'm only playing, Mered.” The big man slapped his knees, thoroughly amused.

Two Ramessid guards slammed their clay cups on a low-lying table, sloshing the remains, and then hoisted themselves to a swaying stance. “Brewer, get back to work. Linen keeper, why are you distracting this man? He has very important work to do.” Slurring every word, the guards walked toward them in much the same approach as a slithering snake.

The brewer suddenly sobered and leaned close. “I'll have a hundred amphorae of Master Sebak's dark date beer for the feast. You worry too much, my friend. Go home to your pretty wife before these guards beat us for entertainment.”

He shoved Mered toward the door and let out a booming laugh. “The next batch of honey beer is ready for tasting. Would you two fine officers give your approval before I dare offer it to Master Sebak?”

Mered hurried out the door and down the hallway, past the granaries and bakery, without stopping for breath. He'd have to thank the chief brewer for that rescue when they saw each other in the craftsmen's village.

The chief Hebrew overseers were housed with the skilled craftsmen in a special area of the estate. Six mud-brick long houses had been built north of the villa and down a slight hill, along the banks of the Nile. Ramessid guards seldom visited the craftsmen's village—unless one of the skilled Hebrews needed discipline. The guards were forbidden to harm the craftsmen for fear that production of jewelry, beer, or linen might decrease. Instead, guards tortured skilled craftsmen through their families—making wives, children, or even parents pay for the craftsmen's errors.

Mered was breathless by the time he returned to his linen shop, but crossing the threshold was like entering the safety of a womb. The steady rhythm of the weavers' wefts and warps echoed his heartbeat. Unskilled laborers hummed in time, striking flax stalks with wooden mallets to separate the fibers.

His workmen had labored nonstop since Master Sebak's surprise visit with General Horemheb. News of the wedding had revived them all with purpose and joy. Master Sebak was different from other Ramessids. Kinder. More just. His personal loss and pain made him more generous with slaves who endured
hardship daily, and each one agreed that the master had endured life alone long enough.

Mered shouted above the rhythmic beat of busy hands. “Skilled craftsmen, go home for the night and get some rest. Unskilled, remain till morning. I'll send a new group at dawn to relieve you.”

The designers, weavers, and bead workers halted their projects and congregated at the north door. “Mered, are you coming?”

A moment of decision. Should he stay to supervise or sleep a few hours? The brewer's words echoed in his memory.
“You worry too much, my friend.”
His sleeping mat beckoned him, and the thought of his wife's warm body urged him toward the door.

“Yes, I'm coming.”

His wife, Puah, had been gone the morning Master Sebak summoned Mered to the linen shop at dawn to announce his wedding plans. Puah kept strange hours now that she'd been assigned as assistant to the Ramessids' chief midwife, Shiphrah.

Mered's heart squeezed a little, wondering how the midwives felt about the king's return for Sebak's wedding. When Pharaoh Tut last visited the Delta with Queen Senpa, Shiphrah and Puah had been woken in the middle of the night to attend the queen's premature birth pains. Puah had cried for days afterward, reliving the heartbreak of the stillborn baby girl. Did his wife know Queen Senpa was expecting a second child and would soon be returning for the wedding?

A group of thirty craftsmen left the north door of the linen shop. Those in front and back carried sticks and torches to ward off night beasts. Hoping to distract himself from the dangers of their journey, Mered squeezed a young weaver's shoulder. “Are you almost finished with the amira's wedding gown? I saw your progress. The design is exquisite.”

The weaver's eyes were wide with fear, his back as rigid as the stick he held to ward off jackals. “It should be finished by the time the royal barque arrives, my lord.”

My lord.
Mered hated when his brother Hebrews treated him like an Egyptian master. “You need not call me
‘my lord.
' I'm simply Mered.” He patted
the weaver's shoulder, hoping to infuse a measure of peace, but saw that his attempts were simply prolonging the young weaver's discomfort.

Mered slowed his steps, allowing the weaver to join those with whom he felt more comfortable. The group ahead began shouting and waving their sticks and torches, giving wide berth to a small knot of hyenas feeding on a kill at the side of the path. The four scraggly hunters scattered as the humans approached, and Mered held his breath. Would they find animal or human prey ahead? The Ramessids had been known to throw a dead slave to the night beasts for a snack.

The craftsmen walked past an antelope's remains, and Mered heard others sigh with the relief he felt. A familiar loneliness crept into his bones, making his weariness unbearable.

Please, El-Shaddai, let my Puah be home.
With her, he could forget Egyptians and Hebrews and hyenas. He could simply leave his day behind and love her.

Four craftsmen, including Mered, split from the group and climbed a low rise to the first mud-brick long house. A narrow alley separated the first two long structures, the front doors of the first long house facing the back wall of the second row of long houses. The structures were a honeycomb of rooms, doorways, and walls. When one family needed more space, they knocked out a wall and added a doorway to another room. When an elderly couple no longer needed a place for children, a growing family accessed more of the structure.

Mered arrived at his door halfway down the long house and paused outside to remove his sandals. Dust coated his feet and ankles even after the short walk home. He could feel the grit between his teeth, in his hair and eyelashes. Harvest season would stir more dust, and just as it became absolutely agonizing, the life-giving inundation would flood the Nile, bringing muddy relief to their dusty world. But until the mud came, they lived, breathed, and ate dust.

Mered wiped his feet and legs. He blew the dust from his sandals and left them outside the door, donning the cloth slippers Puah required inside their home. A grin curved his lips. If El-Shaddai blessed them with children, she'd have to set aside her obsession with cleanliness.

Mered peeked around the rough-spun linen curtain hanging across their
doorway. As his eyes adjusted to the lamplight in their single room, he saw Puah crouched over the cook fire, her back turned. Why was she still awake? Glancing left, he noted the curtain pulled across the doorway leading to their neighbors' rooms. The family whose rooms opened into their space must be settled for the night.

And then he heard Puah's soft whimpers.

Mered crossed the room without a sound, his mind grasping at ways to comfort his grieving wife. Had Puah helped deliver their neighbors' third child while he'd been gone? He'd dreaded the day they'd have a newborn on the other side of that curtain—not because of inconvenience or annoyance, but because his wife's empty womb would ache unbearably.

He scuffed his feet on the reed mat as he approached, trying not to startle her.

Puah wiped her cheeks before turning to greet him and donned a forced smile. “Mered. I didn't think you'd be home tonight. Is the wedding dress finished for the amira?”

He reached for her hand, helping her to her feet. Burying his fingers in her coarse brown hair, he stared intently into eyes that shunned his gaze. “I don't care about the amira's dress. I care about my wife, who thinks she must hide her tears when I come home.” She tried to pull away, but he captured her cheeks between gentle hands. “Puah, talk to me. Did Jochebed have her baby?”

She shook her head. “No, but she's had false labor all day. It won't be long.”

She closed her eyes and grew still. Tears seeped beneath her lashes, and her knees crumpled, sending them both to the floor. Mered held her as waves of grief escaped on silent sobs. What could he say that hadn't already been said? He wanted children too, but talking about it only seemed to upset them both.

“Puah, we've been married only two years. You're still young—only seventeen. We must give the Lord time to work.”

“But He's already worked in every other wife my age. What if I'm barren like Sarah or Rachel?”

“Sarah and Rachel gave birth to children of promise, remember? What if God is simply waiting for the proper time to give us a child—as He did with Sarah and Rachel?”

“You're not listening to me.” She buried her face in his chest, unleashing a fresh torrent.

Mered pulled her closer, rubbing her back for reassurance. “I am listening. I hear your heart. You want to be an ummi.” She nodded her head but didn't speak. “But I need you to listen to me as well. Have you considered God may delay giving us children because of His mercy rather than wrath or vengeance?”

At this she looked up. “How is it merciful to deny me a child?”

Her knitted brow and pout made her even more beautiful, nearly distracting him from his perfectly reasonable argument.

“What if you and Shiphrah attend the birth of a wife of a Ramessid and her baby dies? What if she decides to take our child in return for the loss of her child?” Even in the dim lamplight, Mered saw Puah's face pale. “It's heartbreaking to be childless, my love, but are you prepared for the heartbreak of bearing a slave child?”

“Do you think that's why neither Shiphrah nor I have children? El-Shaddai closed our wombs to protect us?” She began shaking her head, tears flowing in earnest again.

“I didn't say that, Puah.”

“I don't want to be a midwife then. I want children, Mered. I want your children. I want a family.”

“Shh, my wife. Shh.” He gathered her into his arms again, wishing he could infuse her with the peace he'd found in El-Shaddai but knowing she must seek Him for herself. “We have no choice, Puah—not you as a midwife, nor me as Chief Linen Keeper. Our lives are not our own. We belong to El-Shaddai—and Master Sebak.”