By that point I had lost interest in Shery’s story, which apparently had no end. I wanted to sleep, but there was no stopping the woman, who did not see my hint when I yawned, or even when I closed my eyes.
“The Theban jail is no laughing matter,” she said darkly. “A hideous pit where men die of murder and despair as much as fever, full of madmen and cutthroats. But the warden came to pity his handsome inmate, who was neither hateful or insane. Soon he was taking his meals with the Canaanite, who spoke a good Egyptian by then.
“The warden was a bachelor and childless, and he treated Stick like a son. As the years passed he gave Stick responsibility for his fellows, until finally he was the one to determine which man slept near a window and which man was chained close to the latrine, so the inmates did what they could to bribe and please him. I tell you, Den-ner,” Shery said, shaking her head in admiration, “wherever this fellow goes, power seems to move into his hands.
“Meanwhile, the old king died, and the new king had a habit of punishing minor offenses against him by sending people to jail. If he was displeased by the texture of his bread at dinner, he might send the baker to jail for a week or even longer. Cupbearers, wine stewards, sandal-makers, even captains of the guard were sent to languish in that place, where they met Stick.
“Everyone was struck by his princely bearing and by his ability to interpret dreams and divine the future. He told one poor drunkard that he would not live out the week, and when he was found dead—not murdered, mind you, simply done in by years of strong drink—the prisoners proclaimed him an oracle. When a cupbearer returned from prison with a story about a jailer who saw into the future, the king sent for Stick and set him to interpret a series of dreams that had plagued him for months.
“It was not a difficult dream to divine, if you ask me,” said Shery. “Fat fish being devoured by bony fish, fat cows being trampled by skinny cows, and then seven fat stalks of wheat which were beaten down, leaving seven dead stalks.
“Any half-wit magician who pulls birds from beneath baskets in the marketplace could have interpreted that one,” Shery sniggered. “But the dreams haunted and frightened the idiot king, and it calmed him to hear that he had seven years in which to prepare for the coming famine. And so he elevated the jailer, an unlettered foreign-born conniver, to become his first-in-command.
“I imagine your son has already told you that this so-called Zafenat Paneh-ah is totally dependent upon Re-mose. And now that Zafenat is not only vizier but a father as well, there will be no stopping his pride,” Shery fumed, bustling around the room, preparing my bed, for she had talked away the whole afternoon.
“And yesterday,” she grumbled, speaking to herself by that point, “this madman demanded that his son be circumcised. Not when he is at manhood’s door and able to withstand such a thing. Not like civilized people, but now. Immediately! Can you imagine wanting to do that to a tiny baby? It only goes to prove that a born barbarian does not change. As-naat screamed and carried on like a gutted cat at the order. And I can’t blame her there.”
“Joseph,” I whispered, in horror and disbelief.
Shery peered up at me. “What?” she said. “What did you say, Den-ner?”
But I closed my eyes, suddenly unable to breathe. All at once I understood why I had been summoned to Thebes and why Shery had told me the endless story of the vizier. But surely this could not be. It was fever that weakened my reason. Dizzy and light-headed, I lay down on the bed, panting.
Shery noticed that something was amiss with me. “Den-ner,” she said. “Are you unwell? Can I get you something? Maybe you are ready for solid food now.
“But here is something to cheer you up,” she said, Jooking up at the sound of footsteps. “Your son comes to pay respects. Here is Re-mose. I will bring you both some refreshment,” she burbled, and left me with my son.
“Mother?” he said, formally with a stiff bow. But when he saw my face he started. “Ma? What is it? They told me you were much improved and that I might see you today,” he said doubtfully. “But perhaps this is not the right time.”
I turned my face toward the wall and waved him out of the room. I heard Shery go out with him and murmur an explanation. His hurried footsteps fading in the distance were the last thing I knew before I fell asleep.
Shery had told Re-mose of our conversation and repeated the word I had spoken before falling back into a fevered darkness of mind. Thus my son took “Joseph” into his mouth and, unannounced, went into the great hall, where the vizier of Egypt sat alone, whispering comfort to his firstborn son, who had been circumcised earlier that day.
“Joseph,” said Re-mose, throwing the name at him like a challenge. And the one known as Zafenat Paneh-ah trembled.
“Do you know a woman called Den-ner?” he demanded.
For a moment Zafenat Paneh-ah said nothing, and then he asked, “Dinah?” The master looked into his scribe’s eyes. “I had a sister named Dinah, but she died long ago. How do you come by her name? What do you know of Joseph?” he commanded.
“I will tell you what there is to tell after you describe her death,” said Re-mose. “But only then.”
The threat in his voice rankled Joseph. But even though he sat on a throne with a healthy son in his arms and guards ready to do his bidding, he felt bound to answer. It had been a lifetime since he had heard his own name, twenty years since he had spoken his sister’s name aloud.
So he began. In a quiet voice that drew Re-mose close to the throne, he told him that Dinah had gone to the palace in Shechem with his mother, Rachel the midwife, to tend to a birth in the house. “A prince of the city claimed her for a bride,” said Joseph, and Re-mose heard how Jacob turned away the handsome bride-price, and finally accepted him only on the cruelest of conditions.
Re-mose shuddered to learn his father’s name from Joseph’s lips, but in the next moment he learned that my brothers, his own uncles, had slaughtered Shalem in his own bed. Re-mose bit his tongue to keep from crying out.
Joseph declared his repugnance for the crime and proclaimed his own innocence. “Two of my brothers bloodied their hands,” he said, but admitted that perhaps four of them had had some part in the murder. “All of us were punished.
“She cursed us all. Some of my brothers fell ill, others saw their sons die. My father lost all hope, and I was sold into slavery.”
Joseph said, “I used to blame my sister for my misfortunes, but no longer. If I knew where she was buried, I would go and pour libations and build a stele in her memory. At least I survived my brothers’ villainy, and with the birth of this son, the god of my fathers shows me that I will not die forgotten. But my sister’s name was blotted out, as though she had never drawn breath.
“She was my milk-sister,” said Joseph, shaking his head. “It is strange to speak of her now that I am a father. Perhaps I will name the next one in her honor,” and he fell silent. “And what is Joseph?” Re-mose asked.
“Joseph is the name my mother gave me,” said Zafenat Paneh-ah quietly.
Re-mose turned to leave, but the vizier called him back. “Wait! We have a bargain. Tell me how you came to know my name and the name of my sister.”
Re-mose stopped and without facing him said, “She is not dead.”
The words hung in the air. “She is here, in your palace. Indeed, you bade her brought here. Den-ner the midwife, the one who delivered your son, is your sister, Dinah. My mother.”
Joseph’s eyes grew wide in wonder, and he smiled like a happy child. But Re-mose spit at his feet.
“Would you have me call you uncle?” he hissed. “I hated you from the first. You robbed me of a position that is rightly mine, and you advance in the king’s eyes because of my skill. Now I see that you blasted my life from birth! You slaughtered my father in the prime of his youth. You and your barbarian brothers murdered my grandfather too, who, though a Canaanite, acted honorably.
“You ripped the heart out of my grandmother. You betrayed your sister, w
idowed my mother, and made me an orphan and an outcast.
“When I was a boy, my grandmother’s servant told me that when I finally found my father’s murderers, their names would rip my soul into pieces. His words were true.
“You are my uncle. Oh gods, what a nightmare,” Re-mose cried. “A murderer and a liar. How dare you claim innocence in this abomination? Perhaps you raised no sword yourself, but you did nothing to stop them. You must have known something of the plot, you and your father and the rest of his seed. I see the blood of my father on your hands. Your guilt is still in your eyes.”
Joseph looked away.
“There is nothing left but for me to kill you, or die a coward. If I do not avenge my father, I will be unworthy of this life, much less the next.”
Re-mose’s voice, raised in hatred, alerted the guards, who subdued him and led him away while Menashe wailed in his father’s arms.
When I finally woke, Shery sat beside me, her face stricken. “What is it?” I asked. “Oh lady,” she said, in a great rush to tell me what she knew, “I have bad news. Your son and the vizier have quarreled, and Re-mose is under guard in his chambers. The master is said to be furious, and they say that the young scribe is in mortal danger. I do not know the cause of their quarrel, not yet at least. But when I learn it, I will tell you immediately.”
I got to my feet, wobbling but determined. “Shery,” I commanded. “Listen to me now, for I will not argue or repeat myself. I must speak to the master of the house. Go and announce me.”
The serving woman bowed from the waist, but in a small voice said, “You cannot go to Zafenat Paneh-ah looking as you do. Let me give you a bath and dress your hair. Put on a clean gown so you can make your case like a lady and not a beggar.”
I nodded my assent, suddenly frightened by the scene ahead. What words could I use to a brother I had not seen for a lifetime? I crouched in the bath as Shery poured cool water over me and leaned back as she brushed and arranged my hair. I felt like a slave about to be paraded before a gallery of buyers.
When I was ready, Shery led me to the door of Zafenat Paneh-ah’s hall, where he sat with his head in his hands.
“Den-ner, the midwife, requests an audience,” she said. The vizier stood up and waved me in.
“Leave us,” he barked. Shery and all of his retainers disappeared. We were alone. Neither of us moved. We kept our places on opposite ends of the room and stared.
Though the years had cost him his smooth cheeks and a few of his teeth, Joseph was still fair of face and strong, still the son of Rachel.
“Dinah,” he said. “Ahatti—little sister,” he said, in the language of our youth. “The grave has set you free.”
“Yes, Joseph,” I said. “I am alive, and amazed to be in your presence. But the only reason I come to you is to ask what has become of my son.”
“Your son knows the story of his father’s death and he threatens my life,” said Joseph stiffly. “He holds me responsible for the sins of my brothers. His threat alone could cause his execution, but because he is your son, I will only send him away.
“He will not come to harm, I promise,” said Joseph kindly. “I have recommended that the king give him charge of a prefecture in the north, where he will be second to none. In time, he will fall in love with the sea—they all do—and he will build a life seasoned with salt air and salt water and not wish for any other.
“You must tell him to do as I say and forget this talk of revenge,” said Joseph. “You must do this now, tonight. If he raises a hand to me, if he so much as threatens me in the company of my guard, he must die.”
“I doubt that my son will listen to my words,” I said sadly. “He hates me, for I am the cause of his unhappiness.”
“Nonsense,” said Joseph, with the supreme self-confidence that made our brothers so jealous. “The men of Egypt honor their mothers like no other men in the world.”
“You do not know,” I said. “He called his grandmother Ma. I was no more than his wet nurse.”
“No, Dinah,” said Joseph. “He suffers too much for that to be true. He will listen to you, and he must go.”
I looked at my brother and saw a man I did not know. “I will do as you say, master,” I said, in the voice of a good servant. “But ask me for nothing else. Let me be free of this place, for it is a tomb to me. Seeing you is like stepping into the past where my sorrow lies. And now because of you, I lose all hope of my son.”
Joseph nodded. “I understand, Ahatti, and it will be as you say except in one matter. When my wife comes to the bricks again—and I have already dreamed of a second son—you must come and attend her.
“You may come without seeing me if you like, and you will be well paid. Indeed, you will be paid in land if you wish, you and the carpenter.”
I bridled at the suggestion that I was a pauper, and announced, “My husband, Benia, is master craftsman in the Valley of the Kings.”
“Benia?” he asked, and Joseph’s face crumbled into regret. “That was the baby-name for our brother Benjamin, the last-born of my mother, who died giving him life. I used to hate Benia for killing her, but now I think I would give half of what is mine only to hold his hand.”
“I have no desire to see him,” I said, surprising both of us with the anger in my voice. “I am no longer of that world. If my mothers are dead, then I am an orphan. My brothers are no more to me than the livestock of our youth. You and I were kin as children, when we knew each other well enough to share our hearts. But that was in another life.”
The great room was silent, each of us lost in memories. “I will go to my son,” I said finally. “Then I will be gone.” “Go in peace,” said Joseph.
Re-mose lay facedown on the bed in his handsome suite. My son did not move or speak or show me any sign of recognition. I spoke to his back.
His windows overlooked the river, which glittered in the moonlight. “Your father loved the river,” I said, fighting tears. “And you will love the sea.
“I will not see you again, Re-mose, and there will be no other opportunity to speak these words again. Listen to your mother, who comes to say goodbye.
“I do not ask you to forgive my brothers. I never did. I never will. I ask only that you forgive me for the bad luck of being their sister.
“Forgive me for never speaking to you of your father. That was your grandmother’s command, for she saw secrecy as the only way to keep you from the agony that cuts you low today. She knew that the past could threaten your future, and we must continue to protect you against the accidents of birth. The true story of your parentage is still known only by you, me, and Zafenat Paneh-ah. There is no need to tell anyone else.
“But now that we share this secret, I will tell you something else.
“Re-mose, your father was called Shalem, and he was as beautiful as the sunset for which he was named. We chose each other in love. The name I gave you at my breast was Bar-Shalem, son of the sunset, and your father lived in you.
“Your grandmother called you Re-mose, making you a child of Egypt and the sun god. In either language and in any country, you are blessed by the great power of the heavens. Your future is written on your face, and I pray that you will have the fullness of years denied to your father. May you find contentment."
“I will remember you in the morning and in the evening, every day until I close my eyes forever. I forgive your every harsh thought of me and the curses you may hurl at my name. And when at last you do forgive me, I forbid you to suffer a moment’s guilt in my name. I ask that you remember only my blessing upon you, Bar-Shalem Re-mose.”
My son did not move from his couch or say a word, and I took my leave, brokenhearted but free.
CHAPTER FIVE
RETURNING HOME WAS like being reborn. I buried my face in the bed linens and ran my hands over every piece of furniture, every garden plant, delighted to find things where I had left them. Kiya walked in to find me embracing a water jug. I sent her to tell Meryt I was home and
then walked as fast as I could to Benia’s workshop.
My husband saw me approach and rushed out to greet me. It seemed that we had been parted for years rather than days. “You are so thin, wife,” he whispered as he held me in his arms.
“I fell ill in the city,” I explained. “But I am healthy again.”
We studied each other’s faces. “Something else happened,” Benia said, drawing his fingers across my forehead and reading something of the past days’ shocks. “Are you back to stay, beloved?” he asked, and I understood the cause of the shadows beneath his eyes.
I reassured him with an embrace that earned us a loud hoot from the men in the workshop. “I will be home as soon as I can,” he said, kissing my hands. I nodded, too happy to say more.
Meryt was waiting with warm bread and beer when I returned to my house. But when she saw me, she cried, “What did they do to you, sister? You are skinny as a bone, and your eyes look as though you have wept a river.”
I told my friend about the fever and of Re-mose’s quarrel with his master. When my friend heard that he was posted to the north, her eyes filled in sympathy.
After we ate what Meryt had brought, she ordered me to the bed and massaged my feet. All the pain of the past weeks melted as she kneaded my toes and cradled my heels. After I was at peace and still, I asked her to sit by my side and I took her hand, still warm and moist with oil, and told her the rest of what had happened to me in Thebes, including how it came to pass that Zafenat Paneh-ah, the king’s right hand, was my brother Joseph.
Meryt listened in stillness, watching my face as I recounted my mothers’ history, and the story of Shechem and the murder of Shalem. My friend did not move or utter a sound, but her face revealed the workings of her heart, showing me horror, rage, sympathy, compassion. When I finished, she shook her head. “I see why you did not tell me this before,” she said sadly. “I wish I had been able to help you bear this burden from the very first. But now that you entrust your past to my keeping, it is safe. I know you need no oath from me, or else you would not have told me.