<< Go Back

In the Shadow of Sinai

By Carole Towriss

Order Now!

Chapter 1
Pi-Ramses, Egypt
Late 13th Century BC
First month of Ahket, Season of Inundation
The crash of the drum echoed in Bezalel’s ears as he slipped out from behind his pedestal on the portico and hastened to the throne room. He dared not risk the penalty for being late—again. His tunic still stuck to his wounds from the last beating and ripped them open whenever he moved the wrong way.
He dropped to the cold limestone floor on one knee and lowered his head, raising it just enough to watch pair after pair of bare feet shuffle west toward the dais. The heavy scent of perfumed oil stung his nose.
The old king ascended his throne as the bare-chested attendants silently lined the walls on either side of the spacious hall then turned toward their sovereign and bowed low.
This daily routine was absurd, pretending that Ramses was a god. He was no more a god than Bezalel was, although Bezalel couldn’t say that El Shaddai was doing him much good at the moment either. In fact, he seemed utterly incompetent. Or callous.
Bezalel rose. From the tiled hall that led beyond the throne room to the private quarters beyond the dais, he heard the jingling of bracelets and anklets. He looked toward the entryway and saw a young girl emerge behind a number of women who had no doubt dressed her, perfumed her, painted her face, and adorned her with the excessive jewelry of a concubine.
She was perhaps twenty strides away. As she neared he saw she was Egyptian and quite young, several years younger than he—perhaps no more than fourteen. A vague scent of jasmine hung in the air.
She glanced at Bezalel as she passed and his mouth went as dry as the desert surrounding him. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
Even behind the heavy kohl he grasped the misery in her eyes. His chest constricted in a way he had never felt before and an inexplicable urge to grab her and pull her away from the group overwhelmed him. The king used to take consorts often. Why was she different?
Guards led her to the center of the room. The other girls retreated to the rear. She knelt and bowed low to the king, her head nearly touching the floor.
Bezalel’s face grew hot and his breathing became shallow.
The girl—for though she was to be a consort, he could hardly call her a woman—stood.
Ramses stepped off the dais and walked stiffly toward her. He circled her like a vulture, looking her up and down. He lifted her chin with his wrinkled hand and studied her face. Her shoulders tightened when he touched her.
Bezalel’s hands curled into fists. The others had seemed more than willing to become part of his harem. Why take one by force?
“She is acceptable. Take her to my chambers.”
A guard grasped the girl’s arm and started toward the hallway. She stumbled along behind him.
“N—!” Bezalel rushed toward her, but a harsh yank on the neck of his tunic cut off the word as well as his progress. He spun around, putting his hands to his neck and choking.
An older man came toward him, scowling. “Bezalel!”
Forcing his breathing to slow, Bezalel glanced sideways at him then looked at the floor. He put his hand to his throat again and winced.
“Bezalel, you are under my protection here, but I cannot save you from your own foolishness.”
“But Ammon, did you see her? She is but a child!”
“And he is Pharaoh! Her age is irrelevant. He can marry an infant if he wishes.” The man’s voice softened. “You are lucky I was here to stop you.”
Bezalel sighed and turned back toward the private hallway. His stomach revolted as the guards led the girl into the elderly king’s private rooms. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out his own imagination.
Ammon put a hand on Bezalel’s shoulder and led him away. The man looked older than the last time Bezalel had seen him. His paunch had grown, and almost all of his hair had disappeared. Sunlight bounced off the large jeweled ankh hanging around his neck. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve been working on while I’ve been gone?”
They strolled toward the long, narrow portico that ran along the back of the throne room. Pillars separated the two areas, and the east side of the portico opened onto a large, airy courtyard that let in the sunlight for most of the day, making the portico an excellent place for the artisans to work. Beyond the courtyard, the Nile rushed toward the sea.
They neared a pedestal that stood on the north end of the long workspace.
“Used to people watching you work yet?” Ammon chuckled as he removed a cover from a sculpture nestled in a sandbag.
“That is why I am here, isn’t it?” Bezalel turned up one side of his mouth.
“Ah, finally a smile! Or at least the start of one.”
“Do you like it?” Bezalel searched his teacher’s face for approval as the man scrutinized the work. He craved the old man’s blessing, even after all these years.
Ammon nodded. “It’s a lovely beginning. What a stunning piece of alabaster!” He drew his hand over the stone. “You’ve only roughed out the face, I see.”
“I started the eyes yesterday. I love that part—they bring the life out.” Bezalel rubbed his thumb over the beginnings of an eye.
“You always did. Come, Bezalel, let us go to your workroom.”
Bezalel followed his teacher back across the portico toward a whitewashed hall. Opposite it, on the other side of the throne room, the corridor to the private areas extended west. This hallway ran east and contained workrooms and storerooms. Ammon opened a door and entered Bezalel’s room. He pulled a high stool away from a large table and sat down with a sigh. A large, south-facing window set high up on the wall showered sunlight on the table. A bed hugged the wall under the window. Bezalel grabbed two cups from a shelf and filled them with pomegranate juice.
“I didn’t know you were back from Memphis already.” He handed Ammon a cup.
“I returned last night. I intended to see you this morning, after my visit with the king.”
“You already saw him?”
“Yes. Bezalel, I am afraid I have some news you will not like.” He looked down at his cup and traced the rim with his finger. “I am leaving here. I will no longer be a craftsman for the king. Ramses has awarded me a plot of land … and I am going to live on it.”
Bezalel furrowed his brow. Surely he didn’t mean right now. “What about the Colossi?”
Ammon drained his cup. “They are far enough along to be finished without me. And the trips to Memphis are too hard on me anymore.”
Bezalel sank to a stool. Air left him as if he’d been punched in the gut. “But why?”
“I am old, Bezalel. You can’t see it because you love me. But I am old and tired.” He stretched the fingers of one hand wide. “My hands ache all night after I carve for even a short time. My back hurts constantly.” He smiled. “But I have accomplished more than I ever dreamed I would. The Colossi are my greatest work, my legacy. There is nothing left for me to do.”
Bezalel set his cup on the table, stood, and walked toward the door. He whirled around to face Ammon. “But there is always more to do! Ramses needs you. I need you! You can’t leave.” He spread his arms out.
“You don’t need me.”
Bezalel’s head spun. How could Ammon do this to him? “I do! You are all I have … almost. I have lived in this palace since my eighth summer. You have always been here for me. I have been with you more than my own parents!”
Ammon put down his cup and twisted in his seat. “Yes, I know. And I have loved you like a son, even though you are a slave and a Hebrew. I have trained many artisans, but I have not loved any of them as I have loved you. None of them lived with me here as you have. But it has been twelve years and now you are grown. You are a man. I haven’t even been around much for the last three years, and you have done very well. I heard about you even in Memphis.”
“And Ramses is willing to let you go?”
“He has you. He knows of you and your work, which is the only reason you were not severely punished just now.”
“But I cannot compare to you!”
Ammon stood and crossed the room. He put his hands on Bezalel’s shoulders. “My boy, I have taught you—and you have mastered—everything I know. And before me, you exhausted the knowledge of three other teachers. You have surpassed us all.”
Bezalel closed his eyes and sighed deeply. This could not happen. There must be a way to change Ammon’s mind.
“I have always felt you had a special ability. There have only been a few who can work with so many materials. None had your creativity. Your work decorates many rooms in this very palace, even the king’s own rooms. I believe Ptah has blessed you.”
Ptah. Bezalel shifted his weight at the mention of the Egyptian god. Why did Ammon always have to bring him up? Bezalel might be angry with Shaddai, but that didn’t mean he worshipped Egypt’s false deities.
Ammon sighed. “I know you do not worship our gods. You have your own gods—”
Bezalel frowned.
“No matter.” Ammon took a deep breath. “I have to leave you now. I doubt I will see you again. My new home is too far away to come here often.”
Bezalel wrapped his arms around his teacher. He closed his eyes tightly against the tears.
After several moments Ammon pulled away gently, his eyes moist as well, and laid his hands on Bezalel’s face. “Know that you will always be in my heart. And I look forward to hearing many good things about you.” His voice was soft.
He opened the door and left.
Bezalel stared at the empty doorway. An emptiness filled his heart. Just knowing Ammon was there—even if “there” was far away in Memphis—had always been a comfort. Now he was on his own. Alone.
His ability had given him an easier life in the palace, but it had taken him away from home. He knew precious few people in the village other than his family, whom he saw only once a week at most. Almost all of the Israelites thought of him as a traitor—as if he had a choice of where to work. Now his closest, perhaps only, ally was gone. How would the new chief craftsman treat him?
He walked to the table and reached for his cup. He held it for a few moments then sent it sailing. Red juice exploded onto the wall and trickled down in rivulets as it made its way to the shattered cup. Then he did the only thing he knew to do, the only thing that gave him pleasure. He left his room to return to his art.
He caressed the pale alabaster, his fingers hesitating on the spots where the ears, the nose, the mouth would be. To him, the face hid in the stone, waiting for him to find it. It was a game, a challenge to get to the final form concealed within, one that often surprised him as much as it did those who had commissioned it.
He picked up a bronze claw. The soft stone gave way easily to the short curved teeth of the long-handled tool. He drew it along in short, brusque strokes, tugging away at the unwanted parts. Bits of alabaster clinked on the floor as he continued to carve, each chunk bringing him closer to the revelation inside.
Bezalel paid little attention to what happened on the other side of the columns, trying to shut out everything but his craft. He looked up only occasionally, to assure himself he did not miss another summons.
After a while the noise of a particularly large delegation caught Bezalel’s attention as its members stomped in from the entrance hall to the southeast of the courtyard. Their very dark skin and closely braided hair identified them as Nubians. That meant gold. Lots of gold.
Ten men, in pairs, carried enormous, open black-and-red pots filled with gold flakes and nuggets, tribute for the season. Bezalel’s thoughts ran wild as he envisioned the jewelry he could fashion from it. In its present form it wasn’t much good to anyone else.
A parade of women in multi-colored garments followed, carrying trays full of copper and gemstones from the Sinai mines, shut down before summer’s fury took hold. Light green turquoise, deep blue lapis lazuli, pale purple amethyst, red carnelian, textured green malachite, and clear green emeralds. To most they looked like worthless rocks at this stage, but to him, even unpolished they held unbelievable beauty and possibility.
Before Bezalel could dream about what he could do with the gems, two young girls bolted in from the hall, screaming. He grimaced as an inhuman growl filled the air. Sailors strutted in, one with a golden cat that stood as high as a man’s waist, with a long rope tied around its neck.
The animal looked from side to side constantly, as if searching for its next meal. The handler walked the cat up to the throne and stopped, then knelt. The cat, covered with what appeared to be black paw prints, lay down next to him, swishing its tail.
Ramses leaned forward and pointed at the animal with his scepter. “What is this? Is this the leopard I heard about as a child?”
The sailor stood and gestured grandly toward the cat. “Yes, my king. This is the famous leopard. There has not been one at court since Queen Hatshepsut, almost two hundred years ago. But I, Menes”—he put his hand on his chest—“have brought Ramses II, the greatest king of all, the finest leopard in all the land of Punt.” He bowed deeply.
Ramses raised his eyebrows. “Really? In all the land? You searched it all?”
The sailor stood. “Well, it-it is the finest that I found …”
“If I had wanted one, I would have sent for one.” Ramses sat back in his throne. “Did you bring anything … useful?”
“Well, yes, there is a myrrh tree, frankincense, ebony, ivory—”
“Very good. You are dismissed.” Ramses struck the floor with the heel of his scepter.
The sailor’s shoulders fell, and he shuffled off, pulling the leopard behind him.
Bezalel shook his head. Ramses didn’t care about the effort the man must have gone to as he captured, trained, and brought such a magnificent creature to him. If it didn’t fill his treasury or his harem, he troubled himself little about it, no matter how much sweat or blood it cost.
Crewmen followed, carrying baskets of the promised white elephant tusks and black wood. This afternoon the rare ivory and ebony would be in the storeroom. Bezalel could hardly wait.
###
The water clock said the day’s work was finished, although the sun would not set for some time. Finally, Bezalel’s week was over. He needed his family tonight. He packed up his tools and shut the door of his workroom behind him.
He left the palace and headed northwest along the river, and in less than half an hour reached his village. A day or so was hardly enough time. Thankfully, he lived close enough to come home midweek sometimes, if his workload permitted. Ammon had given him leave to choose his own time off as long as he accomplished his work. Would his new master do the same?
The evening sun cast long, misshapen shadows east over the river, and the cooler air beckoned people outside. River birds darted above the heads of the small children who hid among the papyrus reeds. Older children began arriving from the brickfields along with the adults. Several younger boys shouted as they played a game of chase near the river. Bezalel stopped and watched. Their innocent joy refreshed him after days with the selfish king.
“Hey, palace rat, leave them alone! Stay away from them!”
Bezalel flinched, and looked around for the voice that yelled at him.
A group of mud-stained young men his age stood a short distance away, staring at him. The leader stood in front of the rest, arms crossed. His bushy beard made him look older than the others. “I said, leave! We don’t need your kind here.”
Not tonight. His feelings were raw already. No matter how often he explained, some still couldn’t believe he did not have a choice of whether or not to work in the palace. The lack of mud on his tunic and blisters on his hands provided the only provocation some needed to hate him. He had no energy to argue tonight. Still, if they wanted it ... He headed toward them.
“Bezalel!”
A familiar voice caught his attention. He turned to see his grandfather ambling towards him. Bezalel stared a moment at the group then walked away.
“Sabba.” Bezalel smiled and hugged his grandfather.
“Welcome home, habibi.” His grandfather clapped him on the shoulder. “Problem?”
“Not anymore.” They fell in step as they strolled through the narrow streets of houses made with adjoining walls. They passed a couple nuzzling near the door of a mud-brick home. A gaggle of boys kicked a ball. Girls huddled, pointed, and giggled as boys walked by. Everyone had someone. Everyone except him. Sometimes—often—he wished he made bricks like everyone else. It would be so much easier. Why did he have to be different?
They reached their small home. They removed their sandals and walked through the large room into the open-air kitchen in the back.
“Bezalel, you’re home!” His mother dropped the large spoon she was using into a pot, grabbed Bezalel, and held him close.
“Yes, Imma, I’m home.” He smiled broadly and hugged her back then pulled away and kissed her on the cheek.
“Oh, a week is too long, habibi. Hungry, I hope? I roasted a duck since you are home for dinner tonight. Now, wash your hands.”
The two men washed and dried their hands, stepped into the main room, and sat on the floor in front of the low table already set with plates and cups and a pitcher of juice.
Imma set out fresh dates and bread then disappeared again. She emerged with a platter of duck meat, which she placed on the table.
“Thank you, Rebekah.” Sabba grabbed a date while she wasn’t looking.
“So, what happened at the palace this week?” Imma sat beside Bezalel.
He watched her as she filled his plate with meat and fruit. She looked so tired lately. Gray now streaked her beautiful brown hair, and her bright eyes always had dark circles under them. She looked far older than her years. “The Nubians brought gold again, and the Sinai miners sent basket loads of gems. I can’t wait to work with them. The water master came with the first report of the rise in the Nile. Sailors from Punt brought a leopard—”
“A leopard! I thought that was only a legend.” Imma’s eyes grew as wide as the dates she had served.
Bezalel swallowed his bread. “I guess not. An enormous cat. Gold with black spots. He was stunning, but he scared the servant girls.” He took another bite and thought of the girl in the throne room. Her face filled his mind, and once more he wanted to go find her and take her away. What was her name? What was she doing right now? How frightened was she? He shoved the thoughts aside.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Her question pulled him back to the present. “What?”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Ramses took a new wife again. Well, a concubine, anyway.”
Imma’s mouth dropped open. “Again? But it’s been years.”
Bezalel nodded. “She’s so young this time … the youngest one yet. And very pretty.”
Imma studied his face. “Is that all? You’re still leaving something out, I think.” She touched the darkening bruise on his neck.
He pulled away. “Don’t worry about it.” He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I guess if he is a god he can do anything, even marry a child.”
“God? He is no god,” Sabba huffed.
“The people think so. He is as good a god as El Shaddai.” Bezalel shoved his food away. “Maybe better. Shaddai cannot stop Ramses from keeping us as slaves. He is not ‘the Almighty,’ and this proves it. No god would bring his people to a strange land and then leave them there to become slaves under these unbearable Egyptians.”
“Oh, habibi.” Imma reached over and stroked his cheek. “Such anger in one so young.”
After dinner, Bezalel wandered outside. He soon found himself at the river and sat on the wide bank. A gray heron stood on one leg, soundlessly hunting its dinner. The setting sun felt warm on his back.
He lay on the ground, arms under his head, and listened to the flow of the water. The flooding would reach this part of the river in several weeks and cover the very spot on which he lay. His thoughts went yet again to the girl and this time he did not avoid them. He remembered her eyes, the sorrow and hopelessness in them. Or was it fear?
He put one arm over his eyes. He knew what would happen tonight. And then Ramses would discard her, as he did all the others, like so much trash, and return to his beloved, to Nefertari.
And then, like him, the girl would be alone.
Somehow, he had to find her.

Order Now!

<< Go Back