Till Shiloh Comes (18 page)

Joseph was the sort of man whom others trusted. They also liked him for ordering better food and shorter work hours for the men. Both Rashidi and Yafeu had been horrified at these changes, but Joseph had explained, “This is not like dragging a block of stone for ten miles. It's careful, exacting work, and the men can't do it if they are exhausted and starving.” He had convinced them, and now every man in the crew was anxious to do his best to please the Hebrew who had once been called the wife stealer. That label seemed now to have faded from memory.

Joseph was working with a plumb line, making sure that the next wall would be exactly straight, when he became aware of muted voices behind him. “Where is the overseer?” one of them said.

It was a woman's voice, and Joseph turned, saying, “I am the overseer—” Then he stopped dead still.

The woman was Asenath, and Joseph knew that the tall, heavy man beside her was probably her father, the priest of On.

Asenath's eyes flew wide open, and she stared at Joseph in consternation. “It's you!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”

“Who is this, daughter?” The priest of On, one of the most powerful men in Egypt, was dressed in all the finery Egypt could provide, with gold rings circling his upper arms. “How could you know him? This man is a slave,” he said roughly.

Asenath was breathing hard. She could not seem to find her voice, but she finally tore her eyes from Joseph and said, “This is the man who assaulted Lady Kesi.”

“But I thought he was sent to prison.”

“He was,” Asenath said, “but there he stands, free to run away. Where's your master?”

Joseph had by now collected his thoughts. He saw that Asenath was as beautiful as ever. She had been almost a child when he had first seen her in Potiphar's house, but now she had grown to full stature as a lovely woman. She was tall, erect, and her honey-colored skin seemed as fresh as was possible. Her large, well-shaped green eyes were flashing, and her mobile lips were drawn into a frown. “What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in prison. Where's your master?”

“I
am
a prisoner. The governor sent me to correct a fault in the building of the temple.”

“Where are your guards?” the priest demanded.

“I think they went to get something to eat, but there is no danger, sir, of my running away.”

Asenath had thought much about Joseph, and now she said, “You should have been thrown to the crocodiles! If I'd had my way, you would have been.”

“I'm sure that's true, mistress,” Joseph said quietly. “My master was merciful indeed.”

Asenath was staring at Joseph with a mixture of anger and wonder. “You have a way of rising up after you fall. You did that at Potiphar's house—rising from the lowliest of slaves to being overseer of his entire house—and now you've done it again!”

“God is merciful.”

“Which god do you speak of?” the high priest demanded.

“I worship the God of my fathers.”

“And which one is that?”

Joseph wanted to say, “The only God.” But he knew such a statement would be fatal. “I am not Egyptian, master,” he said, “so I do not worship any of your gods.”

“So an infidel is allowed to build the new temple! I think the pharaoh would be furious if he knew this.”

Asenath was trembling as she stood there. All her memories of this man Joseph were evil. The first time she had ever seen him, she had been instrumental in having him lashed. She had shown her displeasure to him many times since and had been horrified to learn that he had attacked her friend, the Lady Kesi. “You ruined Lady Kesi,” she cried, pulling at him accusingly. “You should have been executed.”

“It may not be too late for that,” Asenath's father said sternly. “I think we should report to the pharaoh that an infidel slave guilty of assaulting a high-ranking member of his court is working on his new temple.”

“Yes,” Asenath said, “let's go tell him at once.” She stared at Joseph, started to say something, then shook her head and walked away.

Joseph watched them go, expecting to feel fearful. He knew that the high priest of On had great power and authority. All he had to do was convince Pharaoh that Joseph should be sent back to prison and it would be done.

He did not, however, feel any fear; in fact, he was amazed at the peace that came into his heart.
It is your will, O almighty and everlasting God. You have kept me in the pit, you have kept me in the prison, and I ask only that you keep your hand on me and let me do the work you have prepared for me to do
.

****

For several days Joseph waited for word to come that he was to be sent back to the prison, but nothing happened. He could not know whether Asenath and her father had decided against going to the pharaoh after all, or whether they had and he had refused to accept their plea. In either case he was grateful that the encounter had not destroyed him, and as he went about his work, he found himself thinking often of Asenath. Physically, she was by far the most attractive woman he had ever seen. But her personality was not at all attractive, for she was proud and spoiled. More than once he had thought,
If her spirit were as beautiful as her outward appearance, she would be the perfect woman
.

Finally the fault with the temple was corrected, and Joseph went back to the prison and was greeted by his master.

“So … you're back,” Rashidi said. “It's a wonder. You know the priest of On went to the pharaoh and tried to get you sent back here.”

“I'm surprised he didn't succeed,” Joseph said quietly.

Rashidi laughed. “He would have, but I told the pharaoh you were a man with a powerful god, and that his temple would be built better by such a man. To my surprise, he listened to me.”

“What is he really like, master, this pharaoh?”

“I've never met a less impressive man physically,” Rashidi said, ruminating on the question, “but I've also never met a man so stubborn! All he thinks about are his building projects. He spends his life trying to impress the gods. Still, I can't believe in any of them.”

“One day you will, Rashidi,” Joseph said with a smile.

“No, I won't. I'll go to my grave disbelieving in any god.”

Joseph did not argue. The two had become close friends, and now he said, “I saw the priest and his daughter, Asenath. I'm surprised that she hasn't married.”

“Well, she's had chances enough, but nobody's good enough for her—at least that's what she thinks. Her father thinks the same.”

“What work is there for me now?” Joseph asked.

“Take some time off. I've reached a point in my poem that I need to talk about the world and what it means.”

“You're going to cover all of that in your poem, sire?”

“Of course,” Rashidi said. “My poem will have everything in it that all poems before it should have included but didn't. Go get cleaned up. I want to read you the new parts.”

Five of the red-eyed sons of Leah were busy shearing sheep. They kept at the job in the searing sun until Reuben suddenly realized that their brother Judah was missing.

“Where is Judah?” he asked. “He should be here helping with this job.”

Simeon cut the last of the fleece from a bleating sheep, then released the animal. He stood up and arched his back. “He's probably drunk again—asleep behind some rock.”

A murmur went around the rest of the brothers. All of them had complained that Judah had become worthless. Issachar went over to get a drink of water from a leather bag, washed his mouth out, and then spat it out before saying, “I know what's wrong with Judah—he's never gotten over what we did to Joseph.”

Levi, who was standing next to Issachar, reached out and struck him in the chest, driving the smaller man back. “Keep your big mouth shut! We vowed never to mention that again.”

Issachar stared at Levi sullenly. “Well, it's true. You know it is. We all do.”

No one knew the truth more than Reuben, and except, perhaps, for Judah, no one had suffered more over what they had done to their brother. He did not want to listen to such things, and when he had finished the sheep he was working on, he said, “Keep at this job until it's done. I'll go bring Judah back to help.”

****

As soon as Reuben saw Judah, he knew at once that he was indeed drunk. His brother's normally inflamed eyes were even redder, a sure sign of his inebriated state. In the last few years it had become a common occurrence for Judah to drink too much. He sat sullenly outside his tent, barely glancing up when Reuben approached him, sat down, and said, “You're supposed to be helping us shear the sheep today.”

“I'm not coming.”‘

“Are you sick?”

“No, I'm not sick. I'm drunk. Can't you see?”

Reuben did not answer but felt a mixture of anger and compassion toward his brother. He was closer to Judah than to any of the others, and now he ignored the irritation that troubled him and said, “I've been worried about you, Judah.”

“Find somebody else to worry about!”

“Judah, you can't keep going on like this. You're going to ruin your stomach.”

“It's
my
stomach! I'll do what I want to with it.”

Reuben leaned over and squeezed Judah's shoulder. “Brother, I hate to see you harming yourself. I know you're troubled. So am I, but we've got to keep going.”

Judah turned his head away and sat silently for several moments. When he turned back, there were tears in his eyes. “What's the use, Reuben? I'm no good. You know it. I know it—everybody knows it!”

Reuben put his arm around Judah's shoulders and held him tightly. “You're still grieving over the tragedy of our brother, aren't you, Judah?”

“Of course I am! I don't see how any of us could ever put that out of our minds.”

“It was my fault,” Reuben said. “I was the oldest, and I should have fought for him.”

Judah shook his head. “It wouldn't have done any good. We were crazy. We had lost our minds! We would have beaten you, all of us together.”

The two brothers sat there silently, both of them suffering inwardly, and finally Reuben murmured, “It was the end of everything for our father. I don't think I've seen him smile since that day.”

“He still has Benjamin.”

“Yes, he does, but it's not the same thing. Joseph was his favorite.”

“Even though now Benjamin's married with children, Father still treats him like a child—won't let him out of his sight.”

“He's all Father has left of his beloved Rachel.”

“He's never forgotten her. All one has to do is mention her name, and he starts crying.”

The men watched as two women walked by on the way to the well, accompanied by several children. When they were past, Reuben asked, “Why do you drink so much, Judah? It won't bring Joseph back.”

Judah struck his knee hard with his fist. “Why do I drink? Can't you see? I've lost my two sons—and my wife. Only Shelah is left.”

Reuben couldn't think of anything to say. Judah's two sons, Er and Onan, had obviously been wicked men, and even Judah himself had once told Reuben, “God struck them dead. There's no other answer.”

“Shelah will marry one day and give you grandsons.”

“I don't think so. I think God has cursed me, brother.”

“Don't say that.”

“It's on my heart all the time. Not only have I lost my brother Joseph, but now also two of my sons and my wife. I wish I were dead myself!”

“No, you can't say that! God loves you.”

“Loves me? Then why do I feel like this?”

Reuben tried to comfort Judah but to no avail. Judah's sorrow was so great that nothing could touch it. Finally Reuben rose up and said, “Don't worry about the sheep.” He gently touched his brother's head, then turned and walked away.

****

Three days later Judah knew that his dark thoughts were going to wind up killing him. He had drunk himself into another stupor the night before, and when he awoke, his head was pounding as if someone were driving a stake through his temple. Nonetheless, he decided to help with the sheep shearing and forced himself to get up and get dressed. When he stepped out of the tent, he stopped short, for he saw Tamar standing nearby.

Judah had always felt uncomfortable around Tamar. Even though she had been married to each of his dead sons, he had never fully accepted her as a daughter-in-law. There was something strange about the woman. She was attractive enough, tall and well formed with beautifully shaped lips and large dark eyes. It was something else that troubled him. He knew she spent many hours with his father listening to the tales of their people and that she took more interest in the tribe than most of the brothers. Perhaps that was the problem.

He addressed her gruffly. “What do you want, Tamar?”

“I've come to remind you of your promise.”

“Promise? What promise?”

“You know what promise, Judah. When Onan died, I asked you to marry me to your son Shelah.”

“He was not old enough.”

“That is true. You asked me to wait until he came of age. Now I've come to remind you of your promise.”

Judah stared at her, disconcerted. “Woman,” he said harshly, “two of my sons have died that you were married to. I cannot risk letting you marry my third son.”

“It was not I but God who punished them.”

Judah stared at her, and his heart grew hard, and his voice grew even rougher. “You are not going to marry Shelah, and that's all there is to it. Why don't you go away from here? We're not really your people.”

“You gave me your word, Judah,” Tamar said evenly. Her voice was cold, but her eyes were burning. “Are you a man of honor or not?”