Chapter Nine
Moses
It didn't matter how prepared I believed myself to be—it was still a shock to see Thebes again after twenty years. I had left it behind devastated, and now it had been rebuilt, the buildings and monuments in full glory. But Thebes was more than its buildings: it was also a city of memories. It was a city of chariot races, swimming at the Nile, pranking the populace, and other youthful hijinks.
Would the man I call "brother" still call me "brother"?
Likely not, considering the last time we'd met, he had been after Hebrew blood—including my Hebrew blood. A cold feeling slithered up my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Would he order me executed on the spot? With just one word, he could demand my life forfeited. One snap of his fingers, a cold glance at his guards flanking his throne, and I'd be led off to execution.
Even I would not have the final say, I realised, I would be executed—by fire, impalement, or drowning.
I realised my palms were sweating, my heart pounded under my robes. The more I tried not to imagine being consumed by fire, held under the Nile, or waiting to die impaled on a wooden spike, the stronger the images became.
He'd kill the man he called brother.
I shut my eyes tightly for a moment, trying to remove the images, and behind my eyelids I saw cold, dark eyes. The eyes of Rameses. My heart leapt in my chest, as though trying to tear itself out of my chest, bury itself in the sand at my feet, and shrivel up in sheer terror. Never had I been so afraid of Rameses before, not even during the Exodus when he had hounded my people with his army of chariots. But now…my life hung in the balance.
Am I making a huge mistake? I agonised. Am I wrong to trust God so much, so unconditionally? Will I be dead within two sunrises?
I knew my son believed my faith unshakeable, and I did not wish to confess my real worries. He shouldn't know that his father's faith had been shaken, quivering like the ground during an earthquake. No, he had enough to occupy himself—I could only hope that if Rameses did not spare me, then he would spare Gershom. God willing.
Better for him to believe my faith unshaken as a mountain, than for him to know I fear for my life. For his life. Fear that God is wrong.
It didn't take long for Gershom and me to arrive at the gateway into Thebes. Two guards stood flanking the gates, spears gripped at their sides. Their eyes bore into us as we tied up the camel and approached them. Their muscles stiffened, ready for action the moment they smelled trouble.
"Who are you?" the older guard demanded. "Where do you come from?"
Take a deep breath, I told myself, just tell the truth.
"The deserts in Sinai," I reported, "My son and I have come to the palace to meet with Pharaoh."
Don't show your fear. God is with you, he really is with you. Even if you don't believe…
"And why do you wish to see him?" the younger interrogated. "You are not known to him."
He doesn't know.
"Intef, wait," the older guard said, squinting his eyes at me, "I think pharaoh knows the old man."
"Yes, he does," I confirmed.
"Moses!" the older cried, knuckles turning white on his spear, "Have you returned to destroy Egypt again? Were it that you were killed, we would be better off!" the guard dropped his spear, and gripped my robes in his hands, eyes blazing. "Go back to where you came from, or I shall run you through with my spear, so the gods help me!"
I struggled to get out of his grasp even as Gershom pulled on his arms.
"Let my father go!" he cried, "let us go in unto Pharaoh!"
The guard pulled me closer, so his nose almost touched mine, "Guess what, slave? I'll be the one to escort you—we don't want any more funny business!"
With that, he unclasped my robes, letting me go to pick up his spear.
"What makes you think pharaoh will be happy to see you?" the old guard ranted, "what makes you think we will like you any better? You might think twenty years is long enough for us to forget. You're wrong, slave!"
I stiffened, "don't you call us slaves. We are slaves no more."
The guard spat on my feet, his whole body shaking from rage.
"Who do you think will like you in this land?"
Gershom answered, before I could, "We have met his son, Khaemwaset, who holds no hatred toward us."
The old guard snorted, "That prince knows nothing! He wasn't born when the plagues happened! Intef! Stay here!"
The older man reached out with a hand and grabbed the back of my robes, his clutch unrelenting. I almost tripped over my feet as the guard half-dragged me along in the palace's direction.
"My first-born son died because of you and your Hebrew god!" the guard said, "Do you think I will forget that? Do you think Egypt will stop mourning her sons?"
Gershom hurried to stay at my side—never was I so glad that my son was so near. But he had to stay alive.
"Gershom," I addressed him, "don't say anything."
The guard stopped mid-step. "What are you saying, slave?"
"My father has a name, guard!" Gershom snapped, "He is Moses!"
The guard ignored him, his grasp even tighter on the robes around my neck. I squinted at the city—where was the palace?
"Son, you will not try to rescue your father," the guard warned, "I am a guard of Pharaoh's city, and have been so for forty years. Don't try."
Gershom set his jaw. "I will try."
With that, he lunged and twisted the spear out of the guard's grip, leaping out of arm's reach.
"Hey!" the guard shouted, unclutching my robes, "give me that!"
But my son danced out of reach, swinging the spear with deliberate force—I assume he wanted to knock the guard out, but he misaimed, hitting the man's shoulder instead. At once, both hands went up and pulled the spear out of my son's hands as though it weighed nothing. He hunched his shoulders, setting his own jaw, muscles bulging. The guard's face heated red from rage.
"ENOUGH!" he roared, slapping Gershom.
"Don't you strike my son!" I demanded, "If you wish to strike him, strike me instead!"
No one will hurt my son!
The guard sneered, "Willingly."
I felt my hands ball into fists, but the guard was quick. With one swoop, he gripped both my arms, standing behind me. He twisted them painfully up behind my back, forcing me to drop my staff. The guard jerked his head at Gershom.
"You boy will walk behind me as I take Moses to the palace. March!"
"I will refuse until you set father free," Gershom said, "and then I will come to the palace with you."
"No," the guard disagreed, "I will not set your father out of my clutches. I do not trust him—and nor will pharaoh!"
With that, the guard pressed his knuckles into my back, pushing me forward, Gershom following behind us. I kept my head down, concentrating only on the sand and trying to ignore the pain already radiating through my hands and wrists. The guard certainly had a tight grip, and already I could feel my blood-flow being cut off from my arms. I so wanted to talk to Gershom, to tell him that everything would turn out fine, but I couldn't, and not just because of the guard.
If I try to soothe him, I will be lying, I realised, I will break one of my own commandments: thou shalt not lie.
Swallowing back my fear, I allowed the guard to push me in the palace's direction. Gershom muttered against the guard as he followed us up the shining pathway leading to the statue-flanked entrance of the palace. The palace that once was home to me, before I discovered the truth. I kept my eyes ahead, ignoring my numbing arms, observing the restored statues on either side of the main entrance with its dozen columns.
The same entrance where I collapsed in tears, I remembered, when Rameses told me to leave with my people. The dawn of freedom, and knowing he called me brother no more.
I inhaled a breath. I didn't want to remember how alone I had felt in that moment when weeping for the first-borns and the loss of a childhood friend. Even my wife and siblings, though only a stone's throw in the village, had seemed to live on the other side of Egypt. Even God had seemed to abandon…I shook myself out of these thoughts.
Keep calm. Don't think about it.
I exhaled, surrendering myself to the memories of the plagues upon Egypt. Even the palace had been battered and bruised by hail, fire, and lightning. It was no use trying to suppress the events of twenty years ago.
Dear God, I hope you know what will happen…
There will be hardships… His voice whispered in my head, I have said this before, Moses, my servant.
I am afraid, God…
I know you are, but you must have faith. Do you trust me?
I bit my lip—should I lie? If I fibbed, he would know. If I told the truth, he would have already known.
I do not know, I told him in my heart.
Trust me, my servant! God chastised, Believe and have faith even now, even tomorrow! Even when your faith ebbs, believe in me.
With that, his presence wafted out of my head and heart, leaving me light-headed from his rebuke.
"Here we are, Moses," the guard announced, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I blinked—I hadn't realised we had already entered the palace doors, and were even now making our way up toward the court. People mingled along the walls, laughing and chattering gaily with friends and family. Children chased each other around the adults, hiding and reappearing as they played their game; it was too hot for them outside. Servants offered flasks of wine and plates of food to guests and palace residents. Dancers arched and leapt over the court before pharaoh, their movements punctuated by the musicians' instruments and rhythmic clapping.
"This is Pharaoh's court?" Gershom asked, his voice full of wonder, "this is the palace?"
"In case you haven't noticed," the guard growled, "Pharaoh sits on his throne."
I looked—and certain as the sun rose in the east, there he was. Pharaoh Rameses. Lounging on his throne like he hadn't a care in the world. A woman stood next to his throne, her hand on his that lay on the armrest. His face remained in shadow, but even I could tell from here it was him. Seti would not catch himself dead slouching as Rameses did. Any moment, he would command all movement to cease—and with just one hand movement. It didn't matter if I had aged twenty years, perhaps beyond immediate recognition—my robes and staff would give away my identity in a blink.
Just as I expected, Pharaoh Rameses straightened in his throne and leaned forward, holding up a hand in a silent command.
Stop.
"He has seen us," the guard told us out of the corner of his mouth, "he will speak with you. I look forward to it."
"Guard!" Rameses called out, "who are these men you bring into my court?"
On hearing his voice, I froze mid-step, the guard colliding into me. I didn't want to move, knowing that any moment now, Rameses would command my life to be forfeited. He had already ordered my image to be removed—but curiously not from the temple to the Hebrew God—and so what would stop him from ordering my execution?
Nothing.
"Hey!" the guard snapped at me, "move up!"
Gershom appeared at my side, his jaw set and hands clenched. I hoped he would not do anything too rash or reckless, especially in front of Pharaoh.
"Pharaoh," the guard now boomed, "I have caught this Hebrew and his son as they entered Thebes. They tell me they are from the deserts of Sinai."
Rameses leaned forward a little more, and now I could see that age had caught up with him as much as with me. I did not look straight at him; rather I looked at a spot just above his head. I saw him, but I did not make eye contact with the king.
"From the deserts of Sinai?" Rameses echoed, then frowned, anger deepening the lines on his face, "You!"
The guard sounded smug and triumphant. "Indeed, Your Majesty, it is Moses and his son."
In one swift movement, Rameses stood up, his hands clenching into fists.
"Why have you returned?" he demanded, "I have no slaves for you to liberate!"
"I know," I said, trying not to let my voice shake, "I do not come to liberate."
"Then for what?"
To reunite as God said, but how could we?
I gestured to Gershom, "My son, Gershom, had voiced an interest in seeing Egypt again. I had heard Egypt had been restored—"
"No thanks to you, Moses!"
A long silence, as I gathered my thoughts. I hung my head, regretful. "I accept all responsibility."
The pharaoh stalked down two of the steps. "Now you accept responsibility? Now you admit to your destruction of Ma'at, of the ancient traditions in the past? Now you come back expecting me to be happy to see you? You expect Egypt to welcome you back with open arms? As Pharaoh, I speak on behalf of Egypt!"
A prickle behind my eyelids, "I know. I did not expect any forgiveness for what I had done. For what my God had done."
"Egypt will not forgive or forget you!" Rameses conceded, words trembling with rage, "It was you who took my first-born, and as Pharaoh I can easily—"
With sudden paternal feeling, I raised my head, looking him straight in the eyes. "No, do not take my son."
Rameses stopped in his tracks. "And why shouldn't I?"
I inhaled through my nose, the sharp smell of incense clearing my mind. "Because no father should outlive his children."
Rameses, hands balled into fists, marched right up to me. "You hypocrite," he almost whispered, "You say this, and yet you allowed my son to die."
I took an involuntary step back as I beheld the cold look in his eyes. "I know."
"Then why didn't you stop your god?" he almost hissed, "Why didn't you ask him to spare my son?"
Before I could begin to form an answer—what answer?—to that question, he continued.
"Your soul is damned to a second death, Moses, for your name is dashed from the land of Egypt."
"What about the temple?" Gershom asked.
Forgetting me for a moment, Rameses turned to look at him. "What are you talking about?"
Gershom squared his shoulders, straightening his back.
"My father and I visited a temple in Memphis—the temple to the Hebrew God with no name. There were images of father in there."
A flash of puzzlement crossed Rameses' face, before the hard look of a Pharaoh returned to his eyes.
"I have no answer to your question," Rameses said.
"We saw Prince Khaemwaset, who claimed to be your son, and he held no hatred to Moses."
"He wasn't alive when the Hebrew god destructed the land!" Rameses snapped, "Prince Khaemwaset trusts all!" Now he turned back to me, "What enticed you to come here to the palace?"
I didn't know how to answer his question—how could I? What other reason was there to come to the palace?
"I…I don't know," I said.
"Perhaps you had hoped that I would welcome you back?" Rameses guessed, voice harsh, "You know I could order your execution right now."
I heard Gershom gasp.
"I know," I said, "I am not innocent of what has happened."
Rameses drew himself to full height, his crown's uraeus catching the sunlight, its embedded eyes flashing brilliant white for a brief second.
"You are not welcome in the palace or in the land of Egypt," he proclaimed, "Your son is welcome in Egypt, for it wasn't he who destroyed people's lives, homes, and crops."
Despite knowing he clearly wasn't going to order my son executed, my heart still sank, shoulders sagging at his words. What a different welcome it was to the last time I had returned to Egypt! Then, he had welcomed me with open arms and a smile, and now…
And now I am no longer his brother, I thought, breath catching in my throat, I am his enemy. The foe of Egypt.
I knew—even when I had believed myself convinced he would be unwelcome—that deep down I had wanted to be welcomed back. To be called "brother". To be proclaimed a "Prince of Egypt"—though I did not return to be a prince. Yet, I would've done anything for Rameses to welcome me again as his brother, to proclaim me as "our brother, Moses, the Prince of Egypt" as he had done before. To proclaim that all had been forgiven, and we would return on good terms. And yet, the full truth of his cold words did not stop the dagger of grief sinking deeper into my heart, twisting jagged wounds into my memories of my youth in Egypt.
You knew it all along, I told myself, you should have gone back home once Gershom had seen Egypt! You were wrong to trust God so willingly, walking straight into a cold welcome!
"You know it to be true, I can see it," Rameses continued, folding his arms over his chest, "And you still return here expecting a warm welcome."
I wanted to say something—anything—but no words sprang to my throat, ready to be spoken. If any had come, they would have been muffled by the lump swelling around my larynx.
"He returned wanting to show me Egypt," Gershom spoke up.
"Were you not satisfied by what you saw?" Rameses asked.
"No, I wanted to see the palace for myself."
"You've seen it now, son of Moses—but I will still speak with you."
"W-why?"
I had never heard Gershom stammer before; looking over at him, I saw his hands trembling badly. Sweat beaded on his forehead, born of fear.
"To tell me the full truth of why your father has returned to Egypt." Rameses glowered at me, "For now, Moses, you will stay out of this palace and remain with my guard outside until I am finished with your son."
"I…" my voice caught in my throat, "Gershom will speak the truth."
Rameses regarded me for a second, his eyes locking contact with mine. When he spoke, his words were surprisingly quiet, "I will not order your death, Moses, not until I know why you and Gershom returned to Egypt."
Not executed, I thought, but there was no relief, not yet…
"We told you already—" Gershom began, only to be cut off by Rameses' words.
"Be still! Pharaoh speaks!" he proclaimed, "Guard! Take the Hebrew Moses away from here, while I speak with his son!"
The guard gripped my shoulders and steered me around so I faced the doorway in the distance, instead of Rameses and the throne behind him. My shoulders wanted to sag with the weight of sorrow, my eyes wanted to weep, but I refused. I would hang my head, but not weep.
I'm an old fool to think Rameses ready to forgive God and myself.
My eyes couldn't hold back anymore as I was marched out into the heat of the sun, the guard's fingers digging into my shoulders as he made me stop just outside the entrance.
"One move, Hebrew, and you meet the might of my spear," the guard threatened.
When the guard turned, glowering into the horizon, I allowed one droplet of salt water to trace down my wrinkled cheek and slip into the whiskers of my grey beard.
Where are you, God? What will happen to me? You said it would be to reunite—have you broken the commandment not to lie? Rameses will never welcome me in his or my lifetime. Did you know he would be so cold? Or did you think he would welcome me again?
Did I trust God anymore?
