In the aftermath of nine devastating plagues that ravaged ancient Egypt, a high priestess desperately seeks to prevent the impending tenth plague. Still, her efforts fail, leaving her at the mercy of an enraged pharaoh. Meanwhile, the pharaoh's son...
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Japheth playfully smacked Re'hotpe on the back of the head and giggled. "You look strange without your ponytail."
"I feel strange too." Re'hotpe laughed as he swept a hand over his gleaming head. They were a full week away from Egypt and had just broken camp at the Suez Canal. It was almost noon, but the heat of the sun was muted by a wide spread of clouds above them.
Journeying with those at the rear of the crowd was Michal's way of keeping Re'hotpe from curious eyes. He recalled that Eliahba, Japheth's father, made no secret of his dislike for him. Whenever the man looked at him, it was with a glower of disapproval and disdain. Re'hotpe was convinced the only reason he had not exposed his identity was because of Michal's words.
The night Re'hotpe came to Goshen, Eliahba was at the home of his elder brother. When he returned the next morning and discovered Re'hotpe, he accused Michal of protecting the son of their oppressor. Her reply had been a balm of comfort to Re'hotpe's guilt of being Pharaoh Ramesses' son.
"If he's as terrible as you say he is, then the blood at the doorpost shouldn't have protected him. If God spared his life, why should we do otherwise?"
Michal's question had silenced her husband. He stormed out the morning after, and they later discovered he was one of those assigned to walk in front of the fleeing multitude. Re'hotpe was glad for the development. He was not sure he wanted Eliahba anywhere near him.
"You shouldn't worry. No one will recognize you. Look, they're all minding their business," Japheth whispered as he nodded at the people around them.
Those at the back were mostly the sick and old, and as Japheth said, their interest in him was as keen as their interest in the dust under their feet.
"I am not worried," Re'hotpe replied with what he hoped was a brave voice. He hated appearing weak and Japheth knew that.
"Oh yes, you're worried. If you're not, why do you keep wearing that cloak?" Japheth asked as he bumped their shoulders.
Re'hotpe chuckled. Japheth had this perpetual happy attitude. When he turned ten and got assigned to the sites, he never complained about the harsh treatment or constant whipping. Whenever he snuck a visit and Re'hotpe mournfully stared at his wounds and blisters, he found something funny to say to turn his attention away.
"My mother gave me this cloak; it reminds me of her sacrifice."
That, and the fact that Re'hotpe was terrified of someone discovering the markings on his shoulder. Even though he wore a tunic over the markings, his paranoid mind kept painting pictures of someone seeing through his clothing and discovering who he was.
"Take off the cloak; it's too hot to keep wearing it."
Japheth was right. The cloak was heavy, and he was sweating profusely beneath the thing. Conceding to Japheth's logic, he shrugged it off and stuffed it in his horse's saddle bag.
