Dreamers

by Angela Hunt

  Not that her worries were major ones. In the three weeks since the priestess Ramla had come to dwell with them, Sagira had spent less and less time with Tuya. It would not be difficult now to manufacture an excuse to remove the girl from Sagira’s quarters. And when Sagira had been weaned from her dependence on the slave, the serious search for a husband could begin.

  “Excuse the interruption, my lady.” Another of the maids appeared in the doorway. “Your daughter and Ramla wait to see you.”

  “I’ll see them at once,” Kahent said, sitting up. Her handmaid threw a light gown over Kahent’s upraised arms. She stood and shimmied into it, then went with open arms to embrace her daughter.

  “Sagira, what brings you to me in the middle of the day?” she asked, resting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders as she kissed the girl’s cheeks. Behind Sagira, Ramla stood in practiced detachment, her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on Kahent’s face.

  “I’ve been thinking.” Sagira’s lower lip edged forward in a pout. “If I am truly to be the mother of kings, perhaps it is best if I am not attended by such a familiar slave. Tuya knows too much about me to be properly respectful. Ramla has suggested that I send her away.”

  Kahent blinked in honest surprise. She had not dared to dream that Ramla’s influence would work so quickly. “You would be rid of Tuya?”

  Sagira crossed her arms. “She’s jealous and spiteful and I don’t trust her. For months she’s been looking at me with a strange gleam in her eye. I don’t like it. She frightens me.”

  “Perhaps one of the dark gods has invaded her heart,” Ramla suggested in a cool voice.

  “Exactly!” Sagira slammed a clenched fist into her palm. “That’s what I’m afraid of, Mother. You gave her to me, but now I’d like to be rid of her.”

  Kahent gave her daughter an innocent smile. “Perhaps she could work with the butler. Taharka seems to think much of her.”

  “No!” Sagira snapped. “I will not have her anywhere near. I want her out of the house as soon as possible. She does not understand my destiny. She sees herself as my equal, and that she can never be.”

  Joy flooded Kahent’s heart. “As you say, Sagira,” she said, placing her hands on her daughter’s shoulders again. “And because she is yours, whatever silver comes from her sale shall go to you.”

  “I shall give it all to Ramla as an offering for the goddess.” Sagira turned to the priestess. “Without her I would never have learned of my future.”

  Ramla leaned forward in a gentle bow. “Thank the goddess we discovered it.”

  Kahent closed her eyes in relief. “Bastet be praised.”

  The sun bark of the god Re had moved only a short distance across the sky when Ramla came alone into the women’s room of the villa. Surprised by the visit, Kahent put aside the scroll she had been reading and waited for the priestess to speak.

  “Your daughter is resting,” Ramla announced, gazing at Kahent with dark eyes that seemed to probe the recesses of her soul. “And your petition has been heard.”

  “I trust it has.” Kahent straightened on the couch where she had been reclining. “I owe you a great debt.”

  “Your daughter’s offering will suffice,” Ramla answered. “That, and the opportunity to watch the future unfold. I did not fabricate or elaborate on my vision, Lady Kahent. Sagira will leave a mark on the world.” When she hesitated, Kahent toyed with the fabric of her dress, dimly aware that she was fidgeting. What was she supposed to do now? Did the priestess expect special favors in return for good news?

  “Please sit.” Kahent gestured to an empty chair. Ramla moved to the chair and sat down without breaking the straight line of her back.

  “You and Sagira have become friends,” Kahent said, casting about for some avenue of conversation. “I am sorry you must leave soon. I fear Sagira will be lost without your company or Tuya’s.”

  “She will never be lost,” the priestess answered. “We have already made arrangements. I will serve my month for the goddess, then live with your daughter for three months.” Her pale lips curved into a mirthless smile. “I have become your daughter’s spiritual counselor. She has decided that we shall remain together.”

  Kahent forced a laugh. “You want to remain with Sagira? But she is a child while you are a mature woman. Surely there are others who will value your unique gifts.”

  A dark brow shot up, creating a startlingly oblique line across the young woman’s face. “May I speak frankly?”

  “Please do.”

  The corner of the priestess’s mouth dipped slightly. “I am old enough, lady, to know where favor and fortune lie. A woman cannot find them within the temples of Egypt’s gods.” She shrugged. “But I know Sagira’s future, and I know she will need a friend. You asked me to pull her away from the slave girl, but your daughter is weak, she cannot stand alone. She needs love and a companion. She has found both in me.”

  “I am grateful, of course,” Kahent answered, her stomach tightening at the thought of having the strange priestess in her home for nine months of the year. “But you know Sagira will be married soon.”

  “I will go to the house of her husband,” Ramla answered, tilting her head. “You should be grateful for my help, Lady Kahent. Without my special gift, you would never have known of the gods’ plan for Sagira’s future.” Her lips curved in a half smile. “But you will not want Pharaoh to know of these things.”

  “Of course not,” Kahent snapped. She could feel sweat beading under her heavy wig. It was treason even to think of taking the throne from the one who ruled as the incarnate god. If Pharaoh heard that those in Donkor’s house were grooming themselves to become the next rulers of Egypt—

  “Do not fear, lady,” Ramla said, a sweet ripple in her voice. “As long as I am your daughter’s spiritual counselor, I will say nothing of her destiny. With the patience of the gods I will wait for her sun to rise.”

  Kahent recognized the implied threat in the words. “Then I,” she answered, “will wait with you.”

  She pressed her finger to her lips as the priestess rose and left the room.

  Taharka rolled a heavy barrel into his workroom, his short, graying hair gleaming silver in the slanting rays of the open window. He saw Tuya and frowned. “Why, my pretty one, are you alone so often these days?”

  Tuya kicked a shard of broken pottery out of her way. “Sagira is busy,” she muttered, not looking up. “She’s with Ramla. She talks to that priestess for hours, and she’s made it clear I am not supposed to overhear their conversations.”

  “A passing fancy, nothing more,” Taharka promised, standing the barrel upright. “Don’t you remember the time you and Sagira swore you would eat nothing but pigeon? You drove me crazy with your quirks and Lady Kahent nearly went out of her mind with worry for Sagira’s health.”

  Tuya laughed. “I had forgotten. But this is different, Taharka. Sagira’s changed somehow. She’s not playing a game. In fact I’ve never seen her so serious. Sometimes I think she went to sleep and a stranger woke up in her body.”

  “Tuya!” A hoarse voice bellowed through the kitchen, and Tuya wiped her hands across her skirt as the master of the slaves stalked into the room. As broad as he was tall, Tanutamon was a man to be feared, especially when ill winds blew through Donkor’s household. He never called for Tuya unless the lady Kahent had commanded that she be whipped.

  Despite the chilly dew forming on her skin, Tuya stepped forward to meet him. She dipped her head toward him in submission. “What is it, master?”

  Tanutamon gestured toward the door. “Come with me.”

  What had she done? Tuya threw a questioning glance toward Taharka, but he waved her through the doorway with a hurried gesture that said go, and don’t ask questions!

  Tuya followed the master of the slaves through the winding halls until they reached the gatekeeper’s lodge at the entrance to the villa. The gatekeeper rose from his stool as Tanutamon approached, then backed away.

  Tuya h
eld her breath, dreading whatever was to follow. There was no whipping post in the lodge, so what new punishment was this?

  In answer, Tanutamon pulled a length of chain and four shackles from a corner of the gatehouse. “Your hands,” he said, his voice strangely flat.

  Bracing herself for an assault, Tuya lifted her trembling arms. Had Lady Kahent heard about the cup of wine she accidentally spilled in Taharka’s workroom? Had Sagira complained about Tuya’s sad countenance?

  Tanutamon’s rough hands caught hers. With a deft gesture, he snapped the shackles on her wrists, then secured them by running a length of chain through the loops.

  “Am I to be whipped?” Tuya whispered, afraid to lift her voice. “What has the mistress said, Tanutamon?”

  The giant did not answer, but knelt to clasp the other pair of shackles around her legs. The cold metal chilled her skin and pressured the fragile bones in her ankles as he threaded chain through the loops.

  “Tanutamon,” she asked again, dismayed at the sound of tears in her voice. “If I have done nothing wrong, what is this? And if I have done something, tell me what it is so I may avoid trouble in the future.”

  “You have done nothing,” the master of the slaves answered gruffly. “Your mistress wishes to sell you. It is her right and her request.”

  “Lady Kahent?”

  “The young Lady Sagira.”

  For a moment the words did not register in Tuya’s mind. She had been a part of Donkor’s family since her childhood. She and Sagira had bounced on Lady Kahent’s knee, eaten their meals together, splashed in the same pool, shared gossip and dreams. It should have been easier to stop the yearly inundation of the Nile than to separate her from this family! Yet heavy shackles bound her wrists and ankles, and even now Tanutamon was adjusting the length of chain so he could lead her through the gate.

  “Where are you taking me?” she cried, the world blurring as tears distorted her vision. “What happens when a slave is sold? I’m sorry, Tanutamon, but I know nothing of these things.”

  “You must trust me,” Tanutamon said, not looking at her. “You are a good girl, Tuya, and if I were the master, I would not allow this thing. But I will do as I am told, as will you. You should be grateful that you have been pampered for so long. I will do what I can for you. I have friends…in high places.”

  She wanted to ask other questions, but terror rose like a lump in her throat and blocked her speech. Hanging her head, she shuffled forward as the gatekeeper opened the gate and Tanutamon led her away from the marvelous house of Donkor, kinsman of the king.

  Chapter Five

  Tuya shook like a frightened child as Tanutamon led her through the dusty streets of Thebes. She felt nothing but the chains that bound her and heard nothing but her own frantic gulps of air and the pounding of her heart. When she awkwardly lifted her hands to steady her throbbing head, she realized her cheeks were wet with tears.

  How could Sagira have sent her away? The answer was obvious—for some reason, Ramla had poisoned Sagira against her beloved friend. But how could Sagira have allowed herself to be misled? Tuya had always given Sagira the affection she craved, while Ramla was about as warm as a corpse. But Ramla was fascinating and foreign, and Tuya had always sought to be helpful rather than interesting…

  Her tears quickened as a wave of sorrow swept over her. Perhaps Ramla had nothing to do with Sagira’s change of heart. Sagira was ready for marriage; hadn’t she said so? Perhaps she thought of Tuya as a playmate, not a noble lady’s handmaid. The slave had outgrown her usefulness, and was being consigned to the trash heap like a discarded toy.

  Tuya stumbled through the streets, grappling with her thoughts, and nearly ran into Tanutamon when he stopped outside a tall brick wall. A narrow gated entry guarded whatever grand house lay inside, and Tuya wiped her nose with the back of her hand. When a fresh wave of grief threatened to engulf her, she bit her lip to substitute one pain for another.

  “Tanutamon of Donkor’s house wishes to see Kratas, the keeper of Pharaoh’s slaves,” Tanutamon announced. Pharaoh’s slaves! Tuya struggled to breathe as bands of apprehension tightened around her chest.

  “Tanutamon—” she whispered, but the burly man cut her off with a sharp glance. He waited until the gatekeeper stepped away, then he turned and flashed into sudden fury.

  “Keep quiet!” He blazed down at her. “Slaves should be seen and not heard, or haven’t you learned that yet? You were spoiled in Donkor’s house, and it is possible your beauty will enable you to be pampered here as well. But if you speak or protest or cry, you’ll be sold in a common auction to the highest bidder—do you want that?”

  Scared speechless, Tuya shook her head.

  “Then say nothing and do nothing until you are told to speak and do.”

  “Tanutamon may enter.” After the gatekeeper unlocked the gate, Tuya followed her master into a long corridor painted with scenes from daily life in the king’s house. She recognized the sharp, clear features of Amenhotep II and his royal consort, Queen Merit-Amon, whose pictures also adorned a wall in Donkor’s house.

  A tall, regally dressed black man appeared from a doorway in the corridor. “Welcome, my friend Tanutamon.” Tuya lifted her eyes to look at the stranger. He was not Egyptian, but bore the features of the people from the southern reaches of the Nile. A small paunch hung over the waistband of his kilt, and deep lines creased his dark face.

  “It is good to see you, Kratas,” Tanutamon said, bowing. “May you remain in the favor of Amon-Re, king of the gods, of Ptah, of Thoth, and of all the gods and goddesses who are in Thebes.”

  “The same to you, my friend,” Kratas answered. “And how may I help you today?”

  Tanutamon pivoted slightly and pointed at Tuya. “My younger mistress has outgrown her childhood maid and wishes to sell her.” He rolled his eyes, effectively sending the disloyal message that he disagreed with his mistress’s judgment. “Because I am obedient, I thought to take her to the marketplace, but surely such a young woman should be offered first to his majesty Pharaoh. Surely there is room in his harem for a young beauty?”

  Kratas’s eyes swept over Tuya’s slender figure. “She is…unspoiled?”

  “She has been carefully guarded. She is of age, at least fifteen years, and has excellent manners. Donkor, as you know, is a man of breeding and noble reputation. I can assure you that any slave from his house will bring honor to the house of Pharaoh.”

  Kratas stepped toward Tuya and ran his hand over her arm. She blushed, uncomfortable with his familiarity.

  Kratas’s mouth tipped into a faint smile. “Pharaoh likes the shy ones. Not for him a brazen prostitute.”

  “So you will buy her?”

  “For one hundred deben weight of silver, with an extra ten for you,” Kratas said, snapping his fingers toward a boy who waited in the shadows of a broad pillar.

  Tanutamon smiled with warm spontaneity. “It is agreed. You are most generous, Kratas.”

  The boy ran to his master, a gilded chest in his hands, and Kratas withdrew a handful of silver coins. “I am not being overly generous,” he said, emptying a handful of silver into Tanutamon’s broad palm. “I am sure such a girl is worth much more.”

  Kratas paused outside the women’s room where he kept recent additions to Pharaoh’s slaves. The new girl sat with crossed arms while other women sponged her body and washed her hair.

  Tanutamon was right to bring the girl to Pharaoh’s house. She possessed a sweet shyness that was refreshingly different from the practiced, pouty beauties of Pharaoh’s harem. Perhaps, in time, she would harden and grow into a stupid, bovine woman, but Kratas was certain Pharaoh would find this youthful flower to his liking. If not for the knife that had made him a eunuch, Kratas would have bought her himself.

  He leaned against the wall and rubbed his chin. The new girl was taller than most, and held herself like a lady. She had not shaved her head as did so many wig-loving slaves of rich women, but kept her long hair, which
framed her face and elongated her neck. Her facial features were elegant, her nose slender and the nostrils delicate. When she looked up, her eyes shone like a stream of gold in the fading light; they were deep, watchful eyes that missed little.

  A chuckle of satisfaction escaped him. In one week, if the girl proved willing, he could turn her into a queen to rival Merit-Amon, or even the king’s favorite wife, Teo. With the right garments, a proper wig, cosmetics and jewels…

  Kratas clapped for his servant and frowned when the boy did not appear. Most slaves were a defeated, worthless lot. He’d give his right arm to purchase one that was dependable and trustworthy, but he could more easily count the waves of the Nile than find such a creature.

  Chapter Six

  Outside the throne room of Amenhotep II, Potiphar paced and cleared his throat. His men, Pharaoh’s bodyguards, had already taken their positions beside the throne dais. Usually he stood in front of them, facing all who dared approach the king, but in the night Potiphar had received word that Pharaoh insisted on formally greeting him after the battle in the desert.

  He shifted uneasily. The enemy had been defeated, but not without cost to Egypt’s armies. At least a score of Egyptian warriors had perished, and three had been captured by the rebels. Potiphar wasn’t sure if this formal audience had been arranged for public praise or punishment.

  Behind Potiphar, a corps waited, their arms laden with an assortment of swords, helmets, spears and cunningly worked arrows. These represented the spoils of war Potiphar gathered after the skirmish, but they were a paltry symbol of the battle’s true success. Rebels had dared to rise and challenge Pharaoh’s authority, and the king had again proven himself to be every bit as cunning and fierce as his father. The rebellious outer settlements should not rise again in this king’s lifetime.

  “Potiphar, captain of the guard, Pharaoh calls for you!”

  As two slaves pulled open the great double doors, Potiphar inhaled a deep breath and moved into the long, sunlit throne room. Brilliant murals depicting the king’s military exploits had been painted on the walls of the room, and in front of these paintings, to Potiphar’s left and right, the king’s courtiers and members of the royal family witnessed the day’s business. In a far corner, a group of musicians played softly on harps and lyres. The green tile floor, gleaming like the Nile itself, stretched before Potiphar in a seemingly endless vista. Conscious of hundreds of eyes on him, he walked toward the throne.