by Angela Hunt
The young man gave her a quick, denying glance. “My god is not Amon-Re. And my name is not Paneah. It is Yosef.”
Tuya lowered her voice. “Our master gave you a new name in the hope that you would survive. The name is a gift, for Paneah means ‘he lives.’ This Yosef is foreign to our ears, and the master will not like it.”
The young man did not answer, but regarded her silently for a moment. Then a shy smile tweaked the corner of his mouth. “If my master will not call me Yosef, then you must. I give my true name to you and you alone, for you are the only one in this land who has shown kindness to me.”
His eyes touched her with warmth, and Tuya struggled with the inner confusion his smile always elicited. “All right, Yosef,” she said finally, managing the foreign pronunciation as best she could. “But I will not speak that name in front of the master. I will do nothing to offend him, for a slave who offends will be sold.”
His heavy eyelids closed. Outside the small chamber, darkness approached with the silken slowness of a languid tide. Shadows lengthened in the room, and Tuya shifted uncomfortably as she looked out at the fading light. Sunset had been her favorite time of day in Donkor’s house, the time when she and Sagira relaxed and settled down to sleep. Now darkness brought nothing but phantoms of the past.
She swallowed hard, over a throat that ached with sorrow.
“Was it so terrible?” Yosef asked, his voice quiet and low in the darkening room.
Tuya started; she had assumed he slept. “What?”
“Whatever it is that fills your face with sadness.”
His gaze held her tight, and Tuya had an odd feeling that he had forgotten himself and cared only for her. No one had ever made her feel that way before. She shivered, recalling her overwhelming feeling of helplessness, her fear of facing Pharaoh as a concubine, her still uncertain future. “Why does the past matter?” she finally answered, whispering in the gloom. “You have faced terrible things, too. Your hands tell a story, Yosef, and they say you were not born a slave.”
His nod was barely perceptible. “I was betrayed and abandoned by my brothers,” he said, his voice somber and flat. “I once dreamed of greatness, and now I am a slave on an invalid’s bed.” In his eyes Tuya caught a glimpse of some internal struggle, but he did not weep or grow angry. “All I have seen teaches me to trust El Shaddai for all I have not seen.”
Bitter tears stung her eyes. “I was abandoned by one who called herself my sister,” she whispered, tearing her gaze from his face. She stared into the darkness, reliving those terrible hours. “During the one night I spent in Pharaoh’s house I dreamed that I stood on a round disk while the sun god threw his arms around me. In that moment I felt protected, safe and loved.”
She looked up at Yosef again. “I don’t believe in dreams, because we slaves always wake up to a new fear. There is no escape, because a slave cannot know what lies ahead.”
“God knows,” Yosef answered, his hand reaching for hers. Stung by the unexpected gesture, Tuya withdrew her arm, then relented and placed her fingers in his strong grip. She did not want to become attached to this youth, for Potiphar might sell him once his health had been restored.
But for now, she felt blessed to have a friend.
Chapter Seven
Tuya had entered Potiphar’s household at the beginning of the inundation, the four winter months of the year. Within two weeks the fever had left Yosef’s body, but since he could not work in the house or the fields with a broken arm, Tuya began to teach him the written language of the Egyptians. She had learned the seven hundred signs of the hieroglyphic language along with Sagira, and though her rendering of the pictorial elements would never be as perfect or as elegant as those of a professional scribe, Yosef had no trouble understanding the meaning of her scratchings.
As the Nile receded and the fertile silt-laden land reappeared, his mind became occupied with learning. Tuya found that Potiphar did not care what his slaves did; his concerns centered on Pharaoh, the prison and his guards. So each morning after bringing Yosef his breakfast of bread and parched corn, she spread before him several shards of broken pottery and a basket filled with flakes of limestone. A papyrus reed made a fine pen, and Yosef often detained her, asking questions as he practiced his writing and honed his understanding. His brain was like a sponge, always absorbing, always demanding more. In a few months he would master what the royal scribes took years to learn.
“What is the sign for ‘captive’?” Yosef asked one day, looking up from the shards he had covered with scrawlings.
Tuya peered over his shoulder. “It is the sign of a kneeling man that you have drawn, but the hands extend behind him and are bound,” she said. “The sign can also mean ‘enemy’ or ‘rebel.’”
Yosef chewed on the end of his pen. “What is the sign for ‘Pharaoh’? And how may I show it with other signs?”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Tuya took a step back. “Pharaoh’s name is sacred. To write it is almost a sacrilege. If it is absolutely necessary to write his name, you must enclose it in a circle, the sign of the sun.”
Yosef turned back to his writing, and Tuya hurried out the door with the breakfast tray. Distracted by her thoughts, she nearly stepped into a pile of dung in the courtyard. She gritted her teeth, annoyed that someone had left the cattle pen open. She’d have to speak to the stockyard boys.
Donkor’s prosperous household and Potiphar’s estate were like a tree and its reflection on the Nile, Tuya decided. The former thrived in prosperity, the latter, being insubstantial, only appeared to flourish. Though Potiphar’s large estate was well-situated, his slaves were a disjointed mass of workers, a hive without a queen. After a week of trying to function in total disorganization, Tuya called the servants together, announced that she had come from a nobleman’s house, and assigned her fellow slaves to various stations. She gave orders to the kitchen slaves every morning, saw to it that the bathrooms, cattle yards and stables were cleaned out, and ordered that the waters of the pool be changed and stocked with fish. Anyone who did not obey would be brought before the master, who might choose to beat them or sell them…
Used to the lazy life of fat cats, the slaves obeyed, but they grumbled as they worked.
Tuya could not believe that Pharaoh’s captain lived in such a disorderly house. Despite his lion like reputation, the slaves did not fear or respect him, for he did not respect his home or his lands. Discipline did not exist in the household, for as long as Potiphar had an edible meal and a bed to lie on, he made no demands. He held no parties, commemorated no feasts or festivals. The captain of the guard found his amusements elsewhere and spent most of his time in the palace.
Tuya took her problems to Yosef, and discovered that although he had never lived in an Egyptian house, he had strong opinions as to how people should be handled. He had a gift for administration and his diplomatic suggestions about how to handle the recalcitrant slaves helped Tuya establish the changes she wanted to make.
When Yosef was strong enough to move about, Tuya took him on a tour of the villa. Potiphar’s house resembled every other Theban nobleman’s except for two things: it contained the jail for Pharaoh’s prisoners, and it held little charm. Surrounded by a high, crumbling wall of mud-dried brick, the house stood in the center of an extensive plot of valuable riverfront land. A towered gateway led into the estate, and the prison warden’s lodge rose immediately at the visitor’s left hand. The prison, a collection of stone buildings, lay off to the east, far away from the main house. Tuya assured Yosef they would have no responsibility for the prison. Potiphar kept a slovenly house, but his guards ran a secure dungeon. Their lives depended on it.
To the right of the entry, a small path lined with drooping trees led to the family temple. “When I first came here, the dilapidated look of this place revealed that our master is not a religious man,” Tuya whispered to Yosef. “No incense burned in the censers, no offerings had been spread, and the gods themselves were covered in dust. No
wonder they have not blessed Potiphar’s household! I cleaned the statues and appointed one of the slave children to bring food, water and incense each morning and night.”
Yosef said nothing as she led him from the temple. The narrow dirt path in front of them pointed a curving finger toward the west, leading to a flight of steps and a pair of peeling columns. Beyond them was an inner courtyard and a doorway framed in stone. The lintel had been carved with Potiphar’s name and position, but the paint had weathered out of the fading letters. A vestibule stood at the end of the porch and led to the north loggia, a reception room that had been poorly furnished and barely decorated. The west loggia, used by most families as a sitting room in winter, stood totally unfurnished and smelled of dust, as did the guest rooms.
The master’s bedroom was as primitive as a battlefield tent, and the bathroom offered neither a slab for bathing nor a basin for washing the hands. Throughout the house, sprained doors hung open and walls shed their coats of fading paint. The stables, servants’ quarters, kitchen and stockyard were located on the southern and eastern sides of the house so the prevailing wind would carry away the odors of dung fires, cooking food, horse sweat and the slaves’ sour beer, but the servants of Potiphar had allowed sewage, garbage and manure to accumulate for so long that the sirocco winds accumulated in a single blast could not have diffused the stench.
Tuya noticed that Yosef perked up when she led him to the stockyard. Potiphar’s horses were in fine fettle, for the master loved to ride and often engaged in chariot racing, but the few cattle in the pen were scrawny and blotched with skin diseases. Yosef paid special attention to the cattle, probing their skins with deft fingers and examining their eyes and noses with great care. “I know how to cure this condition,” he said, catching up to Tuya as she strode through the stockyard. “With the right grains and a poultice or two, these cattle can be made well.”
“That would please our master.”
From the stockyard, an open, roofless corridor led to the well, and beyond the wall surrounding the well lay the master’s formal gardens. Tuya showed Yosef the small door that led to the gardens. The pool, which had been stagnant and laden with green scum, now glimmered in the sun while lotus plants dotted its surface. Yosef gave the area an admiring smile. “This is beautiful.”
“The blue lotus is my favorite,” Tuya said, unwillingly remembering the lotus blossoms of Sagira’s pool.
“Not just the flowers,” Yosef answered. “Everything. You have done well.”
“Not I alone,” Tuya answered, taking his uninjured arm as she led him back to the servants’ quarters. A thin sheen of perspiration shone on Yosef’s forehead, and she knew the brief walk had tired him. “Without your encouragement, I would never have had the nerve to speak to the other servants.”
If any of the older slaves bore resentment toward Tuya, they did not dare show it after Potiphar praised her administration. He called her into his presence one evening as he sat at dinner in the central hall. From the high windows near the ceiling, the rays of sunset tinged the room with gold.
“You were presented to me on account of your beauty,” Potiphar said after she knelt at his feet. “But now I find that you are more than ornamental.”
Bent into submission, Tuya felt her stomach tighten. Donkor had never summoned her into his presence, and the few occasions she had faced Kahent had ended in punishment or rebuke. What did Potiphar have in mind?
“Rise, girl, and speak freely,” her master mumbled through a mouthful of food.
Slowly, Tuya stood, lifting her head at the last moment. Potiphar sat before her, his hands busy with his food, his eyes bright and alert as an eagle’s. She gathered her courage. “What would you have me say?”
He swallowed. “How does a harem girl know so much about running a house?”
“If it please you, my lord, I was not reared for the harem. Before entering Pharaoh’s house, I was companion to Sagira, daughter of Donkor, a kinsman of the king.”
Potiphar bit into the pigeon the cook had prepared according to Tuya’s direction. “Does Donkor know you live now with me?”
Tuya shook her head. “I have no way of knowing, my lord. I was sold when his daughter no longer wanted—had need of—a companion.”
Potiphar lifted his goblet and took a deep drink, then sighed and smacked his lips. “Well, Tuya, I have no harem and no need of a concubine. But I like what you have done, so you may continue to oversee the house.”
Relief washed over her, but Tuya did not leave. In three months, Potiphar had spoken to her only once, and if all went well in his house he might never speak to her again. If she wanted to speak to him of Yosef, she’d have to do it now. For despite her intentions to remain aloof from the young man’s dancing eyes, she could not bear the thought of waking one day to find him gone.
“If it please you, my lord—”
The master lifted a brow. “You have a question?”
“A suggestion. If you want your estate to truly prosper, you would do well to heed the advice of Paneah, the injured slave you bought from Pharaoh’s court. His arm is now mended, and he has cured your cattle of a mange that would have spread through the herd. He is a capable overseer. Let me supervise the kitchens, but place everything else in Paneah’s hands. By Pharaoh’s life, I swear he will not fail you.”
“By all the gods, I knew he was bright.” Potiphar grinned. “Bring him to me at once.”
Tuya hurried away, her heart as light as her step. Yosef would turn the estate into the pride and treasure of Thebes. And soon he would be as important to Potiphar as he had become to her.
Potiphar
And it came to pass from the time that he had made him overseer in his house, and over all that he had, that the LORD blessed the Egyptian’s house for Yosef’s sake; and the blessing of the LORD was upon all that he had in the house, and in the field.
Genesis 39:5
Chapter Eight
A year passed. The waters of the Nile altered from the thick silk of the inundation to the green of verdigris shining on copper. Potiphar’s slaves tilled the soil of his lands during the proyet, the months of the land’s emergence, and harvested during shemu, the four months of drought. Far to the south, monsoon winds swept inland from the great ocean and dumped torrential rains on the highlands of the continent, feeding the tributary known as the Blue Nile. Through steep mountain gorges, tracts of marshland, and fetid jungles, the swollen river roiled northward and merged with the White Nile. Beyond the point of their convergence lay six cataracts; the northernmost cataract, a craggy gorge through which the floodwaters tumbled in an angry rush, marked the southern boundary of Egypt.
Unaware of the natural forces at work, at the summer solstice the priests made their offerings to Egypt’s gods and waited for the annual arrival of the bounteous flood. Pharaoh prayed to the god Hapi, begging him to pour the holy waters into the river known since ancient times as Hep-ur, or “sweet water.” According to legend and Egyptian belief, Hapi sat on a mountain and poured the Nile on the land from two bottomless pitchers. One pitcher brought forth the sweet bright green river of harvest time, from the other flowed the gray, silt-laden waters of the inundation, needed to flood and fertilize the thirsty Egyptian fields. Pharaoh and the priests did not doubt that the gray waters would come, but they begged the god to dispense his gift with mercy and wisdom. Too much water and villages would be swept away; too little and Egypt would starve.
When Sirius, the dog star, arrived in the vast and immeasurable canopy of the night sky, the priests announced that the waters were near. As they had predicted, the flood rushed northward a few days later. Over the centuries, natural levees had built up along the Nile, and on the Night of the Cutting of the Dam, the people of Thebes mounted these natural walls along the riverfront and waited for Pharaoh’s signal. Once the dam was “cut,” or broken, the precious waters flooded a series of man-made channels and carried their nourishment to the fields.
Scowling at t
he noise of celebration, Potiphar climbed one of the towers built into the walls of his villa. To the west he could see the silver water and a shimmering skyline where earthen dams at the border of his property bristled with life as the sun dropped behind the horizon. Already glowing orbs of torchlight moved through the darkness.
A twinge of nostalgia struck him. In every year until this one, he had been at Pharaoh’s side for this ceremony. He would have been on the royal barge this year, too, but a royal courtier called Narmer had convinced Pharaoh that Potiphar needed time to rest.
The high squeal of the priests’ trumpets rent the air. Though he couldn’t see clearly in the darkness, Potiphar knew that long boats of bundled papyrus reeds were breaking through the banks to allow the river to spill into the land. He smiled. Aside from Narmer’s tiresome presence, he had no reason to complain. The gods had been good to him in the past year. Under Paneah’s direction, his cattle had begun to produce and his fields to grow. His slaves, a motley crew who had once managed his house in spite of themselves, had become a disciplined corps, each content to labor in his or her assigned task.
While Paneah oversaw the stockyard, fields and business of running the estate, the girl, Tuya, had become a valuable housekeeper. Under her direction Potiphar’s new cupbearer had become almost as skilled as Taharka, the esteemed slave who had been purchased to grow, ferment and offer Pharaoh’s own wines. Potiphar wasn’t sure what sort of magic Tuya had worked, but he now slept on perfumed linen sheets and wore pressed and pleated kilts.
Even Pharaoh had noticed a change. “How polished and well-fed you look, Potiphar,” he had remarked only a few days before. “Age certainly seems to agree with you.”
“I only reflect your bounty, divine Pharaoh,” Potiphar had replied, bowing. “The light of your favor has caused the Nile to bring forth a good crop. Your people will not hunger this year.”