by Angela Hunt
After the bloody sacrifice at the temple, Pharaoh’s nobles, warriors and courtiers moved to the throne room in Pharaoh’s palace. The gigantic hall was as crowded as Potiphar had ever seen it, and he gripped the handle of the dagger in his belt as the crowd churned and surged behind the guards at the open doors. One by one, the royal scribes read off the names of those who had been with the king on his military expedition, and those men, great and small, came forward to acknowledge Pharaoh’s gratitude. Foot soldiers who had done well in combat received tiny golden flies for “stinging” the enemy; to others Pharaoh presented golden daggers, carved and painted shields and handsomely carved bronze arrowheads. To the archers, Pharaoh gave painted leather forearm protectors, and to captains like Narmer the king awarded permission to kiss his royal foot, not just the ground at his feet.
The crowd around Potiphar buzzed when the royal scribe looked his way. Every standard bearer, petty officer and foot soldier had been rewarded, only the captain of the king’s elite guards waited to receive his prize. For the first time since the presentations had begun, Pharaoh stood from his throne.
“Potiphar! Your king and god summons you!”
Potiphar stepped from the line of guards at the king’s right hand and prostrated himself before Amenhotep. He had lain in this position before, hoping for the golden chain that hung around the king’s neck, but this time he had certainly earned the prize. The Gold of Praise was an exalted honor few men could wear, and Potiphar had served not only this pharaoh, but Pharaoh’s divine father…
“Potiphar, how can a king reward his most trusted servant?”
“The warmth of your favor is enough, my king,” Potiphar called, lifting his head just enough for his words to be heard.
“It is not enough. I must do something more for you, my friend, and have thought many days on this matter. Horus himself has shown me what I can do. Rise, Potiphar, and accept the gratitude and devotion of your king.”
Potiphar pressed hard on the floor, feeling his age as he pushed himself upright, then bent his head in submission as he walked toward the king’s throne. The king could thank him properly by retiring from war. Another eastern expedition would likely mean the end of his faithful captain.
“I have thought, faithful friend, about what you do not have,” Pharaoh said, his voice low.
Surprised at the king’s conversational tone, Potiphar lifted his eyes to meet Amenhotep’s.
“And I am prepared this day to give you what you lack. You have received every honor Egypt can give, and every right a pharaoh can bestow. You kiss the royal foot, even the leg, you travel by my side and stand beside my throne. A hundred golden flies decorate the animal skins you wear for a mantle, and yet you do not possess one reward I can give.”
Potiphar’s disobedient eyes slipped to the Gold of Praise about Pharaoh’s neck.
“Once I gave you a beautiful woman. Now I will give you a noble one. Donkor, my kinsman, has a daughter of fourteen years. She was born in the royal line of pharaohs, and today she will become your wife.”
The saving grace of long habit prodded Potiphar to crumple at Pharaoh’s feet in the proper pose of overwhelmed gratitude. Reflexively, he murmured his thanks, but his brain roiled with the king’s words. A wife! Pharaoh did not know, he could not know! Potiphar was a forty-six-year-old soldier, not the sort of man to be a husband, and yet Pharaoh wanted to give him a young royal wife who would demand to be petted, teased and spoiled…
An audible hush fell on the droning gossips who had sprung to life at Pharaoh’s words, and the soft swish of fabric reached Potiphar’s ears. “Rise, Potiphar, and meet your bride,” Pharaoh called, and the warrior’s arms trembled as he pushed himself up and turned to face the child who would share his house…and his future.
Clothed in a diaphanous sheath of reddish-gold, a young goddess stood before him. She wore a pleated dress bordered with rich fringe, and the gauzy fabric of the garment allowed him to see the handsome shape of plump legs, a solid stomach, strong arms. Distracted, he looked up and into the wide eyes that peered from beneath a heavy wig. “I am Sagira, my lord,” a treble voice whispered. “Daughter of Donkor, and kinsman to the king.”
At first he thought the wreath of lotus blossoms circling her head put forth an unusually heady scent, then he realized that the lady also carried a bouquet. She had come to the palace dressed for a wedding.
Pharaoh must have guessed at Potiphar’s discomfiture, for an abrupt burst of laughter escaped him. “My old friend,” he said, smiling with as much warmth as he dared before a jealous court. “Did you think you could escape matrimony forever? Your duty lies in raising sons as brave and devoted as you are. Take this girl as your wife, here and now, and do not fail your king.”
Potiphar bowed deeply. “I would not fail you,” he answered, his stomach tightening as the crowd broke into pleased applause.
In his younger days, he’d have seen such a trap coming long before it snared him.
Sagira felt a blush burn her cheek. Despite his posture of gratitude, in her new husband’s eyes she could read his displeasure about this marriage. He should have been overjoyed, for many fathers had sought to have her for their sons. But, unwilling to marry Sagira without Pharaoh’s permission, her anxious parents had waited for the king’s return from the east. In a private meeting arranged by one of the royal courtiers, Donkor and Kahent approached Pharaoh and mentioned their desire to find a suitable husband for their noble daughter. Flushed from the thrill of his military campaign, Pharaoh had been eager to honor his captain and declared that the resolute and courageous Potiphar would prove an admirable husband for Sagira. He needed to honor the grizzled veteran of a hundred wars, and his royal niece needed a husband. What could be a better match?
Potiphar, Kahent had later confided to Sagira, was strong-willed enough to serve as Pharaoh should Ramla’s prophecy be fulfilled in his lifetime. If he proved to be less than a good husband, he was old enough to die and give Sagira many more years in which she could marry again.
Sagira knew her fate could have been worse. Despite his age, Potiphar was known as a fair and dutiful man, and his household had prospered in the year of his absence. She had asked her father to drive his chariot past Potiphar’s villa, and she found it was one of the most handsome in Thebes. As the villa’s mistress, she would bring grace and elegance to the place. In time the old goat would be grateful for Pharaoh’s favor.
Lifting her eyes from her promised husband, she pivoted gracefully and walked down the aisle extending from the throne of all Egypt. Promptly on cue, the priests from the temple of Bastet, her patron goddess, brought forward the marriage canopy that had been woven from river rushes. Sagira met her father under the canopy, then turned and waited for her groom.
A heavy silence settled on the chamber. Potiphar stood without moving, his mouth gaping like a fish that has been taken from the safety of the river. For a desperate moment Sagira thought he would refuse the king’s gift.
Pharaoh’s voice filled the strangely thickened air. “Potiphar,” he called, a thin note of warning in his voice, “surely you will want to thank the man who has served you in this venture. As I searched for a way to honor you, Narmer came from Donkor and put your bride’s name into my thoughts.”
Sagira saw Potiphar jerk his heard toward the spot where the courtier stood like a cocky rooster preening his feathers. Dressed in fine linen and animal skins, Narmer stepped forward and fell to his knees before Pharaoh.
“And what should I give you, faithful Narmer?” Pharaoh asked, glancing down. “You who have provided so many answers to my questions?”
“Nothing could ever replace your affection in my heart,” Narmer said, his eyes humbly fastened to the floor. “But if I could wear the Gold of Praise about my neck, I would forever be reminded that Pharaoh holds me in esteem.”
Amenhotep smiled and laid aside the crook and flail. “So be it,” he cried, lifting the heavy chain from his neck. “Narmer will wear
his king’s favor on his shoulders. He has received the divine praise of Pharaoh and had a part in bringing Potiphar his noble bride!”
A decidedly ugly look settled on Potiphar’s features as he turned from the strutting courtier to face the bridal canopy. Sagira shivered and vowed to remember that expression. Potiphar was a warrior, and would undoubtedly be violent if pressed. For the sake of her survival, she would be careful never to rouse her husband’s anger.
The wedding was but another celebration on the program of Pharaoh’s grand festival, and Potiphar was irritated by his role in it. In time he might have considered taking an older, quiet woman to be his wife, for he had occasionally longed for a companion to share his home, but he did not care to have a youthful bride thrust on him. The daughter of Donkor was lovely, in the dark fashion of most Egyptian girls, but she lacked Tuya’s devoted smile and the long-limbed gracefulness of women he had observed in the northeastern provinces. At fourteen, she was still much a child, but her face was composed when she turned to face him.
He should have studied his bride-to-be as the priests began the incantations of the ceremony, but he couldn’t help being distracted by her entourage. Behind the girl stood a bald priestess in a spotless robe, a sour-faced, somber creature who regarded Potiphar with distrust in her eyes. Donkor stood at his daughter’s right hand, a royal relative whose enormous belly advertised his prosperity far better than words. Behind this trio Narmer paced confidently, his hands behind his back, a smile on his lips and the Gold of Praise glittering about his neck.
Why hadn’t he simply asked for it? Instead of prattling about Pharaoh’s favor and indulging in false humility, why didn’t he tell the king what was owed? Then he’d have the Gold of Praise and a young fool like Narmer would have this girl.
But the gods worked in mysterious ways, and Egypt’s divine pharaoh was the most unpredictable of them. On any other day, if a man dared to ask for the chain about Pharaoh’s neck, he’d be crocodile meat before sunset. Narmer was a fool, but Potiphar could not deny his boldness.
The high priest of Bastet, a bald, sallow-faced man, gestured for Potiphar to extend his hands and feet. Potiphar obeyed, as did Sagira, and with fresh water from the Nile the priest washed the limbs of bride and groom to symbolize the purity of their union. After the washing, a servant offered up a corn loaf, and Potiphar fumbled with memories of the few weddings he had attended. He was supposed to feed his bride, a visible pledge of support, but his hands felt clumsy and oversized as he broke the corn loaf and placed a crumb of its crust between the red lips of the girl beside him.
The priest uttered another incantation as the priestess behind Sagira waved a stalk of sweet-smelling incense. Another servant handed Potiphar a jug of wine. He would gladly have drunk the wine in a mad guzzle—better to be rip-roaring drunk than endure this humiliation—but the eyes of Pharaoh focused on him.
Potiphar placed the jug on the ground according to the tradition, then drew his sword and smashed the jug with a single blow. With that action, the wedding was finished.
The crowd responded with cries of praise and approval, and Potiphar lifted his bride’s hand and presented her to the people. Sagira, daughter of Donkor, kinsman to the king, had officially become Potiphar’s wife.
Chapter Twelve
“He has taken a wife?” Tuya asked.
Speechless with surprise, Yosef could only stare at the messenger, who nodded and wiped perspiration from his forehead with the edge of his tunic. “This very hour. The master and his bride are feasting at Pharaoh’s palace, soon they will return. You must make everything ready.”
A nervous fluttering rose in Yosef’s stomach as he turned to Tuya. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “How do the Egyptians marry? In my time here, I’ve never seen anything to tell me—”
“How we marry is not important,” Tuya teased, sweeping the messenger’s dusty footprints from the floor with a palm frond. “What matters now is how they spend their wedding night. And that, Yosef, is the same in any culture.”
“Fresh linens on the bed, fresh water in the basin and pitcher,” Tuya called as she moved toward the master’s chamber. “Hot coals in the brazier. Flowers in the basin, and a garland of blossoms for the room, I think.”
“But how can our master be married?” Yosef took three sprinting steps and caught Tuya’s arm, turning her toward him. “Surely he will not marry unless he is in love, but he has said nothing of it—”
“Yosef, are you truly so simple?” Her fingers lightly dusted his brow and pulled a stray strand of hair from his eyes. “Sometimes I think you are not the wise and capable Paneah, but a simple shepherd boy from the desert. Our master may not love this woman now, but he will. The divine pharaoh has arranged the marriage, and so it will be.”
“But does no one ever protest Pharaoh’s wishes? My father was forced to marry a woman he did not choose, but he protested and insisted on marrying my mother as well. If he had been allowed to marry the one he loved from the beginning, much strife could have been avoided.”
“Who are we to question the will of a god?” Tuya quipped, tapping him on the cheek. Yosef clung to her for a moment, relishing the feel of her in his arms, then she laughed and pulled away. “Let me go, or our new mistress will be screaming for us to be whipped before she even knows our names. I must tend to the bridal chamber, and you must see to the rest of the house. Warn the butler and the baker, have Mert-sekert bring a supply of linen, for the lady will want to see what we can offer her wardrobe. There is no time to waste.”
Sighing, Yosef let her go.
Darkness had settled its black cloak over the villa by the time Potiphar and his wife arrived. Tuya watched from behind an arbor in the courtyard as the master helped a female figure out of the chariot and into the house. Impossible to tell what the woman looked like, for her wig was like that of any noble lady, and her size obscured by the wine-colored robe that proclaimed her a virgin bride.
Tuya heard Yosef’s confident greeting in the entryway and knew he was welcoming their new mistress. Potiphar answered in a low murmur and escorted his bride into the house. After a moment Yosef slipped out of the entry and into the courtyard.
“Did you see her?” Tuya hissed from behind the arbor. “Did you get a good look? What’s she like? Is she very beautiful?”
“Wait,” Yosef murmured, walking calmly over the pathway. He barred the gate and snuffed the single burning torch, effectively plunging the courtyard into darkness.
After a moment, Tuya’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the moon. When Yosef’s back was turned, she crept from behind the arbor and needled her fingers into his ribs. “Is she beautiful?”
“God spare me from a curious woman!” he yelped as she ducked under his arm to confront him.
“Tell me everything.” She pulled Yosef into the privacy of the shadows. A bench waited in the arbor and she tugged him toward it, twining her fingers with his. “So—is she beautiful?”
“She is…fair. Very young.”
“Younger than me?”
“Probably. But I am not skilled at guessing a woman’s age.”
“You are too diplomatic. Is she plump or thin?”
“Shorter than you, and therefore she seems—thicker. But lovely, with dark eyes and hair.”
“How could you tell anything under that wig?”
“Her eyebrows.” Yosef turned and brushed his lips across Tuya’s forehead. “Her brows were black as night.”
“Don’t speak of other women when you’re doing that,” Tuya breathed, squeezing his hand as his breath warmed her ear.
“What other women? I saw only Potiphar and you, out here hiding behind the bushes.”
“I wasn’t hiding, I was waiting. I had a thought to share with you.”
He draped an arm about her shoulders. “Only a thought?”
She pulled back to give him her brightest smile. “One thought.”
“Well…what is it?”
She
hesitated, then lightened her tone. “Do you remember when our master suggested that we might be married if we served him well?”
He picked up her free hand and pressed it to his cheek. “He mentioned six years. We have five remaining.”
“Doesn’t that seem like a long time?”
An inexplicable, lazy smile swept over his face. “My father worked seven years for Lea, and another seven years for Rahel. He told me the fourteen years flew by like days, so great was his love for my mother.”
“Has your time here flown by, Yosef?”
He cradled her hand in his as his eyes grew thoughtful. “In the beginning, no. I wondered what God meant by bringing me here. Then I wouldn’t allow myself to love you for fear that I’d be taken away again. But now—” his smile warmed her “—now the days fly and I wait and pray and hope that God will be merciful.”
“I offer petitions to Montu.” Tuya lifted her chin and strengthened her voice so he would know she was serious. “I think our master’s marriage may be a great boon for us. If Potiphar, who never thought to marry, finds joy with his bride, perhaps he will wish the same joy for us. He likes us, don’t you think? There is no reason we could not marry and serve him five more years before he grants our freedom.”
The grooves beside his mouth deepened into a full smile. “You truly believe our master will discover the happiness we’ve found?”
“In time, certainly,” Tuya went on, studying his face. “Don’t you think it could happen? If we offer sacrifices to the gods—”
“My god delights in obedience, not sacrifice.” Yosef’s hands closed about her wrists. “My beautiful girl, there is so much I don’t understand. I cannot speak for God, or assume to understand why he moves as he does. I don’t know why he called me out of my father’s tents. I don’t know what he has planned for my tomorrows. And I don’t know why he has rooted your image in my heart.”