by Angela Hunt
Shadows wreathed Potiphar’s chamber as the sun rose, and Sagira moved away from the bed where her husband snored off the effects of the party. Grabbing up her gown, she retrieved her wig and sandals from the floor and slipped wordlessly through the corridor until she came to her own room. Ramla was still asleep, a thin covering thrown over her.
Sagira tossed her expensive wig toward its stand and sank onto her bed, biting her knuckles. She wanted to scream, to beat someone, to cry and lament and tear her clothing. Life wasn’t fair! She had entered this marriage fully expecting a normal, happy union, but last night’s reality had hit her like a cold slap in the face. Potiphar should never have married her, but her parents, Pharaoh and Narmer had not given him a choice in the matter. The entire world had conspired against the bride and groom to play an ironic joke, a terrible trick.
When Ramla stirred, Sagira dropped her hand from her mouth and sat upright, gathering what little dignity she had left. Last night she had behaved like a prostitute, flaunting herself before a drunken crowd and gyrating to silly, useless poetry to please a man who could never be a husband to her. Did everyone know the truth? How many nobles would mock her name this morning over their breakfasts? How would the gossips magnify her forward behavior? What would Pharaoh say when he heard? What would her mother think?
“Bastet have mercy,” she murmured, dropping her head into her hands.
Ramla sat up in the gloom. “Are you happy now, little one? Shall I begin counting the days until your son is born?”
Drained of will and thought, Sagira shook her head.
“Well, perhaps I will wait,” Ramla murmured. “And if a child does not come from this occasion, there will be other times when Potiphar will call for you. Now that the wall between you has been breached—”
“There will be no son,” Sagira answered dully. “No daughter, no child. The mighty Potiphar has left his manhood behind on some battlefield.”
Ramla’s face went pale. “You lie.”
“I do not.” Sagira clenched her jaw. “I may be young, but I am not a fool.”
“Pharaoh would never—”
“Pharaoh does not know,” Sagira answered, shaking her head. “How could he? If this were the morning after our wedding, I would demand that the marriage be set aside. But how can I explain to Pharaoh that I did not discover this truth until now? Too many months have passed, Ramla. I would die of embarrassment if I had to expose the truth before Pharaoh’s court and—”
“You cannot have the marriage set aside,” Ramla interrupted, settling her elbows on her bent knees and steepling her fingers. “You will lose Potiphar’s property if you do.” Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “You must say nothing of this to anyone. Keep Potiphar’s reputation intact. Be kind and respectful to him—he was so drunk he will probably recall nothing of last night. He will think you went to your chamber as usual.”
“But what of my son?” Sagira cried. “The prophecy! How am I to have a child with Potiphar? The gods have made a mistake, I was not meant to marry him—”
“Hush for now,” Ramla soothed her. “The gods cannot be wrong. There is a way out of this, there has to be.” The priestess swung her thin legs out of her narrow cot and drew near, then placed her cool hands on Sagira’s hot shoulders. “Sleep now, my lady, and let me consider this. I will consult the goddess about what we should do.”
Relaxing in the older woman’s authoritative tone, Sagira allowed herself to be pressed back onto her bed. Ramla dropped a linen cover over her, and Sagira closed her eyes to block out the haunting knowledge she’d gleaned in the last few hours. How many others knew of Potiphar’s war injuries? Did Paneah know? Had he told Tuya? Last night she had felt their eyes on her as she swayed before her husband in the ritual of seduction—were they laughing at her now?
She turned onto her side and thumbed tears of anger and frustration from her eyes as Ramla began a sacred chant.
For three days Sagira moved throughout the household in a false and brittle dignity. Underneath her artificial smile seethed an anger and indignation unlike anything she had ever felt, but no one seemed to sense it.
When she could no longer endure the sickening sensation of her life plunging downward, Sagira decided to confront her husband.
Potiphar came home after dark, as usual, probably hoping that she had already gone to sleep. She waited until the rushlight burned steadily in his room before creeping to his door. She was about to enter when she heard Potiphar speak, so she flattened herself against the wall and coiled into the shadows.
Paneah answered, his voice like steel wrapped in silk, and for a moment she forgot her resolve and concentrated on the sound. Now there was a man! How handsome the slave was, and how youthful! But he didn’t like her, and she had made no attempts to win his approval since the awful day she’d tried to send Tuya away.
She lingered until Paneah finished his report and left Potiphar’s chamber. He walked out with his gaze fastened to a papyrus scroll, and did not look back. Relieved, Sagira pushed the door aside and boldly entered to stand before her husband.
“Sagira! Is something wrong?” he asked, obviously startled by her appearance. He had removed his sword and his wig; she could see ginger-colored freckles on his bald skull. “Do not worry, my husband,” she said, her gaze darting to the bed where he would soon take his rest. “I do not intend to stay. I came only to say that you have wronged me. You should have told me the truth long before this.”
His face flamed crimson, but he did not deny the unspoken problem between them. “I tried to tell you I did not intend to marry,” he said, fumbling with the clasp of a leopard-skin mantle across his shoulders. “But who can deny the divine pharaoh?”
“Still, you should have been honest with me. For months I thought you did not take me into your arms because—” She paused and took a deep breath. It hurt to speak the truth, but since she was urging him to be honest, she should be just as forthright. “I thought you did not love me because I am not beautiful.”
The warrior’s stone face cracked into humanity. “Ah, Sagira, I never meant to hurt you. I thought you would be relieved that I did not call you into my chambers. Why should a young girl yearn for a scarred battle horse like me?”
Without his wig, he looked like a day-old hatchling, bald, wobbly and uncertain. Sagira could almost feel sorry for him, but he had wronged her too deeply.
He shook his head. “I did not think my indifference would hurt you. You seemed content with your friend, and I—”
“You did not want the court to know the extent of your scars,” she whispered, looking at the floor. “Does anyone know?”
He hesitated. “Tuthmosis knew, and would probably have forced me to leave the army, but he died before doing anything about it. Amenhotep has no idea…and I am not going to tell him.”
He delivered the last remark with a commander’s conviction, yet Sagira sensed that it was also a plea. “Fear not, Potiphar,” she said, giving him a small smile. “I will not reveal your secret. To do so would tell the world that Pharaoh made a mistake.”
“A god cannot make mistakes,” Potiphar said, a note of fond indulgence in his voice. “How often I have reminded myself of that truth.” He turned and motioned toward a chair. “Won’t you sit down, my dear? Perhaps we should talk of other things. I find that this conversation has left me feeling quite…relieved.”
Sagira took the seat he offered while Potiphar squatted on the edge of his low bed. “Do not think you are not beautiful,” he said, looking at her with something that might have been sympathy in his eyes. “You are a true daughter of the Nile, a composite of all that is good in our people. I’ve seen your cleverness and your zest for living. I must confess…bringing you into my house has made me feel old.”
Sagira studied her husband carefully. She had never imagined that he thought about anything but Pharaoh and his warriors. Had she truly affected him?
“Beauty counts for little at the end of a man’s l
ife,” Potiphar continued. “Faithfulness is what I have come to treasure most. The faithfulness of Pharaoh, of the men in my command, of my able Paneah, who has brought blessings on my humble house. I don’t ask you to shine as a beauty, Sagira. I only ask that you be faithful to a husband who will do you no wrong. And someday—” he gestured toward the outer hall “—this will all be yours.”
“Faithful,” she whispered the word. “I can be faithful.”
“I believe you.” He rested his elbows on his knees and chuckled softly. “When a man has more yesterdays than tomorrows, he learns the value of forthrightness. I will always speak truly to you, Sagira, and ask that you speak plainly to me. Let there be no more secrets between us.”
“Agreed,” Sagira said, rising. She walked toward her husband and pressed her palm to the battlefield of wrinkles on his cheek. “No more secrets,” she echoed, then she kissed his forehead and left him alone to his sleep.
“What did he say?” Ramla demanded when Sagira reentered her chamber. “Was he angry? Did he deny the truth?”
“He denied nothing.” Sagira slipped her heavy wig from her head, placed it on its stand, then sighed and reclined on her couch. “He was glad to be honest with me. He said if I am faithful to him, he will treat me well. And someday I will inherit all he possesses.”
“When he dies,” Ramla whispered, her eyes wide. A sudden smile broke her usually stern countenance. “So that is how the gods will work. When Potiphar dies, Sagira, you will remarry. Then you will bear a son to head the next dynasty!”
“No,” Sagira answered, studying her nails. “I will have a son of my own choosing. I am tired of waiting for the gods to work their will. I will travel the road of my own life.”
The priestess blanched. “You speak blasphemy. Bastet will not listen to you.”
“Bastet may do whatever she likes,” Sagira answered, her voice tight with mutiny. “If Bastet does not approve, I’ll send my offerings to Hathor or Horus or the temple of Amon-Re. One of them will hear my petition. You have said, Ramla, that the prophecy cannot be changed. So any god can come to my aid, and one of them will.”
Ramla stiffened and took on a defensive air, but Sagira ignored her disapproving frown. In time she would change her opinion, for Sagira could easily cast off the priestess of Bastet in favor of a representative from one of the other temples.
“Perhaps, with the proper offerings, Bastet can be persuaded to assist you,” Ramla finally murmured. “But how will you choose a son? You cannot plant seed into your own womb—”
“I will have a son whose beauty makes up for my lack.” Sagira swung her legs onto the floor, then stood and paced in the room. “I will bear a son whose presence will slap Potiphar in the face, just payment for the grief I have endured on his account. My son will be well-suited to wear the double crown of Egypt—he will possess my cunning and his father’s gifts of administration and knowledge. The royal blood of the Two Kingdoms will flow through his veins. I have promised Potiphar to be faithful, and I will be—faithful to the prophecy, to myself.”
Ramla moved to block Sagira’s path. “Who?”
Sagira lifted her chin. “I will present Potiphar with the son of Paneah the slave, and he will not deny my son’s legitimacy.”
“He will have you put away for adultery!” Ramla hissed, clenching her fists. “The captain of the king’s guard will not accept a child he knows is not his—”
“He will,” Sagira answered. “All who attended our party think Potiphar the embodiment of virility. His pride will not allow him to disown the son I will place into his hands. He is firmly in my power, for I know his secret.” Her mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “A slave’s child will become Potiphar’s heir and Egypt’s king. The ever-faithful and capable Paneah will sire my son.”
Ramla felt her way through Potiphar’s garden, easing through a darkness so complete it felt like liquid. She experienced a similar feeling each time she invoked the powers that gave her the ability to see into the future. The first time she had attempted it, fear of the unknown knotted and writhed in her stomach, but that terrible sensation faded as the heavens opened and revealed their secrets.
Those secrets bound the priestess to Sagira even now. She had known for years that Lady Kahent would call at the temple of Bastet, and the first time her eyes fell on Sagira she had known she would find her destiny in the swarthy little girl.
If not for that certainty, Ramla would have left Potiphar’s house long ago. Sagira was spoiled, headstrong and prone to be foolish, but Ramla could not deny what she had seen. The girl would make an impression on the sands of time, and Ramla wanted to be a part of it. She wanted to be…significant.
As a baby, she had been deposited on the steps of Bastet’s temple, a nameless, malformed creature whose mewing elicited pity from the hearts of the priests. With bitter pride as her strength, she had grown wise in the ways of the priesthood. One dark night, much like this one, she had opened her soul to the powers of the gods.
Those powers had led her to Sagira, and her unwavering faith in the vision of the future would force her to stay.
Sagira sailed through the next few days like a waterfowl on the Nile—calm on the surface, but paddling furiously beneath. The seduction of Potiphar’s steward must be carefully planned, for several obstacles lay in her path. First and foremost, the entire household knew of the deep love between Paneah and Tuya. Perfectly attuned to one another, the two slaves could read glances and upraised brows without speaking a word. Such a bond would not be easy to break.
Sagira’s second problem involved Paneah’s inscrutable detachment. He had learned far better than Tuya how to maintain a respectful gap between master and slave, and he kept a careful distance between himself and his mistress. Winning his confidence would not be easy. Sagira knew that if she stepped toward him with anything akin to interest in her eyes, the young man would turn and leave without hesitation.
Other complications begged to be considered—the when and how and where of the conception, as well as what should be done about Potiphar when her belly began to swell. Perhaps he could be pacified with a story about how a god assumed human form and visited her to beget the worthy and wounded Potiphar a son. After all, thousands of Egyptians believed a variation of that tale every time a son of Pharaoh was born. Without such a visitation from the gods, Pharaoh would not be a son of his father god, Osiris.
Sagira smiled in contemplation of her success. Her son’s birth would punish those who had hurt her most, and the child would be a destroyer of Egypt’s enemies throughout his life. He would be the greatest pharaoh the world had ever seen, and as his mother, she would live forever in the memories of men. For as long as the world exists, men will speak of you…
Such had the prophecy promised.
In order to win Paneah’s participation, Sagira set out to understand him. Without calling him to her side, she studied the slave as he served meals; she peered down at him from the roof as he moved through the stockyard, the granaries and the slaves’ workrooms. Once she realized that he rendezvoused with Tuya every night in the garden, Sagira secreted herself among the bushes to spy on the lovers sitting at the edge of the pool.
On her first night amid the acacias, she thought them as boring as old people who had been married for years. Tuya inquired about Paneah’s day in the fields; Paneah asked about the bakers and butler and supplies of oil. Soon they exhausted the topics of ordinary conversation, however, and fell silent. The sky was black and icy with a wash of brilliant stars, a perfect night for lovers. When Paneah ran his hand over Tuya’s glossy hair, Sagira leaned forward, her hands pressing on the moist black earth and her knees sliding over the slippery carpet of fallen leaves.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Tuya.” Paneah’s voice gentled as he spoke to the girl by his side, and Tuya’s oval face glowed as she sighed and called her lover Yosef.
Yosef? Sagira frowned. The name was not Egyptian, but it fell from Tuya’s li
ps as if she had spoken it a thousand times. It must have been his name before Potiphar’s house, or perhaps it sprang from his boyhood. Yosef. The word had an Asiatic sound, perhaps it was a name from one of the Canaanite tribes.
Sagira made a mental note to ask Ramla to investigate, and turned her ear to listen more closely. The black earth had to be staining her linen dress, but she didn’t care.
“I like the cornflowers and nightshade along the garden wall,” Paneah was saying, his head inclining toward Tuya’s. “But the lotuses…the fragrance is so sweet, especially when the flowers have been around your throat.”
When he ducked to sniff the flesh of her neck, Tuya laughed and gently pushed him away. “The blue lotuses are my favorite, but I shall not wear a lotus garland ever again if you cannot control yourself,” she said, teasing him with her eyes. “I shall wear plain ivy. It has no fragrance at all.”
Tuya rose to her knees, then moved behind Paneah and rubbed his shoulders. “Ah, you have found the spot,” he murmured, his head tipping back to rest against her. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I could spend the entire night right here, but only if you’ll promise to continue until morning.”
“And how can I do that?” Tuya leaned forward. “When the sun rises, my work begins, and I must have sleep.”
“As must I,” Paneah murmured. His hand rose and clasped hers. “We must say goodnight, my love. Until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow,” Tuya answered, lowering herself until she sat facing him. Their foreheads met for a long moment of communion, then Paneah lifted his head and pressed his lips to the girl’s forehead.
From behind the bush, Sagira held her breath, imagining his lips on hers.
“Four more years,” Tuya murmured when they parted.
“They’ll fly like hours,” Paneah answered, then Tuya stood and moved away, releasing his hand only when his arm would reach no farther. Sagira waited until Paneah left the garden, too, then she emerged from her hiding place and brushed the soil from her knees and hands.