Dreamers

by Angela Hunt

  Four years? What did they mean? She frowned, then set her feet toward Potiphar’s chamber where a thin stream of lamplight still glowed beneath his doorway. He would know what Tuya meant. And, being in her power, he would tell her.

  Sagira fidgeted uncomfortably in the garden’s heat. The fan Tuya moved back and forth did nothing but displace hot air, and the water in Sagira’s goblet was blood warm, impossible to enjoy.

  Ramla approached, back from her month at the temple, and Sagira sat up, eager to hear news from other parts of the city. “Welcome, my lady,” Ramla said, as cool as ever in her spotless white gown and golden collar. “Bastet has smiled on you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Sagira remarked, giving the woman a half smile. “Sit down, Ramla, and tell me everything you’ve heard this month. What’s the latest gossip of Thebes?”

  “Dismiss these slaves,” Ramla ordered, tossing the back of her hand toward Tuya. “I find them distracting.”

  Sagira nodded toward Tuya and the girl who stood ready at the pitcher, and both slaves hurried into the house, eager to be out of the hot sun. When they had gone, Ramla frowned and shook out the linen veil she used to protect the tender skin of her shaved head. “By the wisdom of Bastet, why do you sit here when you could be inside? The sun has obviously baked your brains.”

  “I like the garden,” Sagira said, smiling at the memory of spying on Paneah. In the last few days she had given Tuya work to keep the girl busy into the night. Paneah had wandered in the garden alone, waiting, unaware that Sagira watched his every move. “Tell me.” She leaned toward the priestess. “What have you learned about the name Yosef?”

  Ramla sighed, but a satisfied smile curled on her lips. “It is a Hebrew name meaning ‘add to me.’”

  Sagira tilted her head, marveling. “Our Paneah is a Hebrew?”

  “The Hebrews,” Ramla went on, lifting a brow, “have a history with the ancient pharaohs. The father of the Hebrews, Avram, came to dwell in Egypt years ago. He traveled with a beautiful woman he called his sister. She, of course, was taken into Pharaoh’s harem, so Avram’s god closed up the wombs of Pharaoh’s wives. Several of them bore dead babies, and others lost the fruit of their womb before their time had come. Pharaoh’s priests divined the truth—Sarai was not Avram’s sister, but his wife.”

  “How terrible,” Sagira said, relishing every word of the tale.

  “When the priests of Amon-Re revealed the plague’s cause to Pharaoh, he called Avram and expelled him, his wife and all his possessions from Egypt’s borders. A sizable military force escorted them from the land of the Two Kingdoms. In the temple scrolls it is written that Pharaoh prayed he would never again see a Hebrew in the dominions of Egypt.”

  “Yet we have one in our house,” Sagira whispered, staring at the reflecting pool.

  Ramla leaned forward. “Do you not think this a bad omen? You want to have a child with this Hebrew, and his god has the power to kill babies in the womb—”

  “My Hebrew has but one god, and I have a plethora of them,” Sagira said, turning to the other woman. “Are many not more powerful than one?”

  Ramla threw her a questioning glance, but Sagira only smiled and tucked her leg under her skirt. She had Bastet, Amon-Re and all the gods of Egypt to do battle for her. Above all, she had time to consider her challenge and study the object of her desire.

  Chapter Sixteen

  With pleased surprise Yosef noticed that the crop of his fourth year in Potiphar’s house was more than triple the amount harvested in his first year. The healthy cattle lowing in the stockyard pressed for larger quarters, and Potiphar’s horses won so many chariot races that the noblemen of Thebes clamored for the foals of the estate’s stallions. Potiphar now paid more taxes than any man in Thebes, and this fact finally earned him the coveted Gold of Praise.

  His master wore the face of a happy man, and Yosef thought the household a contented one. Tuya seemed satisfied to wait out the remaining years until they should be freed and wed, and Sagira seemed to have settled into her role as pampered mistress of the sprawling estate. Ramla kept to her mistress’s side or to herself in the small temple at the villa. Though the priestess regarded Yosef with wary eyes, she stayed clear of his approach and did not bother him.

  Though deprived of precious freedom, the slaves of Potiphar’s household were a great deal more prosperous than the poor of Pharaoh’s kingdom. Well fed, clothed and housed by their affluent master, they did not have to work past sundown or labor to pay taxes to the divine pharaoh. Now even Potiphar’s most disgruntled slave admitted that Paneah was a gift from the gods. The young man was a compassionate but firm taskmaster who listened to their grievances and requests.

  Most of the slaves even bore a grudging respect for Potiphar’s wife. Though headstrong and spoiled, Sagira had brought the household into the circle of nobility. The once dull and dusty villa now regularly rang with the cultured voices of visiting nobles and their wives. Potiphar’s slaves felt themselves superior to the poor and quite the equivalent of the merchants who lined the dusty streets of Thebes.

  One afternoon Yosef had just finished settling a squabble between the cook and the baker when Tuya came with word that Lady Sagira wanted to see him in the garden. “I’ll go at once,” Yosef said, giving Tuya a conspiratorial wink. “She probably wants me to decorate for another of her parties.”

  “Shouldn’t she ask me to do that?” Tuya asked. “What would you know about a lady’s party?”

  Yosef waved her away. “I was joking. I’m sure it’s nothing important.”

  He found his mistress alone in the garden. Her back was to him as he approached, her thick wig heavy with golden beads that sparkled amid the darkness of her hair like stars in a midnight sky.

  “Mistress? You sent for me?”

  Her eyes were strangely veiled when she turned to look at him, but the smile on her face was warm, the smile between two equals, not slave and owner. “Thank you for coming, Paneah,” she said, her voice as golden as the sun overhead. He was about to prostrate himself, but she noticed and motioned for him to remain on his feet. “Please, don’t bow. When we are alone, you need not observe foolish formalities.”

  Yosef nodded. “How may I serve you?”

  Her smile deepened. “I wonder if you could give me a few suggestions about this garden. I have come to love this place, and want to expand it beyond its present borders.”

  “Did you want to expand it for some special occasion?”

  “For every day.” She tilted her head as she looked up at him. The deft makeup around her eyes gave her the sleepy-eyed look of an elegant kitten. “I want to have it beautiful always, so I can enjoy its charm whenever I want.”

  She stepped forward on the tiled pathway and gestured for him to follow. “I love the serenity of a garden, don’t you?”

  Yosef’s mouth went dry. Masters did not often ask their slaves for personal opinions. Even Potiphar, who trusted Yosef to run nearly every detail of his life, did not trouble himself to ask for Yosef’s personal preferences. “I like the garden,” he said, feeling tongue-tied and dull. The mistress would think him a total imbecile.

  But Sagira only walked farther down the path. “I like all flowers, but the lotus blossom is my favorite.” She turned to smile at him. “The fragrance is perfect—not too sweet, not too woodsy. Don’t you think so?”

  Stunned by yet another personal question, Yosef could only nod in agreement.

  “So what do you think?” she asked, moving again along the walkway. “What plants can we add to bring more beauty to this place?”

  She was two steps beyond him before he found the words. “Mandrakes, irises, narcissuses and poppies for the ground. Blue water lilies and white lotuses for the pond,” he said, grateful she had finally asked a question that did not require a personal reply. He hurried to keep pace with her. “And we can bring in additional white lotus plants. They grow well in water.”

  “And they bloom at night,” S
agira whispered, almost to herself.

  “The blossoms remain open almost until midday,” he said, hurrying to defend the plants Tuya loved. “It is only the heat of the sun they cannot stand.”

  “Don’t worry, Paneah, I shall not want them at midday. I like the garden at night, and think I shall walk here often. And of course, I shall want all of the flowers to myself.” She gave him a guilty smile. “Tell the servants not to touch them, will you please? Those I don’t wear I shall offer to the goddess in the little temple.”

  “As you wish,” Yosef answered.

  Sagira stopped to reach for a lotus blossom growing near the edge of the pool, then smiled helplessly when her short arms couldn’t reach the flower. Taking the hint, he splashed into the water to retrieve the blossom, then bowed and presented it to her.

  “Thank you.” A blush colored her cheek as she inhaled the sweet scent. Yosef waited with his hands folded while her eyes closed in pleasure. “You must share this,” she murmured, not moving the blossom from her face. “Bend down, Paneah, and let the lotus entice you.”

  He paused, uncertain how to proceed, and her dark eyes flew open. “Don’t you like the scent of lotus blossoms?”

  “I like it very much.”

  “Then breathe in this one,” she whispered, closing her eyes again. “It is sweeter than most, for it is offered by your mistress.”

  Yosef bent at the waist. Feeling like an adolescent boy, he lowered his head toward the flower only inches from her lips. He scarcely dared to breathe lest he offend her with his nearness.

  The lids rose from her black velvet eyes. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she asked, her gaze holding him.

  “Yes, mistress,” he whispered.

  With the unpredictability of a butterfly, her hand rose to tap the bridge of his nose. Shocked into stillness, Yosef did not move as her fingertips trailed across the wings of his nostrils, then dropped to caress his lips.

  “You are as beautiful as the lotus, my Paneah,” she said, a sultry tone in her voice. “A most striking and unique Egyptian.”

  An alarm bell rang in his mind as she emphasized the latter word. Why was she toying with him? Did she suspect that he was not of Egypt?

  She did not seem to notice that his breathing had quickened. She turned without further comment and tucked the lotus blossom into the neckline of her dress.

  “See to the flowers, will you, Paneah?” she asked, moving toward the house. “Have them installed as soon as possible. I do love the garden.”

  Yosef sighed in relief when her small figure disappeared beyond the gate.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” Yosef said, glancing over his shoulder as he spoke with Tuya in the garden. “She made me uncomfortable.”

  Tuya struggled to smother a smile, for Yosef was as jumpy as a kitten. “What did she do, exactly?”

  He lowered his voice. “She asked me to smell a lotus blossom. And then she touched my face.”

  For an instant, a white-hot dart of jealousy pierced Tuya’s heart, but she smiled and tried to ignore the pain. Yosef loved her steadfastly. And Sagira had a husband.

  “You are making too much of this,” Tuya said, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “Think, Yosef, of all our mistress has endured! I know her like no one else, and though she is spoiled and headstrong, I fear Sagira is lonely.” She turned her gaze to the moon’s reflection in the shallow pool. “I think she has grown tired of her priestess. She has spurned me and is too proud to call me back, but Sagira cannot live alone. She needs company, the fellowship of friends, and our master is not home often enough to give her the society she needs.”

  “She has parties every week,” Yosef pointed out. “Surely you can’t want her to have more guests and feasts—”

  “No, I have all the work I need,” Tuya answered, softening her voice. “And Sagira does love parties, but what happens when the last guest is gone? She is left alone. She needs a friend, Yosef, and you are close to Potiphar. Perhaps she hopes to win her husband’s attention through you. She’s turning to you—”

  “I’d rather she turned to one of her maids.”

  “Maids and mistresses cannot be friends. Such things are not done.”

  “Potiphar and I are friends.”

  “Potiphar is an unusual master,” Tuya answered. “And while he treats you as a confidant, does he invite you to eat with him? Does he take you with him to Pharaoh’s court? No. You are his slave, and you will be kept in your place.”

  She knew these things instinctively, but Yosef had not been born a slave. His had been a privileged life, and moments like these revealed his upbringing.

  Tuya ran her hand over his back and began to knead the tense muscles. “Please, Yosef, be kind to Sagira,” she whispered. “Then Potiphar will reward you for being a friend to his lonely wife. Perhaps our time of waiting will be shortened.”

  Yosef groaned and tipped his head back as his muscles relaxed. “For you, Tuya, I will be her friend,” he finally said, giving her a sidelong glance.

  She nudged him gently with her shoulder. “You are wonderful.”

  Something rustled in the nearby bushes, but when she turned to investigate, the garden shimmered still and quiet in the moonlight. “Did you hear something?”

  “Only the pounding of my heart,” Yosef murmured, smiling.

  Sagira ran her finger over the rim of the bowl she had placed on the altar at the villa’s temple. Ramla had been gone for a full month, fulfilling her religious duties, and Sagira was anxious to speak with her. The priestess should have returned two days ago, but perhaps she had been delayed—

  A commotion at the gate distracted Sagira’s attention, and she lifted her head and peered through the temple’s doorway. A tall, veiled woman was greeting the gatekeeper, and Sagira recognized the disfigured hand on her traveling veil. Good! She turned back to the altar, determined that the priestess should not know how eagerly she had been awaited.

  Sandaled footsteps slapped on the pavement, then Ramla prostrated herself before the statue of Bastet. Sagira pressed her lips together and allowed the priestess a moment of silence, then nudged the woman with the edge of her sandal.

  Ramla sat up and regarded her friend. “How are things in Potiphar’s house?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow. “What have you done in my absence?”

  “Nothing,” Sagira said, sinking to the floor. “I nearly lost my self-control once, but then I realized that I need the gods to help me through this. If Paneah’s Hebrew god is truly powerful, I dare not proceed without Bastet’s protection.”

  “So you still plan to conceive a child with this Hebrew?”

  “So you still disapprove?” Sagira turned her eyes to the stone idol. “Bastet has answered my petitions thus far. She must approve of me.”

  Ramla slipped the dusty veil from her shoulders. “Bastet sometimes allows her children to do things they ought not to do. Many hard lessons of life are learned this way.” She paused, her dark eyes fixed on the floor. “As a priestess, I would advise you to wait until Potiphar’s death. Then you can remarry and bear a legitimate son. But as a woman—”

  “Yes?”

  “As a woman, who would not desire Paneah?” Ramla’s lean shoulder lifted in an elegant shrug. “My own heart has been stirred by the beauty of his countenance. He is truly a man among men.”

  “Keep your heart focused on the goddess,” Sagira answered, bracing herself on the altar as she rose from her knees. “Paneah is mine. But if you’re still willing to help, I need you.”

  The priestess’s mouth curved in a dry smile. “What can I do?”

  “Divine the future for me. I know the goddess will allow women to conceive only on certain days, and I would know the proper day for my son’s conception. And I would know Paneah’s future, to be certain he is the best one for my plan.” She fixed the priestess in a determined gaze. “Consult the goddess, work your magic, and you will be handsomely rewarded.”

  Ramla’s thin chest heaved as if she w
ere weighing the cost, then she nodded. “I will do it,” she said, rising. “But not for a reward. I do this to ensure your success, my Sagira. If Paneah’s future proves your plan, you will have my enduring support. But if the gods reveal a dark future, will you promise to give up this foolish notion?”

  “Yes.” Sagira nodded, eager to promise anything that would put her plan into motion. “Call on your powers, Ramla, and do it quickly!”

  An hour later, Sagira helped Ramla to her bed. The priestess had worked her magic, uttered her predictions and collapsed onto the floor in another of her strange seizures. Such pain was a dire price to pay for knowledge of the future, but Sagira would have been willing to sacrifice even Ramla’s life for the final news.

  The prophecy was both thrilling and disappointing. Well into her trance, Sagira had moaned and trembled and proclaimed that Paneah would be elevated to a position of power, and every knee in Egypt would bow at his approach. Exhilarated, Sagira had pressed for more news. “So when shall I confront him?” she urged, ready to shake the answers from the wide-eyed priestess. “When?”

  “The eighteenth day of the second month of the third year,” Ramla muttered. “The first day of the Feast of Opet.”

  “So long?” Sagira cried. “Three years from now?”

  As Ramla collected her strength, Sagira paced through her chamber and chewed on her henna-tinted nails. “I cannot wait three years. I am ready to have a child now!”

  “Perfection cannot be rushed,” Ramla murmured. “The gods know what they are doing. Besides, you will need time to prepare for this assignation.”

  “I’ve already begun preparation,” Sagira replied.

  “Then slow your pace,” Ramla warned. “You will need three years to bind him to your side. And three years to rid his heart of the slave girl’s memory.”

  “Tuya?” Sagira stopped pacing as her throat tightened. “How can I get rid of her? I can’t sell her. Potiphar won’t allow it.”