by Angela Hunt
Ramla pressed a hand over her eyes. “There are other ways. Paneah’s love for Tuya is rooted in his heart. His love for you must spring from the flesh, and fleshly love is easily enticed. You must separate them, keep him from her arms so he will be mad with longing for a tender embrace. Then, in time, you will feed him with your kisses and command your will to be done.” She lowered her hand, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Sagira. “Together we can do this. You work with the man. Leave the slave girl to me.”
Even in her exhaustion, Ramla’s eyes glowed with malevolence.
“You truly hate Tuya, don’t you?” Sagira asked. “Why?”
“Why does a cat hate a dog? Some beings are natural enemies.” Without further discussion, Ramla turned her back on Sagira and walked away.
Two days later, Yosef told Tuya that the mistress wanted her to accompany Ramla to Bubastis, the home of Bastet’s main temple. An important center of trade and commerce, Bubastis lay far north in the Egyptian delta. At Sagira’s request, Potiphar authorized an escort of ten warriors to safely guide his wife’s patron priestess.
Tuya had no time for goodbyes, for she had to gather Ramla’s possessions and load donkeys with their bundles of provisions. The ten guards, outfitted with bows and quivers filled with shining bronze arrows, stamped impatiently in the courtyard as Tuya flew throughout the house, leaving instructions to those who would fill the vacancy she would leave. She had no opportunity for a private goodbye with Yosef, for Sagira kept him by her side, reminding him of the arrangements he had promised to make for her new garden.
Take care, and may God go with you, Yosef’s smile seemed to say as he caught Tuya’s eye in the courtyard. She gave him a timid, fleeting smile, then took her place beside a donkey in the midst of Potiphar’s men. Tall and dispassionate, Ramla mounted another donkey and nodded to the guards. Sagira called a noisy goodbye from the porch; Potiphar lifted his hand in farewell.
I won’t look back. Tuya kept her eyes fixed on the scrawny tail of the donkey ahead as a nameless fear swept through her soul. The days will fly like minutes, the years will fly like days. I will be back soon. This means nothing.
As they passed out of the villa, she balled her hands into fists, fighting back tears that swelled in her chest.
Chapter Seventeen
With a triumphant smile, Sagira watched them go. When no sign of the caravan remained on the horizon, she turned and placed a hand on Paneah’s arm. “Bring a pitcher of water and honey to my chamber,” she said, taking pains to keep her eagerness from her voice. “This heat—and this day—have drained me.”
Paneah bowed, then turned toward the kitchen. Sagira gave Potiphar a bright smile, but his thoughts had already drifted toward his guards, for he gave her an absent wave and stalked away toward the ivy-covered wall that disguised the prison. Sagira shuddered, watching him go toward that awful place. She did not like to remember that condemned criminals lurked in dank cells only yards away from her lovely home, but the captain of Pharaoh’s bodyguard was also the overseer of Pharaoh’s jail. The king certainly didn’t want criminals near his palace.
She ran up the porch steps and hurried through the central hall of the house. Her chambers had been cleaned and aired that morning, and fresh linen curtains billowed about her bed. Sagira touched a burning coal to a coil of sweet incense. She would not win Paneah in a day, but she would teach him not to jump at her touch. With gentle persuasion, any wild rabbit could be taught to eat from the hand.
She checked her face in her bronze mirror, adjusted the angle of her wig, and lay on her bed, artfully spreading her garments so a modest length of her leg peeped through the slit in her gown. She moistened her lips with her tongue, peered at her fingernails, and froze like a nervous bride at the sound of footsteps in the hall.
A discreet servant’s cough signaled Paneah’s arrival outside her door. Now it begins.
“Come in,” she called, her voice a mournful wail. The door opened and Paneah’s handsome face peered in on her. She forced herself to bite her lip until her chin quivered; she looked as woebegone as her pounding heart would permit.
“Mistress, is something wrong?” He lingered in the doorway, the cup and pitcher on a tray in his hand.
She squinted and pretended to wipe tears from her cheeks. “It is nothing, Paneah, that you would understand. Sometimes I think no one understands.”
He paused. From eavesdropping on his conversations with Tuya, she knew him so well she could almost hear two voices arguing in his head. Part of him wanted to leave the tray and run; another part wanted to obey the sweet urgings toward friendship Tuya had given him in the garden.
“When I think no one understands,” he answered slowly, “I remember that God does. God is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble, and he is a friend to those who trust in him.”
He gave her a safe and impersonal answer, but a man lived beneath that cool exterior. Sagira lifted wide eyes to meet his. “No god cares for me. Put down the tray, Paneah. You may go. But if you do, I will have no one.” She lifted her voice in a plaintive wail and turned her face to the wall. “Ramla has left and Tuya has gone and Potiphar is busy with his prison! My mother will not see me because—well, you do not want to listen. Even the servants here care nothing for me.”
“You are wrong, mistress,” he answered, his voice careful and quiet. “You are held in great—affection—by all who serve you. The master is busy, but he will be back, and Ramla and Tuya will return soon—”
“Each day here feels like a year,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands. “Every month an eternity. And I am alone, without a friend in the world—”
Crying came easily, for her heightened emotions had left her fragile. She burst into tears and curled into a ball on the bed. Beneath the sound of her sobs she heard Paneah step toward the door as if to call for help, then he moved to her side.
“Please, mistress,” he said. “Do not cry.”
She did not stop weeping, but extended her hand in entreaty. For a moment she feared he would retreat, but he must not have been able to resist the impulse to help another. Her senses fluttered when his hand touched hers, and for a moment she nearly forgot her careful plan.
This hand would one day rule Egypt. This man would give her a child.
Like a drowning woman, she pulled him to her side, unwilling to let him go.
“Paneah,” she wept, genuine tears flowing freely as she sat up and slipped under the warmth of his arm. “Can you know how it feels to be utterly forsaken?”
His eyes filled with words, yet he did not speak. His tense arm felt as heavy as lead, but he patted her in wordless sympathy. She was breathless, overcome by the thought of his power and strength, but she did not move until many moments had passed.
At last her tears stopped and his hand ceased its gentle patting of her arm. The tingling effects of his touch had spread through her like wildfire, but she forced herself to be calm and think clearly. This Paneah was still skittish, and very much in love with someone else.
“Oh—” she forced a laugh as she wiped her eyes “—I suppose you think me a silly, homesick girl.”
“No, mistress.” He lifted his arm from her shoulders and lowered his gaze to the floor. “I know what it is to be abandoned.”
“Perhaps you shall tell me your story sometime.” She tapped his leg with easy familiarity. “We have much in common, you and I.”
She smiled at him when he stood. “Thank you, Paneah,” she said, looking into his dark eyes. “I feel—so safe with you.”
“I am glad to serve you,” he replied, and as he left her chamber Sagira gave her mirror an exultant smile. “Ah, Ramla, if only you could have seen. The wild rabbit is tamed!”
During the two months of Tuya’s absence, Sagira called Paneah to her side as often as she could without seeming to grant him undue favor. Keeping the conversation light, she inquired about the fields, the cattle and horses, and the servants. One morning she linked he
r arm through his and announced that she had decided to become his shadow.
Honest alarm filled the young man’s eyes. “But, mistress! It isn’t proper that you should walk in some of the places where I must go.”
“Paneah,” she chided, facing him. She glanced right and left to be sure they were alone, then gave him a shy smile. “I know Potiphar has promised to give you freedom and his permission to marry our lovely Tuya. If you are going to leave us in a few years, shouldn’t I know how this household is run? After all, it is a woman’s proper place to oversee the house, and I have been spoiled by your competence. But since you will be leaving—” she pinched his muscled arm “—don’t you think I should know what you do?”
For this he had no answer. Sagira smiled. “You must wait here while I change into something more appropriate for the fields. Then you shall lead the way, Paneah, and show me how and why Potiphar’s house has become the wealthiest in all of Thebes.”
Before he had time to protest, she hurried into her chamber where she had already set aside a short tunic that showed her arms and legs to their best advantage. She tossed aside the heavy noblewoman’s wig and donned a light hairpiece similar to the short, swinging style the slave girls wore. With quick, deft movements she pulled off her heavy bracelets and earrings, then pinched her cheeks and thrust her feet into leather sandals. She felt like a girl, simple and light-headed, and she knew from the look in Paneah’s eyes when she joined him that he approved the change.
“You know,” she said, leading the way from the house, “I’ve never had a brother. How I wanted one! Someone like you who would teach me things…”
“I will be happy to teach you, mistress,” Paneah answered, his long stride easily catching hers. He gave her an open smile. “Anyone who wants to learn deserves a willing and faithful teacher.”
While Ramla served in Bastet’s glorious temple through the months of Thoth and Paopi, Tuya spent her days pacing in the priestess’s spare living quarters. Why had Ramla needed a handmaid? Over one hundred slaves served at this temple, all of them eager to fulfill the commands of the priests and priestesses. Perhaps Ramla had brought a maid to give herself prestige, but she had never seemed the type to care what other people thought of her. Whatever the woman’s reasons, Tuya counted the days, anxious for her time of service to be at an end.
One night not long after they had completed their second month at the temple, Ramla entered the chamber and sat in her chair, staring moodily at the setting sun’s rays on the wall. Tuya ministered as silently as she could, unwilling to disturb Ramla’s pensive mood. She had just picked up the priestess’s nightdress when Ramla’s voice broke the silence. “We will leave tomorrow. You will be happy to return to Thebes, won’t you?”
Tuya flinched at the sharp sound, then took a deep breath and forced her pounding heart to remain steady. “Everyone loves to go home.”
“Slaves have no home.” Ramla paused and ran a long fingernail along the arm of the chair. “Neither do priests and priestesses.”
Tuya let the observation pass without comment. She would not allow the poison in Ramla’s soul to infect her happiness.
She placed Ramla’s nightdress on the bed, but the priestess would not be ignored. “I have often thought it ironic that we crossed paths at Potiphar’s house. I did not expect to ever see you again, and when Potiphar refused to send you to the temple, I divined that the will of the gods had brought us together.”
Tuya listened with a vague sense of unreality. She had instinctively known that this woman hated her, but how could Ramla believe Tuya’s presence was an act of the gods?
Something in the woman’s manner gave Tuya the courage to speak bluntly. “Why do you despise me?”
The priestess leaned back and propped her head on her hand, her mouth curving in a one-sided smile. “I am glad you say what is on your mind. I’ll be honest, too.” She gazed at Tuya with chilling intentness for a long moment, then tented her fingers and centered herself in the chair. “In the beginning, I was jealous of the friendship you shared with Sagira. You were taken from your parents as a child, as was I, but you were placed into a loving family. You had a friend.”
Her black eyes widened as she stared over the tips of her fingers. “I was taken to the temple, the place I would have sent you if Potiphar had allowed it. The priests shaved my head and circumcised my female parts to persuade me to remain consecrated to Bastet.”
Tuya felt her heart shudder. Every feeling of antipathy she had borne toward Ramla melted into pitiful concern. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, scarcely daring to look at the woman who had suffered so much.
“I should have known you would come into my life again,” Ramla said, an odd smirk crossing her face. “What a jest the gods have played on their resentful priestess! But I, too, have a sense of humor. Tell me, Tuya, do you want to know the future?”
Tuya shook her head and turned to Ramla’s box of possessions. “Some things are better left unseen.”
“Some things are better foreseen,” Ramla contradicted. She dropped her hands and stood in a single, fluid motion. “Tell me the future, Tuya. Do you think we will find Potiphar’s household as we left it?”
Struggling to mask her rising fear, Tuya painted on a warm smile. “The flood has come, so the land will be muddy and gray. But our Paneah will be preparing for the planting—”
The priestess snickered. “Our Paneah? Do not think of him as yours, my dear, for he is a slave belonging to your master and mistress.”
“Of course. I did not mean to imply—”
“I’m not implying anything.” Ramla moved back to her chair. “I know the future. I know the present. I know that Paneah will give Sagira a son. It is her sworn ambition. Even now your mistress works to win your love’s heart. Why do you think you were sent away?”
The lid of Ramla’s trunk fell from Tuya’s hand as her limbs and feelings went numb.
Unrelenting, the priestess continued: “You know Sagira and her determination. She is a woman of strategy and cunning. She will lure the handsome Paneah into her arms before he can think to resist.”
Tuya’s breath came in short, painful gasps. “Paneah will not—”
“Paneah will do whatever he is commanded to do,” Ramla went on, her eyes gleaming as she studied the effect of her words. “He will give Sagira what she wants, or he will die. If he wants to be rewarded, he will perform his duties—enthusiastically.”
A sudden vise pressed on Tuya’s stomach. Overcome by nausea, she bent and ran from the room.
Chapter Eighteen
Yosef surveyed the items spread over the wide mat. “Have you remembered everything, Sagira?”
He and his mistress were outside the city, in the center of the Theban Hills. He had spent the greater part of two months showing his lady how the household functioned, and she, in turn, had promised to show him the wonders of the land he had never really seen.
Sagira had ordered the kitchen slaves to load the chariot with special provisions for this outing, and Yosef had been impressed with her preparation. They had left the villa shortly before sunrise, while the rest of the household still slumbered.
“I brought everything,” she said, struggling with the last basket.
Yosef sprang to assist her. “Let me get that.” The basket seemed enormous in her frail arms, and her eyes lit with gratitude when he carried it to the papyrus mat she had spread on the sand.
“Now that everything is unpacked,” she said, placing her hands on her hips, “look around you, Paneah! This is Egypt’s glory! Some have called this place the Temple of the World.”
Yosef lifted his gaze to the open horizon. A huge semicircle of sheer cliffs rose straight from the floor of the Nile Valley and dominated the west bank of the Theban Hills. Forming an extraordinary foil for the elaborate temples across the yawning chasm, the long prominence of cliffs shimmered as if dancing to a rhythm only audible to desert creatures.
“Look there!” Sagira
called, holding her light wig with one hand as she pointed in the opposite direction. To the east, the silvery Nile lay below a black bank of the fertile soil Yosef had come to love. The yellow-green of new crop growth glowed under ochre cliffs as red as Sagira’s lips. The entire spectrum of colors brushed up against a blue sky that dazzled Yosef’s eyes.
“I told you it was beautiful!” Sagira called.
Yosef nodded, too moved for words.
Far below, in the canyon beneath the cliffs, a whirlwind swayed with the grace of a Hittite dancing girl. He and Re’uven had once seen such a whirlwind, and Re’uven had made a jest about one of Dan’s wives, a woman who danced in the same way. The funny-sad memory made Yosef smile and blink back unexpected tears.
The wind ruffled his hair, brushed his clean-shaven cheeks and billowed his kilt about his knees. He had not felt the strength of such a wind since he traveled the open land with his brothers…and his father.
Would his family know him if they saw him with this face, in this kilt? He would go to them if he could, offer his forgiveness…but were they ready to accept it?
“Isn’t it—Why, Paneah, what’s wrong?” Sagira gazed at him with concern in her eyes and clasped his arm when he turned away. “I am your friend. You can tell me your deepest sorrow.” She placed a gentle hand on his cheek. “As you care for me, let me care for you.”
The soothing sound of her voice, combined with the pain of memory, broke the dam of resistance in him. Embarrassed at his weakness, he lowered his head into his hands, then allowed her to lead him to the mat where he crumpled into a formless heap and released the bitter tears he had never been able to shed.
He did not know how long he cried, but he felt doubly the fool when he lifted his head from her lap. A man did not cry in front of a woman, and a slave certainly did not weep in his mistress’s arms.
“I am sorry.” He straightened and hoped she would forget the incident. “I have behaved…improperly.”