Dreamers

by Angela Hunt

  “You think too highly of your own abilities, Yosef. You cannot hold Sagira off and cling to me. Such dreams are impossible. She will never allow them.”

  “Faith is believing in the impossible. Why can’t you put aside your fear and trust me? You have no faith in me, no, not even in yourself, or you would see that you are as precious to me as life. Please, dearest, let me tell Potiphar that you have changed your mind about leaving.”

  “No.” She pulled herself free from his grasp, then stood and stumbled as she moved away. “I love you too much, Yosef, and I know Sagira. Whether she wins or loses, you will suffer. Because I can’t bear the torture of watching, I can’t stay.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “My husband.”

  Potiphar was about to oversee the changing of the guard at his prison, when Sagira’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned, surprised that she would venture into the courtyard in the heat of the day. “Do you need me?”

  She gave him a regal nod. “At your leisure, I would have a word with you.”

  The girl had become a woman of substance and discretion, and Potiphar’s spirits lifted at the sight of her petite form. “Gentlemen.” He flashed a killer smile toward his guards. “A lady needs me.”

  While they laughed and watched him go, Sagira gestured toward the garden path. He fell into step beside her, and she linked her arm through his as they walked. “I’ve been giving this matter of our unhappy slave a great deal of thought,” she said, tilting her dark eyes toward him. “Pharaoh has an eye for beauty, and I’m sure there are none to equal Tuya in the royal harem.”

  Potiphar lifted a brow, following her thought. “She was destined for the harem when Pharaoh presented her to me. If he didn’t want her then, how do we know he will want her now?”

  “She was a child then,” Sagira answered. “Now she has matured. Pharaoh will be honored to have such a beauty, don’t you think?”

  Potiphar considered her suggestion…and its risks. “I still can’t imagine why she wants to leave. I thought she and Paneah wanted to marry. I had promised them freedom in two more years—”

  “Childish infatuations vanish like dew under the sun’s hot breath,” Sagira said. “Now Tuya and Paneah argue whenever they catch sight of one another. I believe she wishes to leave us because she cannot bear to be around Paneah.”

  “I suppose I can understand,” Potiphar said, nodding. “And I am a reasonable man. So be it. I will take Tuya with me when I go to the palace tomorrow.” He patted Sagira’s hand. “I have to see to the prison. Is there anything else you need from me?”

  “You have given me everything I need,” she said, giving him a demure smile. “Thank you, Potiphar.”

  Early morning shadows moved through Sagira’s chamber like stalking gray cats, but Tuya refused to cower when she entered the room. Her mistress had sent for her before daybreak, and Tuya obeyed, knowing that this summons might be her last from the poisonous Sagira…as this morning might hold her last glimpse of Yosef.

  Sagira announced her intention right after Tuya entered. “You are going back to Pharaoh,” she said, glancing at Ramla. “We will make certain he is pleased with you.”

  “We will personally oversee your toilet,” Ramla added, regarding Tuya with a critical eye.

  Tuya stood stock-still as Ramla muttered incantations and anointed her skin with perfumed oil. Sagira chose a fitted garment of white linen from her wardrobe, and two handmaids sewed Tuya into it while Ramla lowered the straps until the dress displayed a generous amount of flesh.

  Sagira motioned for Tuya to sit, then picked up strands of her dark hair and began to braid them into thin ribbons. As her nimble fingers flew, Tuya’s eyes filled with bitter tears of memory. When they were children, Sagira had often braided Tuya’s hair in this same way.

  While Sagira twined pearls and beads into Tuya’s hair, another slave lined the girl’s eyes with kohl and colored her lids with shadows the green color of the Nile. An hour later, Sagira stood back and admired her handiwork. “Perfect.” She flashed a white smile at Ramla. “Take her to Potiphar. He waits in the courtyard.”

  Like a sheep led to the butcher, Tuya followed Ramla in tiny, mincing steps, all she could manage in the tight dress. She concentrated on walking, for every room of the house held memories of Yosef, vivid images that closed around her and filled her with a longing to turn back. When concentration could not block her recollections, she recited an ancient spell of forgetting. She did not want to see Yosef or think about him, but the image of his haunted, pleading face still rose before her eyes.

  The sun had fully risen by the time she reached the courtyard; the walls of the villa seemed to shudder before her swimming eyes. Potiphar gave her an admiring glance, then motioned for her to climb onto the litter that would carry her to Pharaoh’s palace.

  The litter bearers held the conveyance steady as she perched on the edge and swung her legs up. One more moment and she would be away. In another hour she could forget Potiphar’s house had ever existed. The man she had loved here must not have cared for her too deeply, for he had not come to say goodbye…

  A voice from the porch made her cringe in sudden guilt. “Potiphar!”

  Yosef’s voice.

  She did not turn around.

  “Paneah?” Potiphar shaded his eyes as he looked toward the house.

  Yosef’s light, quick footsteps crunched the gravel. “I wanted to be sure, master, that you will not reconsider this action. Tuya is a valuable slave—”

  Potiphar held up his hand, then turned toward Tuya. “Do you want to remain, my dear?” he asked, his voice oddly gentle.

  Tuya kept her eyes fixed on the gate and braced her arms against the litter. “I am ready to leave.”

  Potiphar waved in farewell. “She wants to go.”

  “One moment, sir,” Yosef called, and then he stood beside her, love and pain struggling in his eyes. “Believe in me,” he whispered. “I need you to have faith. When I am free and a great man, I will find you. I will rescue you from slavery.”

  She dared not steal one last look at him. “You were a great man when I first met you.”

  When Yosef did not answer, Potiphar shouted a command and the litter bearers stepped forward.

  After arriving at the palace, Potiphar left Tuya with Kratas, the eunuch in charge of the harem, then hastened to see that his guards were in place. Pharaoh’s daily ritual, much like the routine of the temples’ stone gods, had already begun. The divine king had been roused by priests singing a hymn of praise, then the priests had performed his morning toilet, perfuming his skin with oil and decking him with royal robes and Egypt’s red and white double crown. The great king now sat at breakfast, and would soon be brought into the throne room to transact business and receive offerings.

  Potiphar paced in the hallway. In that revealing dress and full makeup, Tuya looked like a different woman, and Potiphar had been more than a little surprised by his wife’s generosity. His child bride had matured in the past year. The last traces of girlishness, uncertainty and puppy fat had evaporated from her body; she had become a woman of distinction. Since they had reached an understanding, she no longer wasted her energy on silly songs and suggestive dances. She behaved as a modest and mature woman should, and seemed to know nearly as much as Paneah about running the estate.

  The sounds of music warned him that Pharaoh’s entourage was about to enter the throne room. Potiphar straightened, adjusted the waistband of his kilt and patted the heavy Gold of Praise about his neck. Any other man would have whispered a prayer to his patron god at the thought of what he was about to do, but Potiphar only hoped he would find Pharaoh in a forgiving and generous mood.

  “A gift for me?” The royal voice rumbled through the hall as the king’s pet lion opened his mouth in a noisy yawn, and several of the queen’s handmaids twittered. Despite the distraction, the queen, the court and even Pharaoh’s sons leaned forward to see what gift Pharaoh’s captain could have br
ought.

  Potiphar straightened his shoulders. “Yes, divine Pharaoh. Several years ago you gave me a beautiful child, who has blossomed into a flower of surpassing loveliness. She has remained untouched and sheltered in my house, and today I offer her to you. You have given me a house, a bride and the Gold of Praise. Since you have been so generous to me, I would honor you today with a gift worthy of a king’s notice.”

  Pharaoh frowned for a moment, and the knuckles that grasped the crook and flail whitened as he considered his captain’s comment. “I am like a man who loans silver to another,” he finally said, leaning forward. “Today you bring me the principal amount, plus interest.”

  Potiphar bowed his head. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Well, then.” Pharaoh relaxed and cast a sidelong smile to Narmer, who remained as close to Pharaoh as a thorn to a rose. “I suppose, Potiphar, I will be pleased according to how much interest the principal has earned.”

  “Bring forth the gift from Potiphar, Captain of the Guard!” Narmer called, his eyes dancing with mischievous delight. Potiphar clasped his hands behind his back and bowed as the tall doors at the back of the throne room swung open.

  Audible gasps filled the throne room as Tuya inched forward. She walked alone through the cavern created by the opening of the doors, and her white linen dress seemed to glow with an unearthly light. Her braided hair flowed onto her shoulders in a soft tide while her graceful neck curved upward like the sacred ibis taking wing. Her face was as pale as parchment, but her black eyes glowed with inner fire.

  Potiphar glanced at the king’s courtier. Narmer would love to see Potiphar fail in winning the king’s approval, but he was not the only man who wore the Gold of Pharaoh’s Praise.

  Now Narmer gaped like the fool he was, and even Pharaoh seemed stunned by the sight of Tuya in her glory. Amenhotep’s second son, nine-year-old Abayomi, broke the unusual silence. “Father,” his treble voice rang through the chamber, “I want her!”

  After glancing at his queen, Pharaoh nodded. The king extended his hand to Potiphar and released his eyes to feast on Tuya. “I shall accept your gift in my son’s name,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “You have more than doubled my gift, and today you may kiss my hand. This girl shall become the bride of Pharaoh’s second son, a royal princess in the land that has given her birth.”

  The crowd of court observers buzzed as Potiphar bent to press his lips against the jeweled hand.

  In the weeks following Tuya’s departure, Sagira was careful not to push or press Paneah. The date for which she lived still lay months in the future, and she wanted the slave to come to her willingly, not out of fear or obedience. She watched his moods carefully, taking pains to cheer him when he seemed lonely or praise him when he grew quiet. Most of all, she kept him busy, knowing he would have neither the time nor the energy to mourn Tuya’s loss if ambitious projects and plans occupied his thoughts.

  With Potiphar’s blessing, she called Paneah into the women’s reception hall and described her plans to enlarge the villa and rebuild the walls. It would be a difficult project, she declared, but Paneah could undoubtedly master the various aspects of planning and building. When all was finished, Potiphar would own a house second only to Pharaoh’s palace in elegance. And Paneah would be in charge of every detail, from what crops were planted to what sheets were spread on the beds.

  She called him to a table and spread a papyrus roll in front of him. “I must have a special room,” she said. “See this drawing? I want my furniture to be gilded with the purest gold, and lotus blossoms engraved around the legs and armrests of the chairs. I want a bed of gold, with a canopy of gossamer hangings, and lamps in every corner of the room.”

  He chuckled at her words, but kept his gaze glued to the parchment.

  “Do I want too much?” She tilted her head toward him. “I want the world, Paneah. I want everything life has to offer, and something tells me you want these things, too.”

  “I want to fulfill my destiny.” He turned a page of the plans. “If that means remaining a slave, then I am pleased to serve you.”

  “You won’t remain a slave,” she said, daring to speak the truth. “I have asked Ramla to divine the future, and she sees great things for you.”

  Though he tried to hide it, a flicker of interest gleamed in his eye. She smiled. She had always known he possessed ambition.

  “It will take some work,” he said, tapping a manicured finger on the scroll. “But I have met an architect in the city who has done work on Pharaoh’s tomb. If he could spare a crew—”

  “Do whatever is necessary.” She beamed in an overflow of expectation. “Go wherever you have to go. No chains shall bind you, no purse restrain you. You are Potiphar’s steward, and he has complete faith in you.” She lowered her voice to a more intimate tone. “The master designer of Potiphar’s house will soon be known as the greatest man in Thebes. After that, Paneah, who knows what the future will bring?”

  He laughed, and the sound of his sincere humor caught her off guard. “Have I said something funny?”

  His smile melted the sudden frostiness of her heart. “It’s just that—well, I have dreamed of greatness. And if this is how I gain it—”

  “Be not afraid of greatness,” she whispered, leaning toward him. She placed her hand on his and smiled when he did not pull away. “Do your best, Paneah, as I know you will. And then you may reach for the stars, and Pharaoh himself will not be able to stop you.”

  As the young boy stood on tiptoe to place the ceremonial crust of bread between her lips, Tuya felt as though she moved in a dream. In a moment this child, a royal prince, would be her husband. Hard to believe, but that reality was easier to face than the realization that she had walked away from the only love she had ever known.

  Abayomi smashed the ceremonial jug of wine with a sword he could barely swing, and spectators broke into perfunctory shouts of approval. No one cared, really, who the boy-prince married. Tuya knew she ought to be grateful. After only two weeks in Pharaoh’s household she had exchanged her slavery for royalty; she would be comfortable and protected as long as her husband favored her. If next month Abayomi decided that he no longer cared for her, she would be no worse off than she had been a month ago.

  In Potiphar’s house, passion had burned while reason slumbered.

  In Pharaoh’s palace, reason wrapped her in comfort while she buried her passion.

  The boy looked at her with a singularly sweet smile and offered his hand. Tuya adjusted the expression of her face and stepped out from beneath the bridal canopy with her husband, a boy eleven years her junior.

  Sagira had just approved Paneah’s plans for a new stable when Potiphar passed through the main hall looking more frustrated than usual. “What is wrong, my lord?” she called, glancing up from the scroll over which Paneah hovered.

  “The royal wedding,” he said, shaking his head. “It is finished, but Pharaoh was particularly concerned that nothing spoil it. He has heard rumors of a conspiracy to take his life, and his paranoia has reached the point of foolishness.”

  “A wedding?” Sagira murmured, making notes about the marble flooring to be installed in her bedchamber. “Did the king take another wife?”

  “Not the king. Pharaoh’s son married Tuya today.”

  A sudden shock rippled through her system. “Our Tuya married the crown prince?”

  Potiphar sank into a chair. “Not the heir—the king’s second son asked for her. And when a slave is beautiful and the queen is jealous, a young prince may command even his father.”

  Sagira turned to gauge Paneah’s reaction to the news. He did not lift his gaze from the scroll, but his face had paled beneath its tan. His eyes, which had blazed with interest as he told her of his plans for the villa, had filled with the dullness of despair.

  She looked away, torn by conflicting emotions. Yosef still fancied himself in love with Tuya, but he would never have her now. And while Tuya may have married into
the royal family, she would be nothing but a nursemaid to her husband for years to come.

  She forced a smile. “Our Tuya has married a baby.”

  “Don’t be concerned,” Potiphar said, resting his head on his hand. “Boys grow into men.”

  The days without Tuya melted into weeks, the weeks into months, the months into seasons. Two full years passed in Potiphar’s house, and the estate that had been one of the most prosperous in Thebes now eclipsed all but the king’s. Potiphar’s nearest neighbors, afraid of appearing shabby next to his affluence, sold their lands to Paneah at bargain prices and moved away from the burgeoning estate. Potiphar’s cattle outgrew the stockyard until Paneah built new pens; Potiphar’s fields outproduced others’ three-and four-fold.

  Potiphar was not shy about sharing the secret of his success. “I leave everything to Paneah,” he often boasted. “I take care of Pharaoh, and Paneah takes care of me.”

  Extravagant offers poured in from every quarter of Egypt, but Potiphar refused to sell his slave. When it became clear that no amount of silver or gold could wrest Paneah from Potiphar’s house, stewards from other noble estates came to consult with him, usually bearing gifts of silver, linen or expensive oils and perfumes. They came expecting miracles; they left with practical advice that did increase the productivity of their homes and fields. But no estate came close to matching the success and bounty of Potiphar’s enterprises.

  Sagira watched in silent approval as the praise of nobles and stewards buoyed Paneah’s pride. Like soothing oil on his wounded heart, their flattering words restored the sureness to his step, the confidence to his eyes. He commanded the other slaves with authority, treated visiting nobles with a dignified deference and communicated more in a cocky tilt of his brow than Potiphar did in a hundred gruff words.

  At twenty-four, Yosef had become tall, lean and muscular from his labors. Though Sagira felt herself largely responsible for his success, she stood a little in awe of the man he had become. Though she still planned to use him to father her son, now and then she wondered if he was using her. Like everyone else, she had fallen under his charming spell. In the afternoons when he dismounted from his chariot, she had to look away lest she cry out and tell the world she adored him.