by Angela Hunt
She had never intended to love him, but in choosing to make herself pleasing to him, he had become unbearably precious to her. When he was away, her mind curled around thoughts of seeing him again. Her passion was a flower that flourished in the secret places of her heart, and she often confessed to Ramla that she had become caught in a web of her own weaving. Though her plan to seduce Paneah had been conceived in ambition and revenge, couldn’t love erase the anger that had first propelled her toward him?
She spent her days dreaming. Potiphar was fifty-one years old and would not live much longer so her son, sired by Paneah, would also be fathered by him. She would, she assured Ramla, marry the love of her heart as soon as Potiphar rested in his tomb. Paneah would be rich beyond measure, the most powerful noble in Thebes, and when the gods placed the royal throne into her hands, Paneah would be Pharaoh and their son the next king. Two prophecies, his and hers, would be fulfilled.
Sometimes Sagira thought her gnawing hunger would force her to command Paneah into her chamber. But the date had been foreordained by the goddess, and Sagira would not risk divine anger by disobeying. So she waited, feeding her love-starved heart with fantasies and the rich expectation of the moment that would come.
On the delicious occasions when she found herself alone with Paneah, she baited him as she always had, lightly running her fingers over his muscled back or raking her fingers through his hair. He did not shy away from her touch now, but seemed to welcome her massaging hands as he studied evolving plans for the house and she coaxed the tenseness from his neck. Occasionally she planted kisses on his ear, loving the blush that rose from his neck, and more than once she needled him by saying that if he grew any more handsome she’d command him to lie with her.
He shook his head and laughed at her jests, saying, “No more tests, Sagira.” She answered with a smile, pretending she had meant nothing even though her arms ached to hold him. Though Ramla still worshipped Bastet, Paneah was Sagira’s god in slave’s form, joy and torment in flesh. In conversation, whenever Paneah happened to say “we must do this” or “we ought to do that,” a thrill shivered through her senses because he had mingled himself with her in a simple word.
So she counted the months and weeks of the final year, looking forward to the day of the Nile’s full fertility. On that night she would command Paneah to come to her bed—and on that night she would not jest.
The eighteenth day of the second month finally arrived, the first day of the Feast of Opet. The festival began as priests carried the god Amon from the dark shrine in his temple to visit his harem at the temple of Southern Opet, and Sagira could hear the blast of the priests’ trumpets from her bedchamber. Soon the city’s inhabitants would pour into the streets of Thebes to gawk at the gilded shrine as the god traveled down the Nile.
The house of Potiphar would empty as well. Sagira had sent a note to Paneah the night before, asking him to remain behind, but insisting that he grant liberty to all the slaves so no one might be left out on this happy occasion. Potiphar, of course, would remain by Pharaoh’s side until the festival ended.
Ramla arose from her bed and murmured incantations as she helped Sagira bathe, then she scented the room with incense while Sagira massaged perfumed oil into her skin. A new wig waited on a wooden stand, a simple, short creation that made Sagira appear as carefree and innocent as a young girl. She had ordered a special dress for this day, a simple garment of the uncluttered design Paneah seemed to prefer.
Wiping the excess oil from her hands, Sagira padded across the room and ran her hand over the sheer fabric. It was as soft as a kitten’s ear, and about as subtle as the parade of Opet. When she stood before Paneah in this revealing tunic, he would recognize her intentions.
Only a fool would not.
She slipped the tunic over her head and twisted to study the effect. The transparent garment clung to her like a second skin.
“Careful,” Ramla cautioned from the bathroom as she emptied the washbasin. “He is not yet won.”
Like a protective mother, the priestess entered the room and slipped Sagira’s red cloak over the sheer tunic. The crimson color heightened the hue in Sagira’s cheeks and matched her dainty leather slippers.
All was in readiness. Quiet reigned in the area beyond her chamber, no one stirred in the hall or the courtyard beyond.
“I am ready, you may leave me,” Sagira finally said, eyeing herself in the new full-length bronze mirror recently installed in her bedchamber. She glanced around the room. Fresh curtains hung about her bed, incense burned on the brazier and lotus petals had been sprinkled on the floor.
“All is ready,” Ramla echoed, as intent as a soldier. She bowed toward Sagira, then turned and vanished like a shadow at noonday.
Chapter Twenty
Alone at last, Sagira paced in her chamber, every nerve strung to a high pitch. She had waited so long for this moment! So many nights she had lain awake imagining how it would be. On discovering her here, Paneah, her Paneah, would realize she had taken great pains to ensure their privacy. For him she had designed Thebes’s most beautiful bedchamber, for him she wore the most exquisite garment imaginable, for him she had perfumed her skin and softened her heart. She had incanted the proper petitions, given the proper offerings. Not one detail had been overlooked or neglected. They could take their fill of love until late in the evening when the servants would return. If they were discreet, Paneah might remain with her until nearly sunrise…
When she noticed she was walking on tiptoe, she forced herself to take a deep breath. A strange knocking sound filled her chamber and she froze in horror, then chuckled when she realized she was hearing the terrified pounding of her own heart. Far away the wind stirred the trees along the garden path; a horse whinnied and another responded, then all was quiet and still.
Now. Deftly, reverently, she lifted the bell that would summon Paneah and rang it with hope in her heart. The sound pealed through the corridor and echoed in the empty halls, and for a moment she feared he had not receive her message. What if he had gone out to enjoy the festival with the others?
But footsteps sounded on the marble in the great hall, and she turned from the doorway, afraid to face him. After a moment woven of eternity she heard the creaking of the cedar door that led into her chamber. “You rang, mistress?”
Every nerve leapt and shuddered at the timbre of his voice. “Yes, Paneah, I did,” she said, turning toward him. “And it’s Sagira, now, remember? We are quite alone.”
He wore his best linen kilt, a pleated garment of her own design, and the narrow waistline accented his trim waist and his broad shoulders. Handsome leather sandals adorned his feet, and a single golden band lay on his upper arm. His hair hung lush and lovely about his memorable face as he awaited her request. How like a god he was! How appropriate that he had dressed in his best for this day.
He hesitated at the threshold of her chamber. “Do you want me to drive you to the river for the festivities?”
“I don’t want to be in a crowd today,” she said, smiling at him through tilted eyes. “I want to enjoy this place that we have built—you and I.” She opened her arms, but he did not stir from the doorway. She rolled her eyes, amused at his reticence. “Come here, Paneah, don’t loiter like a child at the door.”
“You know more about childhood than I,” he said, stepping into the room. “I’m older than you by far.”
“I’m nineteen.” She tipped her head back to look up at him. “Old enough to know what I want.”
“I think you’ve always known.” He came forward and planted himself on the floor in front of her. “And you have yet to tell me what you want. Do you have plans for another room? Another garden? Perhaps a pool that will put Pharaoh’s to shame?”
“We are not working today.” She drew in her cheeks until her lips formed a rosette, then blew him a kiss. “I’m in the mood for poetry, Paneah. Read to me from the scroll you’ll find on my bed.”
He gave her a faintly re
proachful glance, then crossed to the bed. He lifted the scroll and began to unroll it, but Sagira draped herself across the bed and propped her head on her hand. “Sit while you read,” she ordered. “I am not comfortable with you standing over me like a vulture.”
He sighed and sat on the edge of her bed, facing the wall. “Is there anything sweeter than this hour?” he read, the sound of music in his voice. Sagira turned onto her back and folded her arms, hoping the words came from his heart and not just his lips.
,!For I am with you, and you lift up my heart—
For is there not embracing and fondling when you visit me and we give ourselves up to delights?
If you wish to caress my thigh, then I will offer you my lips also—they won’t thrust you away!
Will you leave because you are hungry?
I can satisfy your hunger!
Will you leave because you need something to wear?
I have a chestful of fine linen!
Glorious is the day of our embracings;
I treasure it a hundred thousand millions!
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Paneah turned. “What is wrong?”
“Ah, my Paneah—” she stared at the ceiling “—I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Have I not understood your hurts in the past?”
“You have been the only one who understood—but you cannot understand this.”
“Perhaps I can.” His voice gentled as he offered a smile. “We will not know until you explain the sound of tears in your voice.”
Had any plan ever gone so well? Surely the gods were smiling. “Paneah,” she said, letting her gaze mingle with his, “my heart breaks because I am a young woman who will never bear a son.”
He turned as if afraid to broach this personal topic, but she pushed herself up and placed her hand on his back. He could not escape her now.
“Potiphar is more feeble than you know,” she went on, hurrying so he could not question her. “I am young and yearn to suckle a baby.” She spoke the honest truth now, and felt reckless with power. Why not be honest with him? The star of ambition burned bright in his character and the prophecy; perhaps he would seize her dream as his.
“Mistress—Sagira—”
“The royal blood of the pharaohs flows through my veins,” she said, slipping off the bed, “and the child I could have will someday be pharaoh of Egypt.” She crossed to Paneah and knelt at his feet, then placed her hands on his knees. “If the gods decide to destroy Amenhotep’s house, I will be the heiress, the embodiment of Horus, the Lady of Heaven. My husband will be Pharaoh, and our child will be the greatest ruler in the world.”
His eyes held a teasing light; he did not understand the significance of the truth she had just revealed. “Potiphar would not accept the double crown, Sagira,” he said, gently gripping her hands. “Has Ramla filled your head with these silly visions?”
She clung to him. “The gods themselves have spoken. I will have a child, Paneah, sired by the man I love.”
“Potiphar will be pleased.”
“Not Potiphar.” His eyes were as unreadable as water; she yearned to look into his soul and see what thoughts stirred there. An indulgent smile rested on his lips, and his hands kept her at a distance even though she leaned toward him, drawn by his masculine power. “Not Potiphar,” she repeated, swaying as he held her. “My son will spring from the loins of the man who has stolen my heart from its rightful owner.”
The meaning of her words took hold. His gaze traveled up and down her as his face flooded with color, then he tried to rise. “Mistress, you do not know what you are saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” she said, rising before he could escape. She sat in his lap and wound her arms about his neck. “Today, Paneah, you and I will share everything we should have been sharing for the many months we have known each other. Have you not noticed that I adore you? I admire the curve of your mouth, I appreciate the gentleness in your eye, I idolize the graceful strength of your hands.”
“This is not right,” he said, struggling in her grasp. “I cannot—”
“Have you never had dreams of greatness, Paneah?” She lowered her head and murmured into his ear. “In divining your future, Ramla has foretold that one day every knee in Egypt will bow to you.” As if she had struck a chord, his resistance eased.
Sagira exulted at this first sign of victory. “Have you dared to dream as high as Pharaoh’s throne?” she continued, feeling his heart pound beneath her palm. “The way to your destiny lies in my arms. How sweet this path is, my love! How gentle the gods are with us! Imagine it, my god in flesh, kings and queens from the world over will bow before your throne. As the divine son of Osiris, even the sun and moon will bow before you!”
Sagira smiled in triumph when he gasped. Pride had paved the way to his heart, and ambition would propel him into her arms. He had never considered the possibilities she might lay before him. She had already made him the most respected man in Thebes, slave or free, but she had much more to offer.
In one deft movement, she stood and slid her fingers to the catch of the concealing robe on her shoulders. The heavy garment slipped to the floor like a pool of blood at Paneah’s feet, and she stood before him as exposed and vulnerable as a newborn baby. He gasped and closed his eyes, confusion and torment warring on his lovely face.
Playing the game with purpose, she ran a finger over his chest, then hooked it beneath his kilt’s waistband. She could feel the warmth of his nearness as he shifted in an effort to escape. “Why should you pretend to resist me now?” she said, running her lips over the smooth skin of his cheek. “I am your mistress, my love, and I command you to kiss me.”
His pace of his breathing increased, but whether from passion or pride she could not tell.
“Sagira,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, but this was not the time for talking.
“Lie with me, Paneah.” Her hand tightened around the fabric of his kilt. “Give me a son. The day is ours alone, and the night as well.”
Desire, primitive and potent, poured through her veins, the fires within her shooting upward and outward as she pressed him toward her bed.
“No!” Yosef lunged forward, unceremoniously dumping his mistress onto the floor. He moved to the wall and pressed his hands to his head, struggling to regain his perspective. His senses throbbed with the feel and scent and textures of her, but what she was suggesting, no, demanding, was wrong. He was man enough to admit that his common sense skittered into the shadows every time she touched him in that tantalizing way, and she had no business wearing that dress before anyone but her husband.
For an instant he had believed her, had almost followed her into the lunatic fantasy of ambition that extended to the throne of Egypt. When she mentioned the sun and moon bowing before him, he had wondered if God had sent her as the fulfillment of his old dream.
But this devilish swirling heat inside his veins could not be part of God’s plan. She was another man’s wife, and something dark shadowed her moves and motives. Even though her touch could make him forget who and what he was—
She had not given up, but rose from the floor like a determined tigress, eyeing him with a look of scorching intent. “I can fulfill your dreams. You cannot escape me, Paneah, the house is empty. I know some silly shred of honor makes you regard your duty to Potiphar, but he has never been a husband to me. He cannot be. He was wounded in a battle long ago—”
He put out a hand to ward her off. “Don’t.”
She shivered and kept coming, as if his prohibition had excited her. He slid along the wall, moving toward the doorway, yet still she came, slowly, seductively, because she knew he was watching. “I hate to assume the man’s role and pursue you,” she said, her voice low and promising, “but there can be no other way, my dear love. Lie with me, Paneah, and be the real master of the mistress.”
He wanted to look away, but she might pounce. “I won’t do this t
hing, Sagira,” he said, injecting a note of authority into his voice. “It would be a sin against God and against Potiphar. You cannot command me—I would suffer a whipping first.”
“I wouldn’t mar this golden skin with a whip,” she said, reaching for him. The touch of her hand burned his flesh, and he gasped as she grappled with the fabric of his kilt.
“Sagira—”
“Don’t struggle, beloved.”
“God, help me!”
She laughed and Yosef pulled away, but she clung to his garment with all her strength. A ripping sound rent the air, fresh air slammed against bare skin, and then he was out of her chamber. Reaching the corridor, he turned to run for his room, then he realized she’d go there first, seeking him. She would hunt him down until she found him, for he had never seen such determination in the eyes of any living person. She would look for him everywhere, searching the garden and even the kitchen, but she was too fastidious to accost him in the stockyard.
Without thinking further, Yosef turned and sprinted for the cattle pens.
“Paneah!” Sagira called, mimicking the singsong way mothers call their young children. She held up his kilt in case he happened to be watching. “I have something that belongs to you! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
She moved through the bedchambers and the great hall, but no sign of him could she see. He was being coy, merely playing a game. Men liked to be the hunters, not the hunted, and perhaps she had surprised him with her sudden declaration. But the day was yet early, and if she let him find her…
She walked through the kitchens, idly running her hand over the bowls and pottery, hoping he would step out of the shadows and claim her. She walked more briskly through the servants’ quarters, wondering if he had found the courage to replace his kilt, but he did not appear. He was not in the garden, on the porch or in her women’s quarters.