by Angela Hunt
An hour passed. Yosef’s eyes felt sandy and his bones ached. Grief throbbed in his soul. God had not spoken. Perhaps God would not forgive. Certainly the dreams would never be fulfilled, for he would remain in this pit forever, a victim of his own pride and foolishness.
He wanted to die, to lie under the desiccating orb the Egyptians called Re until nothing remained but a hollow shell of the promise he used to be.
Woe unto those who go down to Egypt.
He had not heard the voice in years, but he recognized it instantly. His eyes flew open as the hairs on his arms lifted.
Woe unto those who go down to Egypt and do not look to the Holy One of Yisrael. When pride comes, then comes dishonor, but with the humble is wisdom. Return to him from whom you have defected, O son of Yisrael, and like a hovering bird the Lord of hosts will protect you. He will protect and deliver you; He will pass over and rescue you.
El Shaddai had not forsaken him. Yosef covered his face with his hands. Tears of relief came in a rush so strong they shook his body.
“Potiphar!”
Khamat, warden of Potiphar’s prison, waved from the gate. Reluctantly, Potiphar slowed his step. Since Paneah’s imprisonment he had avoided the jail, not wanting to remember his steward’s disloyalty. The memory of Paneah’s stricken face still troubled his sleep.
“What is it?” He turned to face Khamat. “I have business inside the house.” Indeed he did, for problems had erupted like troublesome weeds ever since Paneah’s departure.
“Surely you would like to visit the prison, master. It has been nearly a month since your last inspection and I wondered—”
“I trust you, Khamat. Things cannot have changed so much.”
He turned to leave, but the warden’s next words made him halt in mid-step. “If the steward troubles you, you do not have to look at him. He remains in his cell, far from the others.”
Potiphar set his jaw and bit down an urge to slap the man for making such a presumptuous remark. But everyone knew he felt guilty about Paneah. The entire household still buzzed with gossip about the steward’s arrest, and the once-unified team of slaves had divided into quarreling factions. Most of the men thought Paneah guilty, for they understood the urges of a virile youth and had often remarked on the friendship between the steward and his mistress.
Potiphar had noticed the situation, too. He had encouraged the relationship because he knew Sagira was lonely, but he believed his wife regarded Paneah with a feeling akin to the paternal affection he felt toward the young man.
The female slaves, including Sagira’s handmaids, took Paneah’s part in the debate. He was too beautiful, they insisted, to take by force what any woman on the estate, including the mistress, would have willingly given him. Sagira, the rumors said, had yearned for the steward like a child longs for a dangerous toy, pursuing him with an odd mixture of contempt and desire.
But the rumors would not change Paneah’s fate. A noblewoman’s word was sufficient to convict a slave of anything. Even if Potiphar had found cause to doubt his wife, the tear-stained kilt in her hand had sealed the slave’s sentence.
What was he thinking? Potiphar clenched his teeth as he considered Paneah’s blunder for the thousandth time. Sagira is charming, she is lovely in her way, she has a way of making a man feel important—
But Paneah should have known better than to fall into her trap. And now Potiphar must support his wife, for to do otherwise would be tantamount to admitting that he had driven her to seek pleasure in the arms of a slave.
Khamat discreetly cleared his throat, bringing Potiphar back to reality. “The prison, my lord?”
“The steward does not disturb me,” Potiphar answered, tossing the words over his shoulder. “He is no longer my property, but the king’s prisoner. If anyone must worry about him, let it be Amenhotep.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Take your turn, my wife.”
When eleven-year-old Prince Abayomi shifted impatiently on his chair, Tuya forced her attention back to the game board. Her small hound figurines stood in imminent danger of being devoured by her husband’s ivory jackals, so she rolled the painted wands on the wooden board. “Three squares, my husband,” she said, moving one hound out of the pack and around the circular path. “In a moment my hound will be chasing you.”
The royal mouth frowned, but the boy picked up the wands and rattled them enthusiastically. The young prince had inherited his father’s long and straight limbs, but his mother’s pale beauty had softened the dark eyes that glared from Pharaoh’s visage. Abayomi’s quick smile was set in the midst of a durably boyish face that either twinkled with mischievousness or glowed in the mystic contemplation of a daydreamer. Like his elder brother, his head had been shaved but for a princely lock of long hair growing from his right temple.
That lock quivered like a snake as he rattled the wands. “By the powers of Osiris and Amon-Re, I command double sixes!” he cried, throwing the wooden sticks. One of the carved wands skittered across the board and landed in Tuya’s lap. Amused, she tossed it back. “A five,” she said. “You may catch one or two of my hounds, but I shall escape you yet.”
Abayomi frowned and fingered his game pieces, trying to decide how best to move his jackals, and Tuya smiled at him with tolerant affection. The all-consuming grief that had covered her like a mantle in the first year of her marriage had eased somewhat. Though a weight of sadness lay on her thin face, few things now touched the secret pool of sorrow within her.
For two years the boy-prince had been her husband. Shortly after their marriage Tuya realized Abayomi had asked for her because he considered her a pretty possession, a beautiful companion to sit by his side, listen to his dreams and play his board games. He was yet too simple and immature to realize that dashed dreams and disillusionment had left her heart a shell, but he was kind and good-natured. He might have sensed her sorrow, for he took great pains to make her smile. At first his frantic efforts to please left her bewildered; in time the mere sight of him gaping up at her was enough to make her laugh. He fancied himself a good husband, often bringing gifts: a golden necklace, a kitten, a bowl of candied dates.
As the wife of a royal son, Tuya had her own apartment in the palace, a bevy of handmaids to do her bidding, the use of a chariot whenever she wished and a wardrobe box filled with the most lovely garments she could have ever imagined. Her husband filled his days with training and games, and called for her in the early evening. She dined with him in his chamber, nodding at his stories, laughing at his jokes and smiling at his compliments. Often they played a board game after dinner, or Abayomi would entertain her with a demonstration of his skills in sword fighting or archery. Every once in a great while, when especially tired or weary, he would invite her to remain with him throughout the night.
Because he was yet a child, Tuya realized that these invitations to join him in the royal bed were pleas for companionship. She often thought no life was as lonely as the one to which a royal prince was born, for though tutors, warriors, servants and counselors surrounded him, Abayomi had no true friends or confidants. His secrets were too exalted to be shared with common, less divine folk, and his dreams too sacred to be entrusted to anyone but a wife.
And so, in a vague imitation of his father and his elder brother, Abayomi wrapped his arms about his wife’s neck and emptied his soul of its burdens, secrets and joys. And Tuya, her heart stirred with compassion and maternal tenderness, stroked the young prince’s brow and resolved that though she might never be truly happy, she would always be grateful. The strong arm of Montu had not been able to restore her to Yosef, but it had kept her from Pharaoh’s harem.
“Aha!” Abayomi’s cry jolted her from her thoughts. “My jackals have killed all but one of your hounds, wife.”
“Yes, my lord,” she replied, scanning the game board. “As always, you have won the game. My single hound cannot escape a pack of jackals.”
“Shall we play again?” Already he was resetting
the game pieces into their positions.
“I am tired, my husband.”
“Please, Tuya? If you will play, I will tell you the news of the court.”
She shook her head. “I have no interest in people who do not concern me.”
“But this is news you will want to hear. It concerns Potiphar—the man who brought you to my father.”
“I see the captain of the guard every day in your father’s audience chamber. He cares nothing for me, nor I for him.”
“But this news—” Abayomi leaned forward and glanced left and right as if telling a great secret “—concerns the man’s wife. Lady Sagira has accused Potiphar’s steward, the chief slave in the house, of attacking her.”
“She lies!” The words slipped from Tuya’s mouth without conscious thought.
Abayomi shook his head. “The lady presented evidence. The slave’s garment was in her hand, yet the man was foolish enough to step forward and contradict her.”
In a rush of bitter remembrance, Tuya saw Yosef’s confident smile. I can handle Sagira even as I have handled Potiphar all these years…
He hadn’t been able to handle either of them.
“Is it possible,” she whispered, “that the steward spoke the truth?”
Abayomi leaned back in his chair. “They say he came forward with only a scrap of a feed bag to cover himself. Apparently his guilt compelled him to run from his crime, but he could not go naked into the streets, for they were crowded with people celebrating the festival of Opet. Potiphar heard the evidence and sentenced the slave on the spot.”
Tuya’s hand rose to her throat. Ramla’s prediction had come true, after all. Sagira had seduced her handsome slave. Perhaps even now her womb stirred with Yosef’s child. And after accomplishing her victory, she had thrown Yosef out of the house and accused him of an act for which the penalty was death.
Tuya’s hands and feet felt as cold as the tomb. “The slave is—dead?”
Abayomi propped his gangly brown legs on a footstool. “Potiphar sentenced him to prison. Apparently he maintained great affection for this steward, and did not wish to see him die.”
A mingling of relief and dread rushed over Tuya. Yosef’s unseen god had spared his life, for any other husband would have killed an accused slave on the spot. But prison! She lowered her gaze and shuddered as she recalled Potiphar’s jail. The place had lain behind the wall of the house, a desolate strip of red stone buildings and reed-covered pits from which she had often heard the agonized screams of Pharaoh’s prisoners…
“My husband,” she said, feeling limp with weariness, “the night waxes old and I am tired.” I want to weep. I want to close my eyes and cry for the noble Yosef I once knew, the man who would not betray his god or his father, the one who loved purely and honestly…
But that man had vanished forever, replaced by a cheapened Paneah who would spend the rest of his life in prison. She would mourn for Yosef; she would water her bed with tears for what might have been. Please, Montu, please let my husband dismiss me…
Abayomi leaned forward. “One more game, Tuya, please. One more, and then we shall sleep.”
Obediently, Tuya gathered the painted wands.
Potiphar’s garden was dense with trees and leaves and blue shadows, and Tuya moved through it as if she had wings. Floods of cornflowers lined the tiled walkway, a blurred and heady bunching of color from potted and earth-sown plants. She felt happy and relaxed, for she had escaped the walls of the palace for an hour of rendezvous with Yosef.
Lowering herself to the ground under an acacia tree, she gazed up through the sun-shot leaves and waited. The turquoise sky brimmed with gold radiance, but nothing could match the beauty of the man she loved.
“Tuya.”
He stood before her, awash in the sun’s golden light, his eyes snapping with joy. With sure steps he crossed the garden and knelt at her side, his hand lifting her chin, his arm encircling her. Tremors of rapture caught in her throat as he whispered her name; she closed her eyes and gasped in an attempt to still the wild pounding of her heart. She trembled in his arms, fire racing along every sinew of her body, and then his lips touched the moist hollow of her throat.
“Yosef.” She reached for him, but her hand closed on empty air.
Stunned, she opened her eyes. She sat alone in a leafless garden where a hot, whining wind hooted her name. Somewhere far away, a woman laughed in derision.
She woke herself with weeping and shuddered in the darkness, terrified by the persistence of her dreams.
With careful deliberation, Khamat let the rope slide through his fingers and into the pit. He’d placed an extra slice of brown bread and a shat cake into the steward’s bucket. The prisoner had not eaten in seven days, and death would soon claim him if his appetite could not be tempted and awakened.
“If it please you, my lord, hear me.” Startled by the strong voice, Khamat leaned forward to peer into the pit, wondering if he had approached the wrong cell.
The Hebrew slave was emaciated, but alive. He sat on the ground with his legs crossed and his arms resting on his knees. Through the glistening skin Khamat could count the man’s ribs. “Speak.”
The bearded face lifted and dark eyes flitted over Khamat’s face. “If it please you—” The slave paused as if gathering his courage. “Would you ask the captain of Pharaoh’s bodyguard to grant me an audience? I would like to speak to my master Potiphar.”
“Potiphar says you are no longer his concern,” Khamat answered. The slave’s mouth was slack with submission, but his eyes glittered with resolve. Khamat had heard that this Paneah possessed a keen intelligence, and cunning and desperation were a dangerous brew. If this humble pose was not sincere, those eyes might flash with murder and rebellion when the jailer turned his back…
“If he will not see me, perhaps you will relay my message,” the slave called. “I would speak to Potiphar not as his favored steward, but as the king’s prisoner, one worthy of death. I will not ask for pardon. Even though I am innocent of the charge for which I am imprisoned, I am guilty of a grave error—most grave.”
Without rising at all, the prisoner’s voice took on a subtle urgency. Khamat leaned forward to hear better.
“I would ask Potiphar,” Paneah continued, “not for release or pardon, but for a duty. I served in his house, and would like permission to work in his prison. Let me wait on these who have sinned against Pharaoh so I may learn…humility.”
Khamat gaped into the pit. Serve the prisoners? No man wanted to serve prisoners! This place held only those who were beneath idiots, beneath slaves, even beneath prisoners of war. No, this request could not be sincere; the man had to have a hidden motive. Perhaps the cramped conditions of the pit had worked on his nerves. Perhaps he looked for an opportunity to escape…or to return to the house to take vengeance on the lady Sagira.
“If you were to do what you propose,” Khamat hedged, testing the waters, “you would not be transferred from this pit. After your work, when you had cleaned the cells of the others, you would find yourself back here again.”
“It matters not where you confine me,” the prisoner called, shrugging. “Do with me as you will.”
“I would watch you like a hawk watches the rabbit, with a whip and sword in my hand. The gates and doors would be locked. There will be no opportunity for escape.”
Paneah lifted a dark brow. “Was it not I who ordered that the wall be made higher?” He smiled as if he had been reminded of something, then lifted his hands. “Use your whip, warden, even your sword, if you see a single sign of pride or rebellion cross my face.”
Khamat paused. He had never thought to employ one of the prisoners as a servant, but the idea was delightful. Potiphar usually assigned the prison’s cleaning detail to members of his guard whose misdeeds warranted disciplinary action; when there were no rebels Khamat himself had to empty slop buckets, bandage festering wounds and carry the dead from the cells in which they breathed their last. Why not u
se a slave to do a slave’s work? The idea was logical. If the man disobeyed, no one would mourn him.
“I will speak to the captain,” Khamat promised.
Two days later, pressed by his warden, Potiphar stood at the lip of Yosef’s cell and barked out a greeting. Dazed by the familiar sound, Yosef scrambled to his feet. “Master?”
“I am your master no more,” Potiphar said, his face lined with a scowl that did not quite reach his eyes. “Speak, slave, for my patience is limited.”
“Thank you for coming,” Yosef called up, wiping his hands on his kilt. Now that his master stood before him, the eloquent words he had prepared slipped from his mind like water through his fingers.
“This is not a social meeting,” Potiphar called. Behind him, Khamat peered over the captain’s shoulder, and Yosef knew the warden must have had difficulty convincing Potiphar to come.
“Master Potiphar,” Yosef answered, finding his tongue. “I would ask your permission to serve your warden.”
“Indeed.” Potiphar’s dark eyes raked Yosef’s face. “My warden says you have admitted your guilt in this crime.”
“Guilt, no,” Yosef answered, slowly feeling his way. The urge to reveal Sagira’s role in the situation gnawed at his heart, but Yosef knew that temptation sprang from pride. His task was to align his own soul with God’s purposes, no one else’s.
“I admit—” he fixed his gaze to Potiphar’s “—that the voice of ambition encouraged me to lift my head above my station. I listened to those who praised my efforts in your household, and took those voices too seriously. I was nothing but a slave, a reflection of God’s wisdom, the instrument of his will. A slave has no right to claim honor and praise as I did. My god has pronounced his judgment on me, and he has brought me to admit the error of my ways. My faults are mine alone. My successes have sprung from the hand of God.”
“Your pious babbling means nothing to me, Paneah. You know I judge men by common sense and loyalty. If you will not admit your guilt, why have you called for me?”