by Angela Hunt
“Trust?” She could not keep a shade of bitterness from her laugh. “I don’t know how. I know your god is powerful. I’ve seen him preserve life.” She wanted to add, but since he has kept us apart, my heart wonders if he is truly good! She bit back those words and finished in a level voice: “You can trust in this, my Yosef—I have never loved another man the way I loved you.”
Like the ripple of an underground spring, compassion stirred in his eyes. “Do not be sad, Tuya. God will not leave you alone. You must trust him to provide for your needs—”
“You keep using that word!” she hissed. “I want to trust, Yosef, throughout my entire life I’ve searched for one person who would remain with me no matter what. But there is no constancy in this world! I thought I could rely on you, but you wouldn’t believe my warning about Sagira! And now, through a miracle, we face each other once again and my head tells me one thing while my heart screams something else. I know we cannot be together, but what am I to do with the unspent love in my heart?”
He locked his hands behind his back as his dark eyes moved away from hers. “Faith is the heart of the mind,” he answered. “Despite the feelings of your heart and the reflections of your mind, trust God to work for your good.”
“I see. I should trust El Shaddai to take care of me, so you will no longer be bothered by dreams.” She jerked her chin upward. “So be it. Fret not for me or my son, Zaphenath-paneah. I will not be unfaithful to Pharaoh in thought or deed. I will not ask for the loyalty you wish to give your wife.”
She nodded and pivoted on the ball of her foot, then stopped as a sudden thought whipped into her mind. “Priests for the ancient gods offer spells to destroy our enemies. Has the Almighty God a ritual to destroy this enemy love? Perhaps he will have mercy on me and rid my heart of this troublesome feeling.”
“The Lord God does not engage in magic. But he often works in ways we cannot understand. My father, for instance, used to tell the story of my great-grandfather Avraham and his much-beloved son, Yitzhak.” He spoke slowly, as if he dictated to scribes who were recording every word. “Yitzhak was the son of Avraham’s old age, but El Shaddai commanded Avraham to offer the boy as a sacrifice.”
Despite her own turmoil, Tuya felt a whisper of sympathy run through her. “Your god would command such a thing?”
“You asked if he would destroy love,” Yosef said, sinking into his chair. He looked at her with a level gaze. “Judge for yourself. Avraham obeyed, placing his total trust in God. He risked everything he held dear, certain that God would not kill the one he loved. He was convinced God would raise the boy from the dead if necessary.”
“Did the child die?”
Yosef tented his fingers. “Avraham climbed to the chosen mountain, gathered stones for an altar and embraced his son before binding the boy’s hands and feet. He placed Yitzhak on the wood for a burnt offering and lifted his dagger to strike his son.”
His voice softened as he gazed into private space. “But the angel of the Lord stopped Avraham’s hand. A ram, caught in the thicket, was offered as the sacrifice instead of the boy.”
Tuya frowned, unable to understand the point of the story. “If your god is all-mighty and all-knowing, why did he test this Avraham?”
“Avraham was not put to the test.” Yosef looked up at her with an invitation in the depths of his eyes. “God was. Avraham tested the strength and goodness of El Shaddai. He learned that no one can live in doubt when he has prayed in faith.”
Tuya considered the story. If any god asked her to sacrifice her son, she’d retreat, refuse, run away. Yosef was the only person in the world who belonged to her. She wouldn’t surrender him even to the Almighty One.
As anxious as a child who has stumbled on something she doesn’t understand, Tuya bid Yosef a hasty farewell and swept from the reception hall.
Two nights later, Pharaoh came to Tuya’s chambers. He played for a few moments with Yosef, then motioned for the child’s nurse to take the boy away. When they had gone, he sank onto the couch in the front room of Tuya’s quarters and patted the empty space next to him. “So, my wife,” he said, waiting for her to sit, “we have not spent much time together in the last few months. And it occurs to me that lately I have not told you how beautiful you are.”
“Dear Pharaoh,” she murmured, ducking his embrace as she bent to pick up one of Yosef’s paddle dolls. “There has been no time. You spend more time with your new vizier than with me or your son—”
“He is a marvel, isn’t he?”
“Our son? I have always thought so.”
“I meant the vizier. He is so wise! For months the priests of Ptah in Memphis have badgered me about a territorial conflict, but Zaphenath-paneah heard their complaint and settled their dispute in an hour. The plan for storing the harvest is well-begun, and the Nile-readers from Elephantine have predicted the flood will be high this year. The land will be green this spring, and the abundance will be great—”
“Hush.” Tuya sat, tucking one leg under her body, and leaned toward her husband, playfully pressing her finger over his lips. “I have already heard about the bountiful crop we will have. The entire palace is buzzing with talk of Zaphenath-paneah.”
“He is a wonder.”
“Would you choose anyone less than wonderful for your vizier? Now, let’s talk about your temple or the work at Karnak, anything but Zaphenath-paneah.” She dropped her hands and folded them in her lap, aware that Tuthmosis’s eyes had narrowed. “Is something wrong, my husband?”
He squinted at her as color flooded his face. “Did you know him when you lived in Potiphar’s house?”
Fear spurred her heart to beat unevenly. He had merely asked a question, this was not an interrogation, and yet she felt her face stiffen. What had he heard? Someone must have told him of her visit to the vizier, of the whispered conversation, of the dismay on her face when she fled Yosef’s presence. She must sort out her thoughts and impose order before she could answer, but she had no time for anything but simple honesty.
“Yes.” She met his direct gaze. “I knew him.”
“Did you love him?”
By all the gods, who had he talked to? Tuya closed her eyes, searching for a way to tell the truth without wounding the young man who was as vulnerable as he was powerful. He had been a child during the time she loved Yosef, and even though she carried the memory of that love in her heart, her passion did not burn with the intensity it once had…
She turned to lace her arms about Tuthmosis’s neck. “Do you love me, husband?”
He drew back as if the question offended him. “You know I do.”
“Do you love Queen Mutemwiya?”
He gave her an impenitent grin. “You shouldn’t ask such things.”
“I have known you forever, I can ask anything. So…do you love Queen Mut?”
His mouth tipped in a grudging smile. “A little.”
Tuya traced his brow with her finger. “And the girls from the harem, do you love them?”
“Tuya, that is not a fair question. A king should not show partiality.”
“Then I have my answer. You love all of us, my husband, but in different ways.”
The king’s smile flattened. “What has this to do with my vizier?”
She feathered her hands over his chest. “Yes, my husband, I knew Zaphenath-paneah when he served in Potiphar’s house. I loved him. And then I entered the palace and married you. I love you in a different way, for you are my king, my husband, and the father of my son, who is dearer than life to me. And so, though I once loved Zaphenath-paneah, my love for you gives breath and purpose to my life.”
She pressed her cheek to the flesh over his heart, hoping her words would assuage his doubts. He remained silent for a long moment, then she felt his lips brush her hair.
He rose from her bed early the next morning. “As soon as Zaphenath-paneah’s trial is settled, we shall go down to Memphis and visit the temples,” he said, stretching in the dim light o
f the room. “Would you like to come?”
“A trial?” Tuya echoed, trying to throw off lingering wisps of sleep. “What trial?”
Tuthmosis adjusted the striped linen headpiece he wore while within the palace. “The high priest has suggested that my vizier might be more respected if his name were cleared. Today we shall summon those who had him imprisoned. I shall render my judgment and the gods shall acquit the innocent and condemn the guilty.”
“Those who had—” Tuya sat up, wide awake. “You will call Sagira and Potiphar as witnesses?”
“I will call Potiphar as the judge, and his wife as the accuser. Since the captain of my guard must report to my vizier, I am certain Potiphar will be relieved when Zaphenath-paneah is acquitted.” He released a sympathetic chuckle. “Surely the captain feels awkward accepting orders from a man he sentenced to prison.”
Tuthmosis strolled out of the room as if this day were like any other, but Tuya sprang out of bed and slipped into a morning dress, then clapped to summon her maids. High drama would visit Pharaoh’s court today, and Tuya wanted to look her best. Like wasps shaken from their winter sleep, every noble in Thebes would swarm around the royal court.
The summons came before the Boat-of-Millions-of-Years had reached its zenith in the sky. Potiphar read the message with a quick glance, then let the scroll fall onto the dusty floor of his once-elegant villa.
So it had come to this. For two months he had dismissed the knowledge that his men snickered behind his back, but now the rumors would be publicly confirmed. Pharaoh’s gallant Potiphar, who wore the Gold of Praise and commanded Tens of Thousands, had been duped by his wife. His temper had condemned an innocent man to a lifetime of imprisonment. Worst of all, since Pharaoh had declared that a divine spirit rested in the vizier, Potiphar had imprisoned a god.
“How was I to know?” Potiphar mumbled, looking around at the hall that had once been one of the loveliest rooms in Thebes. The furniture lay broken and soiled, the gardens and fields outside were withered and scorched. Few servants tended to the villa, for most had been sold to satisfy Sagira’s gambling debts. The breath of blessing that arrived with Paneah departed with him, too.
At first Potiphar blamed his troubles on Sagira’s drinking and the excesses of her lovers, but soon the truth would be whispered in every Theban home. “My neglect drove my wife to attempt the seduction of a god,” he whispered, gripping the hilt of his sword until his knuckles whitened. “And now, Sagira, we will both pay for our crimes.”
The message had summoned him to stand before Tuthmosis IV as he had stood before Amenhotep and Tuthmosis III. But instead of praise and honor, today he would hear condemnation from his king: “You, captain of the guard, Appointed One of Pharaoh, have grievously erred. You have stolen six years of an innocent man’s life…”
The young king would not consider the injustice done to Sagira. Whatever her faults, she had married Pharaoh’s choice, expecting a full measure of a husband’s love and attention. She hadn’t even received the full measure of a man.
Horses’ hooves drummed against the dry earth of the courtyard and voices called him to the king’s court. Potiphar straightened his posture and pulled his sword from its sheath. “Hail to thee, Zaphenath-paneah,” he said, bringing the hilt of his sword to his scarred face. “God speaks, he lives! Live in peace, my son Paneah, for I cannot!”
With a defiant flourish, he swung the blade through the air, then he knelt, his knees cracking against the tile floor. Positioning the sharpened point of the blade in a space between his ribs, he saluted his king in a mocking whisper. “Farewell, Pharaoh, my only god.”
Bracing the hilt of the sword against the floor, Potiphar thrust himself forward.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
News of Potiphar’s suicide reached the court just ahead of Sagira. When one of the guards told her the news, she pulled her cloak about her shoulders and warily considered her prospects. Long ago she had dropped any values or dedications beyond her own pleasure, and Potiphar’s death barely penetrated the veil of drunken bitterness that enclosed her.
Strolling into the throne room, she sensed that tide of public opinion had altered. An hour ago most of the nobles had considered her a foolish woman, hardly worthy of notice. But today the crowd in Pharaoh’s great hall thirsted to right the wrong done to Zaphenath-paneah.
Potiphar, who might have borne more than his share of scorn and disgrace, had deserted her. She alone would face the society that now embraced her former slave. The painted faces that turned toward her seemed to whisper outcast, she-devil.
But she would not take Potiphar’s cowardly way out. In the years since Paneah’s rejection she had learned to distance herself from humiliation and pain. Nothing could hurt a cousin of Pharaoh. Royal blood would always flow in her veins.
The revenge-hungry crowd silenced as she walked forward, her mind thumbing through names and faces along the wall. She knew all these people, had drunk at their parties, danced for their entertainment. They had laughed with her, teased her, praised her for her jewelry, her fine clothes, her handsome servants.
She smiled with remembered pleasure. Paneah had liked her, too, despite his resolve to keep her at arms’ length. He had been flattered by her interest, pleased at her attentiveness, honored by her desire to be with him. The memory of that final night shuddered through her mind like an unwelcome chill, but Sagira passed over it and let her mind run backward. She remembered Paneah’s laugh, his awkward attempts to retreat from her embraces, his embarrassed fumbling with papers and pens whenever she happened to run her hand over his honey-colored skin. She had done everything for him because she loved him, and because of the prophecy about the child she had never borne…
She stopped before the golden throne. Pharaoh sat in front of her, looking very much like a teenager, and beside him sat the stern-faced foreign queen. Sagira gave her kingly cousin a brief smile and searched the royal family for Tuya. There! She stood behind a pair of guards, one arm across her chest, the other hanging limply, the pose of an insecure schoolgirl. But her features were still lovely, as handsomely sculpted as the statues of Isis around the temple.
A trumpet blared behind her and Sagira jumped, unused to the sound.
“O Pharaoh, live forever,” someone called. Sagira hugged herself and trembled. Though she had not heard it in years, she knew that voice.
She turned. He stood there, dressed in the robe of a king, with a crown on his head and the Gold of Praise about his neck. Exultation filled Sagira’s chest until she thought it would burst. Paneah, her Paneah, was more beautiful than ever, and today she would tell the world how badly he had wanted her!
Paneah spoke to Pharaoh, and the king replied, but Sagira hardly heard a word, so dazed was she by Paneah’s presence. More magnificent than any mortal man, his very words made the pillars sway and shiver.
Without warning, the vision turned to her and spoke. She blinked and staggered on her feet. “What?” She gazed up at him from beneath the heavy fringe of her wig. “Did you speak, my beautiful one?”
The faces around her tumbled into laughter, but Sagira ignored them. Let them laugh. At last, finally, Paneah stood by her side.
He looked at her with a tinge of sadness in his eyes. “I will repeat the question. Do you still say that I, your slave, attacked you?”
Sagira flattened her smile. How long she had waited for this moment! “Of course you attacked me.” She clenched her hands and leaned toward him. “You were in love with me. You wanted me to bear your son.”
The laughter in the room ceased. Sagira stood in the silence, goading herself with bitterness. He had wanted her! He had kissed her! He had sought her arms for comfort; she had wiped his tears with her hands! She was not so foolish as to throw her pride at a slave, a man who could bring her nothing but heartache!
Paneah turned and said something to Pharaoh, who replied while Sagira played her smile on the assembled crowd. When the doors behind her opened with a sound
like thunder, Sagira whirled to face another ghost from the past. “Ramla!”
The priestess walked forward, amused resentment evident in the slight curl of her upper lip. Tall and formidable, she saluted Pharaoh with a stiff bow.
“Tell us what you know about this situation,” the vizier commanded, and then Ramla’s voice, high-pitched and reedy, echoed in the hall. Her words poured over Sagira like water over a rock, an endless stream that had no meaning. Sagira heard the old prophecy, first spoken when the optimism of youth had colored their lives: You will be remembered through all time…As long as men walk on the earth, they will speak of you. Your memory will be immortal…You will leave an imprint on the sands of time that cannot be erased.
With a sudden gasp, Sagira returned to the present and heard Ramla’s final comment: “She thought she would have a baby to replace the present line of pharaohs.”
Treason!
“She wanted to conceive a child with a slave in order to punish her husband. And she was certain her child would rise to replace Amenhotep’s son.”
I shall die for this!
Pharaoh’s face flushed. “I will hear no more,” he said, his grip tightening around the crook and flail in his hands. “Sagira, wife of Potiphar, I find you guilty of treason, conspiracy and giving false witness against an innocent man.”
The rage in him was a living thing; the assembly quaked before it.
With a visible effort, Pharaoh reined in his temper and addressed his vizier. “I have rendered judgment in your place,” he said, his anger lingering like a dagger that must soon find its way into Sagira’s breast. “But you are the Dispenser of Justice, Zaphenath-paneah. You shall decide this woman’s fate.”
“Pharaoh gives me complete freedom?”
“I do.” The king’s nose was pinched and white with resentful rage, but Sagira kept her eyes fixed on him, not daring to look at Paneah. Undoubtedly a deep-buried fire of anger had kept him alive in prison, and now those flames would consume her.