by Angela Hunt
“You dare question the dying words of a divine king?” Narmer asked.
“I dare question you,” Yosef answered, his words quick and tempered with anger. “And any charge brought before this throne must have witnesses to prove it.”
A murmur of voices, a palpable tenseness, washed through the room.
“Very well.” Narmer’s face settled into determined lines. “I have made investigation into this matter. With the aid of the gods, the pieces have fallen into place, and the picture shall be revealed this night, before this company. Before the sun-god takes his bark to ride across the sky, all you who hear shall know that the child you know as the crown prince—” he pointed at Amenhotep “—is the son of former slaves. Pharaoh, before he died, told me he would surrender his life rather than accept the child forced on him by Queen Tuya and his vizier. They thought to make their illegitimate son into a king of Egypt!”
Tuya felt the room spin as the buzzing grew louder. The claim was ridiculous, but over the years she had seen Narmer insinuate his way into honors and positions far above his rightful station. The dark gods had gifted him with intelligence and cunning.
Queen Mutemwiya rose from her throne, though her hands clung to the armrests as if she stood in danger of collapsing. “Prove this charge,” she cried hoarsely. “Prove this, Narmer, and if you preserve the throne of Egypt from defilement, I will reward you. The people shall praise your name, and you will be honored above all men.”
Narmer bowed as if he had already won his case. “O Queen, live forever. I shall do my best to serve you.”
The litany of accusation began. Quaking beneath Narmer’s fierce gaze, Tuya’s servants testified that they had seen her walk in the garden every morning with the vizier and the prince. One girl admitted fetching Zaphenath-paneah to Queen Tuya’s chambers in the dark of night. The prince’s aged nurse told the crowd that Crown Prince’s baby name had been “Yosef,” the same name by which Queen Tuya addressed the vizier. Abu, the goatherd from Potiphar’s house, told the gathering that everyone in Potiphar’s household knew the steward and Tuya were deeply in love.
As the testimony against her droned on, Tuya felt her anger dissolve into despair. She had not yearned for Yosef in months, but what would that matter now? The witnesses were honest; the essence of the charge was true enough. She had been married to Pharaoh while her heart dreamed of another.
Guilt avalanched over her, burdening her with its weight. She would have collapsed before the company had Yosef not stepped forward. “These charges have nothing to do with the truth,” he said, his elegant voice commanding attention and respect. “You have impugned the right of a prince to his throne. The child was fathered by Pharaoh. During the time of his conception and birth, I was a prisoner in the house of the captain of the guard.”
A smirk crossed Narmer’s face as he opened his hand to the crowd. “I invite Khamat to speak.”
The assembly rippled as an aged man stepped forward. “Khamat was the chief jailer of Potiphar’s prison at the time of our vizier’s imprisonment,” Narmer explained. “He will tell you how Tuya’s son came to be born. Khamat, tell these nobles how you allowed the slave Paneah to come and go at will in your prison. Tell them how you left a rope dangling for him to climb in and out of his pit, how you trusted him completely and in all things.”
The old man glared at Narmer, then he stepped forward and knelt at Yosef’s feet.
Narmer frowned and gestured to guards who jerked Khamat upright. “Speak,” Narmer growled, “and tell the truth. You allowed Paneah to come and go freely, didn’t you?”
“Paneah was righteous and altogether honest,” Khamat said, his voice like gravel. “He wanted to serve others in the jail. But he did not leave the prison.”
“Do you know this for a fact?” Narmer said, scowling. “You kept a rope suspended in his cell. At any time he could have climbed forth. He knew the prison, he knew the house beyond, he knew how to sneak out in the dead of night and return before daybreak. He wormed his way into your confidence, old man, and convinced you that he was a humble servant, but look how he stands before you now!”
The old man glanced at Yosef’s royal garments and the Gold of Praise, then he met Yosef’s gaze. His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “I see a man whom the gods have elevated. I know him as a man in whom the spirit of God resides. He would not commit this evil you speak of.”
Narmer gestured for the guards to carry Khamat away. “The gods will decide his guilt, not you.”
Chike stepped forward. “If Zaphenath-paneah was confined in the prison, how are you to prove these things?”
The captain of the guard paused, then pressed his hands together as if he pondered a weighty matter. “It is said, most high priest, that our kings are divine because the gods visit our queens and plant seed in their wombs,” he said, conviction in his voice. “You will recall that our divine pharaoh recognized the spirit of a god in this one called Paneah. Khamat, foolish old man that he is, has just said the same thing.”
Narmer waved his hands for emphasis. “How can we determine that his spirit did not visit Pharaoh’s wife in her chamber? Look at the boy! He walks and talks like the vizier, he holds his head in the same angle as this foreigner who entered Egypt as a slave! If the act of disloyalty was not accomplished in the physical body, then it was accomplished in the spiritual, for the boy you see before you is the child of the vizier, and not of Pharaoh! It is recorded in the annals that on separate occasions, both the vizier and Queen Tuya came to Pharaoh and asked that the child be betrothed to Queen Mutemwiya in order to secure the succession. But our dying pharaoh decried this act! Restore justice, high priest and counselors, and keep the throne from this illegitimate who has no part in Egypt!”
Chike stepped aside to confer with several priests, but Tuya could see that they were not convinced that Narmer spoke the truth. Yosef himself was a powerful testimony to righteousness, for his visage and posture were regal, and the Egyptians were not eager to criticize those whom the gods had placed over them. But Narmer’s words had cast strong doubt on Yosef’s intentions and Amenhotep’s pedigree.
“Noble Narmer, I have something to say regarding this matter,” Mutemwiya said, standing again. She cleared her throat as if hesitant to speak, then cast her gaze to the ground. “My husband Tuthmosis loved me dearly, and confided in me one night as we lay together. He told me that the gods had told him he would father no children in this life, but his heirs would follow in the life to come. That is why my womb remained empty. As for this boy—”
She gestured toward Amenhotep and shrugged as if to say she did not know from where he had come. Tuya felt her cheeks burn as Amenhotep cringed. By all the gods, this was not right! Her son had done nothing wrong, nor had Yosef sinned. Pharaoh would rise from his grave if he knew what mischief his queen and captain were working on this night—
But if Mutemwiya could speak, so could she. “Can a mother not defend her child?” she called, her voice ringing through the room.
Narmer bowed in elegant hypocrisy. “You have said nothing. We thought you had nothing to say.”
“I have much to say,” Tuya replied, eyeing Mutemwiya with a stern gaze. “Amenhotep, my child, is Pharaoh’s son. I loved Tuthmosis and was faithful to him from the day of our marriage.”
“Do you deny that you loved Paneah?”
“I did love him, once,” Tuya admitted, her voice softening at the memory. “As a young girl loves a young man. But that love faded in the light of adulthood, and in the light of my love for the king.”
“And yet you are friends with Zaphenath-paneah.”
“We are friends. He was a close advisor to Pharaoh, and is a tutor to the prince.”
“Then tell us—” Narmer’s brows lifted the question “—to this day, why does the vizier bring a bowl of lotus blossoms to your chamber? What sweet token of love is this?”
The question brought a hushed silence to the room, and Tuya felt the darkness of grief press down on her. “
My husband’s token,” she said, her voice breaking. “He promised me blue lotus blossoms every morning we were apart. He said the vizier would bring them until he returned.”
A stunned silence followed her declaration, but Narmer broke the hush with a sharp laugh. “Has the king,” he said, turning to Queen Mutemwiya, “ever brought you flowers?”
A scowl crossed Mutemwiya’s face. “Why would a king bring flowers? The king presents his women with gold and jewels. Ask any one of Pharaoh’s wives. This woman lies.”
Narmer turned to Tuya with new fervor in his eyes. He had tasted victory, and knew the end was near. “Tell the truth, if you can. Is the prince a child of the divine pharaoh?”
“Yes.”
“How, then, do you explain his resemblance to the vizier?”
“He looks nothing like Yosef. He is his father’s—”
At the mention of the word Yosef, Narmer held up an interrupting hand. “You have used a Hebrew name, the same name you gave your son as a baby.” He paced before the crowd, his hands thrust behind his back. “I believe, Queen Tuya, that you were unfaithful to Pharaoh. This child, called Amenhotep, was fathered by the Hebrew. While in Potiphar’s house, you fell under the spell of the strange god that resides in this man, and together you plotted to usurp the authority of the gods of Egypt. You have conspired to take the throne from the rightful rulers.”
“No!”
“Then why are there no statues of Horus or Hapi or Osiris in your chambers?” Narmer said, halting before the priests. “Why do you not offer gifts to the gods of Egypt? Tell us, lady, which god you worship.”
The trap had been laid with cunning, and Tuya realized how completely she’d been snared. Treason. Yet unspoken, the word hung over her head like a mist, cutting off her breath. A moment ago she’d been about to hang for the crime of adultery, and now with one false word she would condemn herself, her friend and her son to the gallows.
Merciful God. Why have you allowed this to happen?
When Narmer’s exultant face blurred before her eyes she turned to Yosef. He stood like an oak between two guards, his steadfast confidence reducing them to stumps of manhood. Have faith, his eyes seemed to say. You have trusted the unseen god for others. Now trust him for yourself.
Tuya stared past his face into her own thoughts. All her life she had clung to those she could love: Sagira, Yosef, Amenhotep and Tuthmosis. One by one, her loved ones had vacated her life, leaving her shipwrecked by grief. Yet gently, persistently, the Almighty God had sheltered her, protected her…and brought her to a place where she had no one else to trust. Only him.
A memory opened before her. “Belief is a truth held in the mind, Tuya, but faith is a fire in the heart,” Tuthmosis once told her, explaining why he believed Zaphenath-paneah’s prediction of famine. “My heart burns to know the god who could speak to me in a dream.”
In a breathless instant of release, faith freed her from fear. “I will tell you which god I serve.” She turned to Narmer with a note of triumph in her voice. “I worship El Shaddai, the Almighty God, the creator of heaven and earth. I trust him alone with my life.”
Narmer gasped. “You would cast aside the gods of Egypt?”
“I did not intend to cast them aside,” she answered, “but I have found them helpless. The Almighty God is greater than all and wiser than all. Pharaoh realized this when he lifted Zaphenath-paneah to the position of vizier. God knew Pharaoh hungered after the true god. Therefore God has saved Egypt.”
“Bah!” Narmer turned and gestured toward the priests. “Listen to this one, disloyal to her husband, her king and her kingdom! Look at this boy who would claim Egypt’s throne! See how he favors the vizier, for he has the same beauty and clarity of features—”
“The beauty is his mother’s,” Yosef said, commanding attention with a nod of his head. “As God lives, I have fathered only two sons, Ephraim and Manasseh.”
Narmer scowled at the vizier. “You are not capable of such restraint. There is yet another witness who will testify to your misdeeds. Another voice will prove my contentions and our pharaoh’s dying words.”
In a voice as cold as his eyes, Narmer turned toward the double doors of the throne room. “I call Sagira, widow of Potiphar, to speak to us!”
From the outer hall, Sagira heard the summons and ran her hands over her gown. The doors swung open to admit her, and she blinked, afraid she had forgotten some item of dress in her hurry to answer the midnight summons. Narmer’s messenger had been most explicit—she must appear, she was important, she would be rewarded for her cooperation.
Her knees quivered as she stepped into the room, yet she held her head high. She had not been invited to the palace since Paneah’s trial, and the magnificent room seemed broader and taller and more colorful than she remembered it. Her gaze drifted to the square of inlaid tiles where she had stood under a wedding canopy and received Potiphar as her husband. That memory belonged to another lifetime, to another girl, a younger girl.
The mood of the gathering was somber, the faces around her drawn and tense. In the open space before the throne, Tuya stood between a pair of royal guards like a lily between two watchdogs. Across from Tuya, Paneah stood surrounded by six of Pharaoh’s bodyguards.
Drawn like a moth to a flame, Sagira stared at her former slave. She thought he nodded at her, and the friendliness in his smile puzzled her.
Between the prisoners, Narmer paced like a dog marking his boundaries. He said nothing as she approached, allowing her to make a suitably impressive entrance, and Sagira took advantage of the silence to run her gaze over the crowd. The gathering included half a dozen men and women wearing the shaved heads and the spotless robes of the priesthood, a few nobles, Paneah’s stricken wife and her maids and a remnant of Pharaoh’s guard. A dozen scribes sat in a corner, scribbling to record this event for posterity.
On her gilded chair, Queen Mutemwiya sat regal and composed, while the crown prince hunched on a stool at her feet, his pale face streaked with tears.
Sagira paused at the end of the aisle. To whom was she supposed to bow? Narmer must have sensed her discomfiture, for he launched into a long recitation of her history.
Sagira only half listened as her eyes drank in her surroundings. Everything in sight might have been hers if Ramla had spoken a true prophecy, but the priestess had lied. Sagira would die alone and forgotten, and she would die soon. The disease that had left her barren and bleeding was robbing her of life.
But she was still of royal blood, and by all rights, she should have been included among the family members seated behind the throne. This conviction sent her spirits soaring, and she smiled at the assembled crowd as Narmer finished his speech: “This gentle lady, the widow of Potiphar, can attest to Zaphenath-paneah’s crime. She will prove his words false, for he has never been able to restrain himself when faced with a beautiful woman. He once attempted to force even her, his master’s wife.”
Like a many-eyed creature, the company turned to stare at her. She met their eyes with boldness, determined to face down the rumors that had circulated in Thebes for years. The gossips called her a drunkard, a harlot, a fool, but she was better these days. She was the daughter of a princess, a widow with authority, a woman not to be underestimated.
A pair of mirror-brilliant eyes in the crowd snagged Sagira’s attention. Ramla! The priestess of Bastet stood behind Chike, her clawed hand hidden at her waist, her head inclined as if in mild interest. But from those dark eyes blazed ambition, hunger and zeal.
The priestess nodded, acknowledging Sagira’s gaze, and flashed her brows in a silent signal: Tell them, Sagira, what they want to know, and you will be rewarded. Narmer will allow you to assume your rightful place in the palace, and I will again be your priestess. Can you think we have not heard of your lonely and silent house? Tell them, Sagira. We are waiting.
The intensity of those black eyes left Sagira feeling unsettled. She wrested her attention from Ramla and struggled to find her
voice.
“Well?” Narmer stepped closer. “We are waiting for you to confirm the vizier’s character.”
“Pharaoh has already ruled on these accusations,” Chike interrupted. “The divine pharaoh declared Zaphenath-paneah innocent of all charges.”
“But Lady Sagira did not recant her charge,” Narmer pointed out, his finger wagging like a scolding tutor’s. “What if the vizier’s magic was strong enough to dupe even a god?”
A murmur of wonder rippled through the crowd, and Narmer turned to Sagira again. “We are waiting, Lady.”
“I will speak.” She glanced around. Tuya stood straight and tall between her guards, surprisingly youthful without her heavy wig. How could they have been childhood friends? Though she had only lived thirty-three years, Sagira felt as though she had endured fifty.
Reluctantly, Sagira’s gaze shifted toward Paneah. She expected to see revulsion, hatred, even resignation on his face, for hadn’t she once destroyed him? Like the glorious Phoenix Paneah had arisen from the ashes, but now Narmer had offered a means with which she could crush him again. With a handful of words she could obliterate Paneah’s unfairly favored life, snuff the intelligence from his exquisite eyes and send his soul to the other world. He had to know what she was thinking, that her soul yearned to find significance…for this she would be remembered as long as the Nile flowed.
She lifted her eyes to his. An odd mingling of compassion and curiosity stirred in his face, as though he didn’t care what she might say, but felt pity for her need to say it. Pity! For her? She’d received no pity from the nobles of Thebes, from the women of Pharaoh’s court or even from her servants. Only Paneah and Tuya had ever shown her the slightest bit of sincere compassion or concern. The two most caring people in her life had also been the most loved, the most hated and the most beautiful…
Her blood ran thick with guilt. In quiet serenity Paneah and Tuya stood beside her even now. Sagira had been surrounded by beauty throughout her life, but until this moment she had never realized that the beauty of Tuya and Paneah was not so much a physical manifestation as it was an inner one. The accused man standing beside her bore the fine wrinkles of his age with elegance. Gray hair sprouted from his temples, yet no man in the room was more striking. And though grief had left Tuya’s face haggard and tense, her eyes shone with a peace Sagira had never known. Behind the throne, the ugliness of Ramla’s ambition raised its horrid head, the same prideful zeal that had convinced Sagira to despise the only true friend she had ever known…