Dreamers (17 page)

her misshapen hand was out of place. “A wise woman never

allows competition to exist in the same room.”

The oily tone in Ramla’s voice, so different from Tuya’s

soft responses, brought bile to the back of Sagira’s throat.

“Then why,” she whispered, fighting an impulse to gag, “do

you stay with me?”

The priestess tented the fingers of her good hand against

the deformed digits of the other. “I have seen the future, and

it fascinates me,” she whispered. “You, Sagira, will be immor-

talized in this world as well as in the eternal one. Men will

speak of you for as long as the Nile flows.” Her eyes narrowed.

“I hope to follow in your shadow.”

Yosef found the two women eating fruit in Potiphar’s bed-

chamber. The bride, who looked more child than woman in

the dazzling light of early afternoon, regarded him with a

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frankly admiring glance. The other woman, a tall, slender

creature with the shaven head of priestess, did not lift her eyes

to acknowledge him.

“I am Paneah,” he said, bowing to the stranger. “I assume

you are our mistress’s priestess. A chamber not far from this

one has been reserved for you.”

“I will need it only three months out of four,” the woman

answered, nodding slightly to acknowledge his comment.

“When I am away, I must attend to my duties at the temple.”

Yosef turned to his mistress. She paused with her hand in

the fruit bowl, watching him. “I met you this morning,” she

said, turning so that a bare leg peeked from beneath the sheet

she had wrapped around herself.

“Yes, mistress. You gave me a list of your desires, and we

are hurrying to find the things you need.”

“There is another thing I need,” the girl said, plucking a

grape from the bunch in her hand. She regarded the grape for

a moment, then popped it into her mouth and gave the priest-

ess a one-sided smile. “There is a slave here who does not

please me. I want you to sell her immediately.”

Yosef felt his smile stiffen. His staff had been trained to

be quick, efficient and subtle. How could any of them have

displeased this girl? “Perhaps, my lady, there has been a

misunderstanding.”

“No misunderstanding,” the mistress answered. “The slave

called Tuya is offensive to me. My priestess has suggested that

the gods might be pleased if she were surrendered as an

offering to the temple of Bastet. See to it at once, Paneah.”

Yosef blinked. “Tuya, offensive?”

“Yes.”

“But, my lady, Tuya is capable and strong. She is one of

the master’s favorites.”

“It matters not.” The lady Sagira cast him a bright smile.

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“I want her gone by day’s end, or you will find yourself

sleeping in the slave market tonight.”

Unthinking discipline took over his limbs as Yosef nodded

and withdrew. His feet carried him from the lady’s chamber

into the courtyard. Once he was safely away from his mis-

tress’s eyes, he held his head and rocked back and forth, trying

to regain his sense of balance.

What had happened? He had worked hard, he had found

love. He had hoped God would have mercy, but his soul had

just been torn asunder again. Like any slave, Tuya knew she

could be sold at any time, but she had fallen in love, she was

clinging to the master’s promise. This separation would kill

her…especially since Yosef would have to enforce it.

For the second time in his life, someone dear to his heart

would suffer the deepest throes of grief on his account.

Staggering with the realization, Yosef made his way to

the workroom where he fell on his knees and begged God

for an answer.

Mercifully, the answer came with Potiphar’s arrival. The

master entered the courtyard just as Yosef called Tuya out

from the kitchen, about to break the terrible news. Potiphar

took one look at the stricken look on Yosef’s face and asked

what troubled him.

“My mistress, your wife,” Yosef said, taking pains to keep

his voice under control, “has ordered me to take Tuya to the

temple of Bastet before the sun sets today.”

“By all the gods, why?” Potiphar’s voice snapped through

the courtyard like a whip. “What has the girl done?”

“Nothing, my lord.” Tuya turned horror-filled eyes on

Yosef. “On my honor, I did nothing.”

“I asked our mistress, and she admits Tuya has done noth-

ing wrong,” Yosef told Potiphar. “Apparently the lady’s priest-

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ess thought Tuya would make a favorable offering to the gods.

I was ordered to take Tuya or surrender myself to be sold at the

slave market.” He lifted his chin. “And although it would pain

me to leave you, sir, I would endure such a fate if necessary.”

Potiphar snatched a quick breath, then sent a dark look

toward the house. “You shall do no such thing.” For a moment

he glared at the walls as if he could see the lady within, then

he softened his glance and laid a hand on Yosef’s shoulder.

“You are like a son to me, Paneah, and I would sooner lose a

wife than you. Trust me—neither you nor Tuya will be forced

out of this household as long as you continue to serve me as

you have in the past.”

With his hand on the dagger in his belt, Potiphar climbed

the steps to his house and went to confront his wife.

Though Ramla hovered near when Potiphar entered the

women’s reception room, Sagira thought the iron-willed

priestess cowered slightly before the warrior’s fierce gaze.

“What are you thinking, girl?” he roared, the muscles of

his face tightening into a mask of rage. “I leave you for the

space of a few hours and find that you have already begun to

destroy my household!”

Sagira thrust her chin upward. “The slave Tuya is no

stranger to me. I have known her for years, and know she is

not a suitable ladies’ maid.”

“Then find another girl to be your maid,” Potiphar snapped,

planting his feet as though he intended to fight. “I have twenty

slave girls in this house. Surely one of them can paint your

face. If not one of them, let this one do it!”

He indicated Ramla with a disdainful flip of his hand, and

Sagira saw the priestess’s bosom heave in indignation.

“Ramla is my counselor,” Sagira answered, smoothly ar-

ranging her skirt. “She will not do a slave’s work.”

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“Tuya and Paneah have been in my household over two

years,” Potiphar answered, his voice steadier. “You will not

dismiss them on a mere whim.”

Sagira saw the seriousness in his eyes and decided not to

argue the matter. Instead, she folded her hands and gave him

an obedient smile. “As you say, my lord and husband.”

“And now you will dismiss this one from the room—”

Potiphar jerked his chin toward Ramla “—for I wish to have

a private word with you.”

For an instant Sagira considered arguing that Ramla should

stay, but perhaps it was time she learned to live with the man

she had married. She needed a son, but would never have one

if she made this man her enemy.

“Leave us, Ramla,” she said, hoping her voice was suffi-

ciently regal to impress her husband.

Ramla gave Potiphar a killing look as she moved out of the

room. As her footsteps faded, Sagira threw Potiphar her

brightest smile, but apparently the old dogfish wasn’t hungry.

Potiphar lowered himself into a chair across from her. “I

am glad to talk alone with you.” Obviously uncomfortable,

he took a long, slow swallow, his Adam’s apple sliding up and

down the wall of his throat as if it were made of words he

could not bring forth.

Perhaps he needed help. “What would you like to tell me?”

she asked, crossing her legs so her posture was less formal.

“I am pleased to be your wife, Potiphar. I have heard many

stories of your bravery.”

He shrugged at her words, then drew the back of his hand

across his brow. “I am a man of war,” he finally said, resting

his hands on his knees. “I do not know how to be a husband.

Pharaoh’s favor was a complete surprise, and I must apolo-

gize that you were not better received.”

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“I was well received by all but one.” Leaning forward, she

looked up into his strained face. For the sake of the prophecy,

she would win this man’s heart. “You, Potiphar, did not prop-

erly welcome your bride last night.”

A shudder shook him. He rose from his chair and turned

to face the wall. “I will honor you as my wife,” he said, thrust-

ing his hands behind his back. “But I have no desire to em-

brace you. You are a child, and yet a stranger to me.”

“Surely you want children. Every man wants children.” She

stood and moved toward him until their shadows mingled on

the wall. Even at this slight contact, Potiphar flinched.

“I never thought to have children. I am content to serve my

king.”

She dropped her cool hand on his arm. “Every man needs

an heir.” His muscles were firm under her palm, his waist trim,

his legs sturdy beneath his linen kilt. Though three times her

age, Potiphar was still a striking figure, a husband of whom

she could be proud.

His skin seemed to contract beneath her touch, but he did

not move away. “I thought I would leave my estate to Paneah,”

he said, his throat working. “He has managed it so well—”

“You should not leave your estate to a slave when you

could have a son of your own.” Carefully, tenderly, she lifted

his hand and placed hers under it. His eyes widened at her

boldness, then he tilted his head and examined her as he

might have studied an intricate painting in the temple.

“You are…exceptional.”

“I am your wife, Potiphar, and I could love you if you’d

let me,” she murmured, her voice a silken whisper in the quiet

of the chamber.

She stepped closer and ran her free hand over the bronzed

skin of his chest, feeling rippled scars beneath her fingers.

Three, no, four rough welts lay under her hand; how many

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times had he been injured? She felt the whisper of his quick-

ened breath on her cheek. Surely he would step into her arms—

She pressed her lips to his shoulder, awaiting his shudder-

ing sigh of surrender, but Potiphar abruptly moved away. “I

am sorry, my lady,” he said, his face and neck flooding crim-

son. “But duty calls me to the palace. If you need anything,

call Paneah. I may be gone a few days.”

Before she could open her mouth to protest, Potiphar

whirled and left her alone.

The next morning, Tuya tiptoed through the corridor

outside the master’s chamber, hoping that Potiphar and Sagira

had found happiness in each other’s arms. But a clattering

crash from the chamber drew her upright, then she heard

Sagira’s scream: “I don’t care what his duties are! He can’t

leave me like this!”

Tuya peered around the corner. Ramla sat on the edge of

Sagira’s bed, her arms folded and a dark look on her face.

Both women frowned to see Tuya in the doorway, and the

slave’s pulse quickened when she sensed the hostility in the

room. These women, she told herself, had tried to send her

away. Perhaps she should not have come into the house.

But she’d already been spotted. She stepped into the

doorway and bowed her head. “Is there anything you need,

Lady Sagira?”

“Have you forgotten how to make a proper bow before

your mistress?” Ramla barked.

Tuya dropped to the floor and pressed her forehead to the

cool tile. “Mistress,” she repeated, “is there anything you need?”

“No,” Sagira snapped, her voice a sharp stiletto in the quiet.

“Wait—I will need a maid. Send Paneah to me so I can

describe the sort of maid I want.”

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Tuya nodded and rose to leave.

“Has your mistress dismissed you?” The priestess’s iron

voice drizzled disapproval.

Tuya dropped to the floor again.

“Now you may leave,” Sagira said, her tone flat. “But send

Paneah at once. Do not keep me waiting.”

Chapter Fourteen

Potiphar stayed away for a full ten-day week, then sent a

message instructing Paneah to prepare a comfortable, separate

chamber for Sagira and her maid. The instruction was not

unusual, for most noble ladies lived in separate quarters from

their husbands, but without being told the entire household

knew that Potiphar had been less than enchanted with his new

bride.

In her new chambers, Sagira fumed with frustration and

embarrassment.

Again and again, Potiphar came home and left again, treat-

ing Sagira with the polite interest he might have displayed

toward an esteemed visitor. Often he brought her a trinket, a

piece of jewelry, or the latest court gossip which he shared

over a breakfast tray, but he never returned to the house until

night had fallen and Sagira had retreated to her room. On