Dreamers (25 page)

Because I can’t bear the torture of watching, I can’t stay.”

Chapter Nineteen

“My husband.”

Potiphar was about to oversee the changing of the guard

at his prison, when Sagira’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He

turned, surprised that she would venture into the courtyard in

the heat of the day. “Do you need me?”

She gave him a regal nod. “At your leisure, I would have

a word with you.”

The girl had become a woman of substance and discretion,

and Potiphar’s spirits lifted at the sight of her petite form.

“Gentlemen.” He flashed a killer smile toward his guards. “A

lady needs me.”

While they laughed and watched him go, Sagira gestured

toward the garden path. He fell into step beside her, and she

linked her arm through his as they walked. “I’ve been giving this

matter of our unhappy slave a great deal of thought,” she said,

tilting her dark eyes toward him. “Pharaoh has an eye for beauty,

and I’m sure there are none to equal Tuya in the royal harem.”

Potiphar lifted a brow, following her thought. “She was

destined for the harem when Pharaoh presented her to me. If he

didn’t want her then, how do we know he will want her now?”

192

Dreamers

“She was a child then,” Sagira answered. “Now she has

matured. Pharaoh will be honored to have such a beauty, don’t

you think?”

Potiphar considered her suggestion…and its risks. “I still

can’t imagine why she wants to leave. I thought she and

Paneah wanted to marry. I had promised them freedom in two

more years—”

“Childish infatuations vanish like dew under the sun’s hot

breath,” Sagira said. “Now Tuya and Paneah argue whenever

they catch sight of one another. I believe she wishes to leave

us because she cannot bear to be around Paneah.”

“I suppose I can understand,” Potiphar said, nodding.

“And I am a reasonable man. So be it. I will take Tuya with

me when I go to the palace tomorrow.” He patted Sagira’s

hand. “I have to see to the prison. Is there anything else you

need from me?”

“You have given me everything I need,” she said, giving

him a demure smile. “Thank you, Potiphar.”

Early morning shadows moved through Sagira’s chamber

like stalking gray cats, but Tuya refused to cower when she

entered the room. Her mistress had sent for her before day-

break, and Tuya obeyed, knowing that this summons might

be her last from the poisonous Sagira…as this morning might

hold her last glimpse of Yosef.

Sagira announced her intention right after Tuya entered.

“You are going back to Pharaoh,” she said, glancing at Ramla.

“We will make certain he is pleased with you.”

“We will personally oversee your toilet,” Ramla added,

regarding Tuya with a critical eye.

Tuya stood stock-still as Ramla muttered incantations and

anointed her skin with perfumed oil. Sagira chose a fitted gar-

ment of white linen from her wardrobe, and two handmaids

Angela Hunt

193

sewed Tuya into it while Ramla lowered the straps until the

dress displayed a generous amount of flesh.

Sagira motioned for Tuya to sit, then picked up strands of

her dark hair and began to braid them into thin ribbons. As

her nimble fingers flew, Tuya’s eyes filled with bitter tears of

memory. When they were children, Sagira had often braided

Tuya’s hair in this same way.

While Sagira twined pearls and beads into Tuya’s hair,

another slave lined the girl’s eyes with kohl and colored her

lids with shadows the green color of the Nile. An hour later,

Sagira stood back and admired her handiwork. “Perfect.” She

flashed a white smile at Ramla. “Take her to Potiphar. He

waits in the courtyard.”

Like a sheep led to the butcher, Tuya followed Ramla in

tiny, mincing steps, all she could manage in the tight dress.

She concentrated on walking, for every room of the house

held memories of Yosef, vivid images that closed around her

and filled her with a longing to turn back. When concentra-

tion could not block her recollections, she recited an ancient

spell of forgetting. She did not want to see Yosef or think about

him, but the image of his haunted, pleading face still rose

before her eyes.

The sun had fully risen by the time she reached the court-

yard; the walls of the villa seemed to shudder before her

swimming eyes. Potiphar gave her an admiring glance, then

motioned for her to climb onto the litter that would carry her

to Pharaoh’s palace.

The litter bearers held the conveyance steady as she

perched on the edge and swung her legs up. One more

moment and she would be away. In another hour she could

forget Potiphar’s house had ever existed. The man she had

loved here must not have cared for her too deeply, for he had

not come to say goodbye…

194

Dreamers

A voice from the porch made her cringe in sudden guilt.

“Potiphar!”

Yosef’s voice.

She did not turn around.

“Paneah?” Potiphar shaded his eyes as he looked toward

the house.

Yosef’s light, quick footsteps crunched the gravel. “I

wanted to be sure, master, that you will not reconsider this

action. Tuya is a valuable slave—”

Potiphar held up his hand, then turned toward Tuya. “Do

you want to remain, my dear?” he asked, his voice oddly gentle.

Tuya kept her eyes fixed on the gate and braced her arms

against the litter. “I am ready to leave.”

Potiphar waved in farewell. “She wants to go.”

“One moment, sir,” Yosef called, and then he stood beside

her, love and pain struggling in his eyes. “Believe in me,” he

whispered. “I need you to have faith. When I am free and a

great man, I will find you. I will rescue you from slavery.”

She dared not steal one last look at him. “You were a great

man when I first met you.”

When Yosef did not answer, Potiphar shouted a command

and the litter bearers stepped forward.

After arriving at the palace, Potiphar left Tuya with Kratas,

the eunuch in charge of the harem, then hastened to see that

his guards were in place. Pharaoh’s daily ritual, much like the

routine of the temples’ stone gods, had already begun. The

divine king had been roused by priests singing a hymn of

praise, then the priests had performed his morning toilet, per-

fuming his skin with oil and decking him with royal robes and

Egypt’s red and white double crown. The great king now sat

at breakfast, and would soon be brought into the throne room

to transact business and receive offerings.

Angela Hunt

195

Potiphar paced in the hallway. In that revealing dress and

full makeup, Tuya looked like a different woman, and

Potiphar had been more than a little surprised by his wife’s

generosity. His child bride had matured in the past year. The

last traces of girlishness, uncertainty and puppy fat had

evaporated from her body; she had become a woman of dis-

tinction. Since they had reached an understanding, she no

longer wasted her energy on silly songs and suggestive

dances. She behaved as a modest and mature woman should,

and seemed to know nearly as much as Paneah about running

the estate.

The sounds of music warned him that Pharaoh’s entour-

age was about to enter the throne room. Potiphar straightened,

adjusted the waistband of his kilt and patted the heavy Gold

of Praise about his neck. Any other man would have whis-

pered a prayer to his patron god at the thought of what he was

about to do, but Potiphar only hoped he would find Pharaoh

in a forgiving and generous mood.

“A gift for me?” The royal voice rumbled through the hall

as the king’s pet lion opened his mouth in a noisy yawn, and

several of the queen’s handmaids twittered. Despite the dis-

traction, the queen, the court and even Pharaoh’s sons leaned

forward to see what gift Pharaoh’s captain could have brought.

Potiphar straightened his shoulders. “Yes, divine Pharaoh.

Several years ago you gave me a beautiful child, who has

blossomed into a flower of surpassing loveliness. She has re-

mained untouched and sheltered in my house, and today I

offer her to you. You have given me a house, a bride and the

Gold of Praise. Since you have been so generous to me, I

would honor you today with a gift worthy of a king’s notice.”

Pharaoh frowned for a moment, and the knuckles that

196

Dreamers

grasped the crook and flail whitened as he considered his

captain’s comment. “I am like a man who loans silver to

another,” he finally said, leaning forward. “Today you bring

me the principal amount, plus interest.”

Potiphar bowed his head. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, then.” Pharaoh relaxed and cast a sidelong smile to

Narmer, who remained as close to Pharaoh as a thorn to a rose.

“I suppose, Potiphar, I will be pleased according to how much

interest the principal has earned.”

“Bring forth the gift from Potiphar, Captain of the Guard!”

Narmer called, his eyes dancing with mischievous delight.

Potiphar clasped his hands behind his back and bowed as the

tall doors at the back of the throne room swung open.

Audible gasps filled the throne room as Tuya inched for-

ward. She walked alone through the cavern created by the

opening of the doors, and her white linen dress seemed to

glow with an unearthly light. Her braided hair flowed onto her

shoulders in a soft tide while her graceful neck curved upward

like the sacred ibis taking wing. Her face was as pale as parch-

ment, but her black eyes glowed with inner fire.

Potiphar glanced at the king’s courtier. Narmer would love

to see Potiphar fail in winning the king’s approval, but he was

not the only man who wore the Gold of Pharaoh’s Praise.

Now Narmer gaped like the fool he was, and even Pharaoh

seemed stunned by the sight of Tuya in her glory. Amen-

hotep’s second son, nine-year-old Abayomi, broke the unusual

silence. “Father,” his treble voice rang through the chamber,

“I want her!”

After glancing at his queen, Pharaoh nodded. The king

extended his hand to Potiphar and released his eyes to feast

on Tuya. “I shall accept your gift in my son’s name,” he said,

his voice tinged with regret. “You have more than doubled my

gift, and today you may kiss my hand. This girl shall become

Angela Hunt

197

the bride of Pharaoh’s second son, a royal princess in the land

that has given her birth.”

The crowd of court observers buzzed as Potiphar bent to

press his lips against the jeweled hand.

In the weeks following Tuya’s departure, Sagira was

careful not to push or press Paneah. The date for which she

lived still lay months in the future, and she wanted the slave

to come to her willingly, not out of fear or obedience. She

watched his moods carefully, taking pains to cheer him when

he seemed lonely or praise him when he grew quiet. Most of

all, she kept him busy, knowing he would have neither the

time nor the energy to mourn Tuya’s loss if ambitious projects

and plans occupied his thoughts.

With Potiphar’s blessing, she called Paneah into the women’s

reception hall and described her plans to enlarge the villa and

rebuild the walls. It would be a difficult project, she declared,

but Paneah could undoubtedly master the various aspects of

planning and building. When all was finished, Potiphar would

own a house second only to Pharaoh’s palace in elegance. And

Paneah would be in charge of every detail, from what crops

were planted to what sheets were spread on the beds.

She called him to a table and spread a papyrus roll in front

of him. “I must have a special room,” she said. “See this

drawing? I want my furniture to be gilded with the purest gold,

and lotus blossoms engraved around the legs and armrests of

the chairs. I want a bed of gold, with a canopy of gossamer

hangings, and lamps in every corner of the room.”

He chuckled at her words, but kept his gaze glued to the

parchment.

“Do I want too much?” She tilted her head toward him. “I

want the world, Paneah. I want everything life has to offer,

and something tells me you want these things, too.”

198

Dreamers

“I want to fulfill my destiny.” He turned a page of the plans.

“If that means remaining a slave, then I am pleased to serve you.”

“You won’t remain a slave,” she said, daring to speak the

truth. “I have asked Ramla to divine the future, and she sees

great things for you.”

Though he tried to hide it, a flicker of interest gleamed in his

eye. She smiled. She had always known he possessed ambition.

“It will take some work,” he said, tapping a manicured finger

on the scroll. “But I have met an architect in the city who has

done work on Pharaoh’s tomb. If he could spare a crew—”

“Do whatever is necessary.” She beamed in an overflow of