Dreamers (32 page)

for him. Perhaps prison had proved to be a place of refuge for

Yosef, a way out of Sagira’s reach. Tuya did not know whether

this god could be trusted, but she had believed in his existence

from the first time she heard Yosef speak of the Almighty One.

He was real, for Yosef would not lie, and El Shaddai had

manifested his power by saving Yosef’s life. Because this god

was so different from the gods of Egypt, omnipresent and yet

invisible, perhaps he worked in unexpected ways.

She turned from the statue of Montu and stared instead at

the painted images of Pharaoh on the chamber walls. Dis-

tracted, she closed her eyes. “If you are there, Almighty One,”

she whispered, “hear the words of Tuya, friend to your servant

Yosef. Protect my unborn child, and protect your servant

Yosef. If you do not do these things—”

She paused. Most Egyptians threatened the gods with the

desecration of their temples or the withholding of offerings

if petitions were not answered, but would threats offend an

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all-powerful god? And how did one punish a god who had no

temple and no priests?

“Please do these things,” she whispered. “Please hear me,

Almighty One. For today I have petitioned only you.”

Potiphar strode into Pharaoh’s chamber in the quiet of the

afternoon, a time when the king usually rested or enjoyed the

entertainment provided by his dancing girls. Today, though,

Amenhotep sat pensive and quiet in his chair.

Potiphar cleared his throat, hoping the sound would spare

him the agony of bending his arthritic knees to the floor. For-

tunately, Pharaoh heard and gestured in Potiphar’s direction.

The captain of the guard strode into the royal presence. “O

Pharaoh, live forever! I have important news, my king. We

have investigated and determined that the shame of yester-

day’s attempt on your life was made with the help of either

the palace butler or the chief baker. The surgeons were unable

to tell if the poison was ingested as drink or food, so we have

arrested both men. They await your divine judgment.”

“I will give it—later,” Pharaoh said, inclining his head on

his palm. His thoughts seemed far away.

Potiphar shifted uncomfortably. “Is there anything else,

mighty Pharaoh?”

The king’s gaze shifted to Potiphar’s face. “Have you

thought much about my reign, my captain? You knew my

father well—how would you compare my leadership to his?”

Potiphar hesitated, wavering between truth and diplomacy.

“You are much the same, and yet different,” he said, his hand

tightening around the hilt of his sword. “Your father, Tuthmo-

sis, was a warrior and you have the same fierce heart. Your

father fought until he died. But you, my king, have thought

much of other things.”

“The other world,” Pharaoh murmured, his gaze drifting

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again. “Do you know, Potiphar, that I can boast that no man

has gone hungry during my reign? The Nile has brought forth

her abundance every year. Therefore I know the gods are

pleased with me. No priest has dared to think of bringing

death to my door.”

Aghast that the king would speak of the age-old rite by

which a pharaoh gave his life for his country, Potiphar blinked

in silence. In past dynasties, whenever the Nile did not flood

sufficiently, famine smote the land so harshly that the people

cried out in grief. Because Pharaoh was the giver of fertility

and the preserver of all, he was also the Divine Son who

might be put to death to ensure the fertility of the land. In the

ancient pyramid texts the sages wrote that if the people had

not eaten bread, or “the eye of Horus,” both the people and

the gods should demand the king’s death so the fields might

be fertilized with his blood. Since the kings were immortal

gods, this sacrificial death was never declined…at least

Potiphar had never heard of any king who refused his role in

the ritual.

In a time of famine, when the priests decided that the

kingdom had suffered enough, the high priest of Anubis

would present himself to Pharaoh wearing the jackal mask of

his god. In his arms he would carry the means of Pharaoh’s

death: a basket containing a cobra. Knowing that the time had

come, the king would raise the lid from the basket and lift the

cobra to his breast.

Death by cobra poison came swiftly. After the king’s death,

his internal organs were removed during the mummification

process and his heart and lungs ceremonially buried in the

soil, bringing breath and life to the earth. A new king, the heir,

would confirm his right to succession by installing his prede-

cessor in the tomb, thus insuring the dead king’s place in the

other world.

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The kings of Egypt’s eighteenth dynasty had died in various

ways, but Potiphar could not name one who had sacrificed

himself for the land. Did Amenhotep’s new apprehension

spring from some secret fear? Did he suppose the jackal-

headed priest of Anubis to be lurking outside in a corridor?

“Do you anticipate a famine, my king?” Potiphar asked,

his voice a subtle whisper in the room.

The king’s head jerked toward Potiphar. “Surely, Potiphar,

you know I fear nothing in this world or the next, and yet

sometimes…I wonder. As God, I give everything to my peo-

ple. I worship myself as God in living form, for I am the

physical son of Re.” Amenhotep pulled back his shoulders and

lifted his granite jaw. At that moment, his dark, worried face

seemed never to have known a smile. “And yet I am as mortal

as other men. If I eat poison, I will die. Sometimes I do not

feel like a god, and I am sobered by the possibility that I may

not be.” He threw Potiphar a look of half-startled wariness.

“A life is a great treasure to risk on a lie, don’t you think?”

For some shapeless reason Potiphar thought of Paneah.

“My king, I cannot say. I am not a priest.” He bowed, eager

to leave the conversation. “If you will excuse me, sire, the

royal baker and cupbearer await me. We will take great pains

to stall your journey to the next world for as long as possible.”

The hot wind of the sirocco blew sand into Abayomi’s

eyes, and his servants sighed in relief when Pharaoh’s second

son signaled for the company to halt. “We will pause from our

hunt, for the sun is nearly overhead,” the prince called, deep-

ening his awkward voice to command the authority due a

royal son. He stepped from his chariot and felt the heat of the

desert sand through his sandals. “Lead the horses to shelter

here, behind the Great Sphinx of Harmakhis, and prepare a

resting place.”

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His servants scurried to do his bidding, removing the royal

chariot to a place of shelter from the desert winds. Their dark

bare feet skimmed over the blistering sand as they hastened

to prepare a tent, but Abayomi placed his hands on his narrow

hips and ignored them, choosing to study the Sphinx half

buried in the sand. Khafra, a king long before his father, had

modeled this monument after his own likeness in honor of the

sun-god who ruled these vast deserts.

A smile twisted the corner of the prince’s mouth. Where

was the sun-god now, and did he care that the lion’s body of

his Great Sphinx lay buried beneath the desert? Only the

wind-scarred head of Khafra was now visible, his chin resting

on the sand like a creature resigned to inevitable suffocation.

“Prepare my tent here, before the Sphinx,” the prince com-

manded the servants who fluttered nearby in anticipation of

his wishes. “We will rest, then continue our hunt.”

A canopy appeared as if from nowhere, four poles held its

striped linen high above the earth. Another piece of linen,

tightly woven to keep out irritating grains of sand, was spread

on the ground, and on this the prince reclined.

The sun threw the shadow of his distinctive profile onto the

ground. He knew he was handsome, and though his face still

retained the softness of youth, his concentrated stare never

failed to make a maiden blush or a servant grow pale. Taller

than his mother, nearly as tall as his elder brother, he pos-

sessed strong limbs and a broad chest, set off by a fine linen

kilt and the wide golden collar about his neck. One magnifi-

cent lock of black hair grew like an exclamation from his right

temple, the seat of deep thought and wisdom.

The Great Sphinx sheltered him from the hot winds of the

sirocco and his eyes closed in the heavy heat of the afternoon.

Sleep, when it came, was welcome.

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* * *

son Abayomi,” the creature said, the wide eyes of stone un-

blinking and yet, seeing all. “For I, your father Harmakhis-

Khopri-Tumu, grant you sovereignty over the Two Lands, in

the South and the North, and you shall wear both the white

and the red crowns of the throne of Sibu, the sovereign pos-

sessing the earth in its length and breadth.”

The prince blinked and sat upright, but nothing else moved

in the hot afternoon. Was this a dream? Or had he dared

disturb the mighty sun-god with his irreverent thoughts?

“These are words of blessing, my son,” the Sphinx contin-

ued, his voice a roar that reverberated through the desert.

“You shall be called Tuthmosis, and the flashing eye of the

lord of all shall cause to rain on you the possessions of Egypt.

Vast tribute from all foreign countries, and a long life for

many years as one chosen by the Sun, for my countenance is

yours, my heart is yours, no other than you is mine.”

“I am yours,” the prince whispered, falling to his knees

before the solid stone image. He lowered his head to the earth

and felt the heat of the desert burn his forehead. “But I am

only a second son. How can these things be?”

The massive stone head turned, the grating of stone on

stone quivered the canopy poles. The prince slowly lifted his

gaze. Beyond the Sphinx, sand dunes rippled and flowed like

water toward the monument, and the mouth of the half-buried

stone creature opened in an inhuman cry. “The first born of

Egypt shall die,” the monstrous voice shrieked. “You shall

become King, my son Tuthmosis.”

The prince moistened his lips as the horrible prophecy

rang in his ears. “What would you have me do?”

As if by command, the sand stopped flowing, the wind

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ceased. The Sphinx’s mighty head returned to its resting place

and the powerful mouth closed.

But still the voice reverberated in the prince’s head. “Now

I am covered by the sand of the mountain on which I rest, and

have given you this prize that you may do for me what my heart

desires. For I know you are my son, my defender. Draw nigh.

I am with you, I am your well-beloved father. Release me from

this mountain, and I shall give you what your heart desires.”

“I will release you from the sand, I swear it,” the prince

answered, the scent of scorched linen filling his nostrils.

“Then this and more will I give to you, Tuthmosis, if you

release me!” The mighty voice echoed through the desert

stillness, growing louder and stronger until the boy’s hands

covered his ears and he screamed, too, his cry lost in the

buried god’s terrifying wail.

The prince jerked into wakefulness as an anxious servant

touched his shoulder. Behind the servant, the sirocco blew past

the Sphinx in a miserable, commanding howl. “May the gods

grant you life, my prince,” the servant said, bowing on the hot

sand. “You have slept a long time. We feared you were not well.”

“I am well,” the prince answered, rising on his elbow. He

moved slowly, half-afraid any sudden sound or action would

tear the fabric of sanctity around the half-buried Sphinx. The

fearsome sounds and images lingered in his brain, as vivid as

the servant on the sand. His father would insist he had imag-

ined the episode, for Amenhotep believed the gods spoke

only to him. But the prince recalled the devastating power of

the Sphinx’s voice, and shivered despite the heat.

He stood and stepped from beneath the sheltering

canopy. “Mark this well, all who hear,” he called in his most

authoritative tone. “If the gods will that I be King, on that day

the sand of this mountain is to be cleared from the form of

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Harmakhis-Khopri-Tumu, the sun-god, that he may reign in

beauty over the Two Lands, in the South and the North. It shall

be recorded that I have done this, in covenant between the god

my father, and I.”

The company bowed in honor of the royal proclamation.

Abayomi nodded, satisfied, then climbed back into his

chariot and led the procession back to Thebes, too shaken to