Dreamers (10 page)

own wines. Potiphar wasn’t sure what sort of magic Tuya had

worked, but he now slept on perfumed linen sheets and wore

pressed and pleated kilts.

Even Pharaoh had noticed a change. “How polished and

well-fed you look, Potiphar,” he had remarked only a few days

before. “Age certainly seems to agree with you.”

“I only reflect your bounty, divine Pharaoh,” Potiphar had

replied, bowing. “The light of your favor has caused the Nile to

bring forth a good crop. Your people will not hunger this year.”

Paneah had worked wonders in the fields outside the walls

of Potiphar’s villa. What had been a sprawling field of haphaz-

ard planting was now a neat arrangement of small squares,

each divided by mud walls the height of a man’s hand. Be-

tween the squares a runnel conveyed water from a shaduf at

the river’s edge. Each square could be watered separately by

blocking the runnel with a mud wall, thus insuring that thirsty

crops received plenty of water while the drier crops were not

overwhelmed.

After the floodwaters had receded in the spring, Paneah

urged the serfs to walk slowly and drop seed in neat rows

across Potiphar’s muddy fields. Teams of long-horned African

cows followed the slaves, their hooves burying the seed deep

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inside the life-giving earth. To ensure that the seed lay snug

beneath the silty soil, Paneah had the stockmen drive a herd

through the fields. Potiphar had been home long enough to

watch the merry affair. A scampering young boy lured the

stubborn goats through the fields with a handful of grain

while the adult herdsmen chased the beasts with whips of

twisted rope.

With a steadfast and sure hand, Paneah directed Potiphar’s

slaves through each stage of agriculture: plowing, sowing,

treading in the seed, reaping, treading out the grain, winnow-

ing, loading on donkeys and depositing the harvest in gra-

naries. The result was a crop that filled Potiphar’s coffers to

overflowing. In the past he had relied on his wages as an

officer in Pharaoh’s army to supply his haphazard household,

but after a year of Paneah’s leadership, he was pleasantly sur-

prised to realize that his household might be able to support

itself. He might even become rich.

Quiet laughter interrupted his musings. Someone walked

through the garden below, and Potiphar’s hand automatically

crept toward the dagger sheathed at his side. Rubbing his

tongue against the back of his teeth, he peered through the

shadows of the trees, but saw only Paneah and Tuya walking

along the edge of the lotus pool.

Potiphar released his dagger. His training as a warrior kept

him too much on edge. Perhaps Paneah had been right to

suggest that Potiphar learn to relax in his own home. What

better place could there be? The house that used to remind him

of his own inefficiency had become a place of refuge, an oasis

away from the quicksand of Pharaoh’s court. Paneah had

made the villa efficient; Tuya had filled it with the sweet

sounds of singing.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax his rigid

posture.

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“You did not!” Tuya’s voice was a teasing caress in the

warmth of the night. “You would not do such a thing!”

Surrendering to the human urge to eavesdrop, Potiphar

stepped back into the shadows on the wall.

“I did,” Paneah said, facing the young girl at his side. Her

face, lit by the moon, tilted toward his. From his hiding place

Potiphar could see love shining from Tuya’s eyes like a star

streaming in the night.

The nearness of that lovely face seemed to steal Paneah’s

breath for a moment, then he caught the girl’s hands and held

them close to his breast. “I did,” he repeated, looking at her

as if he could drink her in. “I did ask the shepherds to name

a lamb for you. So when I go out to the fields, I will think of

you instead of—”

He looked away for a moment, and Potiphar noticed the

way her body curved toward him. “The old dreams again?”

she whispered.

“The old memories,” he said, turning his dark eyes to her

glowing countenance. “My brothers. I think of them every

time I walk under the sun, every time I see a herd of sheep

or cattle. I pray that God will rid my heart of my sorrowful

bitterness—”

Tuya’s fingertips flew to his lips. “Speak not of it anymore.

Anger is a poison that destroys the soul. It will destroy our

happiness, too, Yosef, if you dwell on these things.”

“I would not destroy your happiness for the throne of

Egypt,” the young man answered, his words running together

in a velvet sound. As he bent to brush his lips over the girl’s

forehead, Potiphar felt the gall of envy burn the back of his

throat. How could two slaves without power, position or

possessions find happiness while he, Pharaoh’s Potiphar,

wandered on the wall of his villa with nothing to fill his lonely

heart? It was natural that a handsome youth and a beautiful

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girl should find each other, for they were young and the

appetites of love are fierce in youth…

But he had always been more stirred by bloodlust than

lust alone.

Potiphar stood motionless until the couple parted to walk

to their separate chambers, then the master clasped his hands

behind his back and took the stairs down to his empty room.

Anticipation of nights in the garden with Yosef dulled the

cutting edge of Tuya’s loneliness. The young man had

stepped into the void left by Sagira and more than filled the

empty spaces in her life. He was handsome enough to set even

the oldest kitchen slave’s tongue to wagging when he ap-

peared in the doorway, but Yosef’s attraction for Tuya went

far beyond his physical appearance. In him she found a depth

of understanding and insight sorely lacking in the slaves

around her. Her people were simple, cheerful and quick to

learn, but most of the Nile’s children were practical and un-

imaginative. Not given to deep speculation or thought, they

were unwilling to evolve or express the abstract ideas Yosef

delighted in debating.

Yosef differed from the typical Egyptian in other ways, too.

While the average resident of Thebes was highly superstitious

and quick to placate any god he might have offended, Yosef

often spoke with deep and abiding respect of El Shaddai, the

god to whom he prayed every morning. And yet his devotion

could not have been based on blind faith, for though most

Egyptians accepted everything the priests said without ques-

tion, Yosef wanted to know the reasons behind every law or

precedent Tuya mentioned.

He seemed to take a particular pleasure in bantering with

Tuya about the pantheon of Egyptian gods. “You say Pharaoh

is one of the gods,” he teased one afternoon, “and yet they say

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Pharaoh has a headache today. How can a god suffer pain?

And when Pharaoh’s life is done, how can a god die?”

“He is both God and man,” Tuya explained, trying not to lose

her patience. “When a pharaoh dies, the divine spirit is removed

and placed within the heir. The chosen heir becomes God and

Pharaoh, and the dead and buried god becomes king of the

dead, ruler of the underworld. He becomes the great and terrible

judge to whom the dead must answer for their deeds on earth.”

“I would rather serve a god who cannot die,” Yosef

answered, laughter in his eyes. “A god who is the same yes-

terday, today and forever.”

Tuya waved him away. “You are a dreamer.”

She was about to add that dreams were foolish and risky,

but the light in his eyes dimmed. “Yes, I am,” he replied, and

his expression filled with such pain she had resolved never to

speak of dreams again.

She knew he had come from a large family in the land of

Canaan. From his speech she had gleaned that he was a

Hebrew, but in the last year he had taken great pains to become

fluent in the Egyptian language. With his quick ear and agile

tongue, every trace of his Canaanite accent had been erased.

He now shaved his beard in the Egyptian fashion and wore

his hair covered by a cloth of ribbed black silk. He wore the

traditional white linen kilt of a slave, ornamented with an

enameled collar and bronze armbands. Nothing of the He-

brews remained but his memories, and Yosef clung to them

with the tenacity of a terrier. Occasionally his eyes darkened

and he spoke bitterly of his brothers, but he would not dwell

on the subject or speak further when Tuya pressed him.

Like the Egyptians, Yosef was gentle, devoted to his friends

and his god and easily pleased. He had the confidence of a

lion, a quiet air of authority and even seated he looked taller

than any man in the house. She could feel the power of his

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presence from across a crowded room, and her heart thudded

like a drum whenever he happened to pass. Without stopping

to analyze her feelings, Tuya allowed her attraction for him

to blossom into love. What she couldn’t understand was why

he seemed to resist caring for her in the same way.

His eyes had caressed her in the garden, and she knew by the

way he smiled at her that he felt something for her. She could

tell from his admiring gaze that he appreciated her skill at

managing the household fully as much as he esteemed her

beauty. Interest had radiated from the dark depths of his eyes

from the first day she began to nurse him, and their friendship

had deepened on a number of levels. But whenever the conver-

sation turned to personal topics, or whenever Tuya feltYosef was

close to opening his heart, an invisible wall rose between them

and he withdrew as surely as if he had moved across the garden.

Tonight Yosef was intent on the scroll in his lap. The air of

the garden vibrated softly with the insect hum of the trees, and

Tuya sat on the tiled walkway and trailed her fingers over the

still waters of the reflecting pool. The lotus blossoms on the

water moved gently in the quiet of the night shadows, a ro-

mantic picture, but Yosef’s thoughts were far away.

“The language is fascinating,” Yosef murmured, running

his hand over the papyrus spread between his knees. “Such

beauty in these hieroglyphics! You are a good teacher, Tuya,

and I a poor student. If I could only learn to write this well.”

“You will have no more time for learning in this house,”

Tuya said, glancing over her shoulder. “Those who go to

scribes’ schools labor from dawn until dusk for a dozen or more

years. Their signs must be perfect, and the teaching priests

believe a boy’s ears are on his back.” She smiled when Yosef

looked up with an inquisitive glance. “They are great lovers of

the whip,” she explained, leaning toward him. “But you,Yosef,

know nothing of this. Potiphar does not beat his servants.”

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“Only because Potiphar does not care for his household,”

Yosef answered, returning his attention to the scroll. “I am

certain he would not hesitate to use his whip on his soldiers.”

Tuya jerked upright when leather slapped against the cool

stone of the patio. Potiphar stepped out of the shadows and

stood before them, his eyes gleaming like lighted coals. What

had he heard? She and Yosef might feel the whip yet.

“Greetings, master,” she blurted out, extending her arms

toward him as she touched her forehead to the floor. She

closed her eyes and hoped Yosef would have the good sense

to follow her example.

“Good evening,” Potiphar replied. Tuya blinked in surprise.

He spoke in a composed voice, like a man out for a casual walk

in his garden. Had he heard nothing of their conversation?

“You may rise,” the master called, and Tuya lifted her head,

half expecting to feel the sting of his hand across her cheek.

But Potiphar stood before them with his hands joined

loosely at his waist. Their master’s weather-beaten face was

calm, but something flickered in his dark eyes.

“Paneah—” he began, looking at Yosef.

“Yes, master?”

“Why does Tuya call you by a strange name?”

Yosef hesitated only for the flash of an instant. “It is not

because I dislike the name you gave me. I have come to ap-

preciate the name Paneah. The life in which I was known by

another is far behind me.”

Potiphar lifted a brow. “And yet this girl calls you by the

other name.” In one disobedient glance Tuya allowed her eyes

to leave her master’s face and dart toward Yosef.

A wry smile curled on Yosef’s lips. “She is my bridge. She

brought me from the old life safely into the new. If she had

not nursed me—”

“It was you, master, who rescued him from the slave

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market,” Tuya added, eager to return the conversation to a