Dreamers (11 page)

more proper vein. “Paneah owes his life to you.”

Potiphar nodded, but Yosef interrupted. “No. My life is

owed to God.”

Tuya cringed. Apparently Yosef had not been enslaved

long enough to learn proper humility.

Potiphar did not take offense. “They say we owe everything

to the gods,” he said, offhandedly waving in the direction of

the river. He returned his hands to his waist and squinted in

amusement. “Which god do you credit for your health and in-

telligence, Paneah? Which god gave you those good looks?

Hathor? Amon? Osiris, perhaps?”

“The Egyptians do not know El Shaddai,” Yosef answered,

giving the master a look of prideful superiority. “He is the god

above all others, the Almighty God who sees and knows all.”

A spasm of panic shot across Tuya’s belly. Hadn’t Yosef

learned that a man was only as great as his gods? With one

mention of his almighty deity Yosef had claimed to be greater

than everyone in Egypt, even Pharaoh himself.

Potiphar nodded as if considering Yosef’s reply, and a

smile played briefly on his lips. “Believe in whatever you like,

Paneah, for you have done well. Though I am sure your suc-

cess has less to do with divine blessing than with your sharp

intellect.”

“I appreciate your kindness, but I must disagree,” Yosef

answered, bowing his head. “I have found that faith is a higher

faculty than reason. Though, of course, faith is only as strong

as the object in which it is placed.”

Potiphar pushed his bottom lip forward. “You know I do

not worship any gods. Are you saying I am weak?”

Tuya felt the blood drain from her head. What had Yosef

done?

Ever the diplomat, Yosef smiled. “Each man must test his

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own faith, and his own gods. You, Master Potiphar, must find

strength great enough to sustain you through life. Where you

will find this strength, I cannot say.”

The moon, sailing across a cloud-laden sky, cast a sudden

beam across Potiphar’s face. His granite eyes locked on Yosef,

but after a moment, he lifted his head and folded his arms.

“You are clever,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a

grudging smile. “For surely you know that I have the strength

I need, Paneah, right here.” His clenched fist knocked on his

chest. “And because I appreciate cleverness, one day I shall

reward you. Perhaps I shall reward the affection you have de-

veloped for this girl.”

When the master’s bony finger pointed to Tuya, she felt her

frantic smile jell into an expression of shock. She had tried to

hide her feelings for Yosef, for with one word Potiphar could

send her away forever.

“Who can say?” Potiphar folded his arms again. “If you

both serve me well, in time I will allow you to take her as your

wife. If you teach my household to run itself, in six years or

so I may even grant your manumission.” An understanding,

cocky grin spread across his features. “The collar of slavery

does not suit you, Paneah. ’Twould be shameful for you to

wear it too long.”

With that astounding promise, Potiphar turned and disap-

peared into the house.

Tuya turned to Yosef in stunned surprise. “Freedom!” she

whispered, hardly daring to hope. “And marriage!”

Speechless, Yosef nodded.

Yosef clasped his hands behind him as he walked down the

narrow corridor to the room he shared with the other male

slaves. Potiphar’s offer of emancipation and marriage had

taken him completely by surprise, and his emotions were still

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spinning like a broken twig caught in the Nile flood. After six

more years of service he would be twenty-four, a young man

still, and capable of building an estate of his own. Was this

the avenue by which his dream would be fulfilled?

He stopped in the darkness and closed his eyes, double-

checking his memory. In his dream, the sun and moon and

stars had bowed before him—could they not represent the

merchants of Thebes? He could be a wealthy man before he

reached thirty years of age.

Perhaps. He gave himself a stern mental shake and moved

on toward his room. He did not want to second-guess the god

who had blessed everything he touched and everyone who

touched him. Tuya, without whose guidance he could never

have begun to understand the Egyptian way of thinking, had

blossomed under his attention. Devoted, dependable and sym-

pathetic, she had worked hard to ensure his success with the

other slaves. Her rich, fawnlike beauty warmed his heart every

time he looked her way. He could marry her without hesita-

tion if not for—

The past. She did not know the hidden part of him, the

history he concealed beneath industrious activity and casual

conversation. She thought him an ordinary son from a large

family, a foreigner with only fragile connections to the past.

Yet he was the favored son of Yaakov, the firstborn of Rahel,

the son who had stood to inherit the major portion of Yaakov’s

flocks and treasures and goods. Though he was younger than

most of his brothers, his would have been the blessing and

birthright of the eldest son, for Yaakov had loved his beauti-

ful mother most.

As the snores of the other slaves punctuated the darkness

of the room, Yosef lay down on his papyrus mat and settled

his thoughts about him. He had not told Tuya the entire story

of his past because the act of submerging himself into memory

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hurt too much. During his illness he had scarcely felt the pain

of his shattered arm because his few coherent thoughts cen-

tered on his father’s grief and his brothers’ betrayal. Had his

unfaithful brothers told their father that insane story about

Yosef’s fatal struggle with a wild beast? Had not one of them

listened to the convicting voice of the spirit of God and con-

fessed the truth?

Another, darker fear hovered at the edge of his mind: did

they intend to kill or kidnap his mother’s other son in the same

way? His brother, Binyamin, was yet a boy, but with Yosef

gone, Yaakov would cling to Rahel’s remaining son like a

shadow. Binyamin had undoubtedly been forced into Yosef’s

place as the favored son, and that gentle boy would never

suspect that the older brothers he admired were capable of

murder and betrayal…

A sudden rise of panic threatened to choke Yosef where he

lay. He had nursed his wounds for too long. He should escape

and join a caravan heading north; he should return to his

father and expose his brothers for the misbegotten malefac-

tors that they were—

Trust me.
The voice fell on Yosef’s consciousness even as

he realized that the stillness of the room had not broken. The

snorers slept on, undisturbed. Yosef shivered with a cold that

did not come from the air. He was not alone.

As I called Avraham from Ur, I have called you to this

place. Forget the former things, do not dwell on the past. I am

making a new path for you! Now it springs up before you, do

you not perceive it?

Yosef sat up and blinked at the shadows as the hair on his

forearms lifted. Abu, the goatherd, and Bebu, the chief baker,

tossed and turned as they did every night.

Yosef’s heart thumped against his rib cage. If he had not

heard the voice of a man, then God spoke to him—but why?

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“Will you speak again?” he whispered.

No answer came in the night; he heard nothing but the scat-

tered breathing of his fellow slaves. After a long moment,

Yosef lay down again and made an effort to calm his pounding

heart. Eventually he withdrew into a thin and dreamless sleep.

Tuya readied her brightest smile the next morning, but the

smile died on her lips as Yosef approached the well. Hollows

lay beneath his eyes, dark, bluish-gray circles. He looked as

if he hadn’t slept at all.

“Are you ill?” she whispered, hurrying to his side.

He gave her a polite smile that did not reach his eyes. “I

am fine.”

“You wear the face of a man who has been troubled by

dreams.”

“Would that I had been. I slept little last night.”

Tuya felt the thin, cold blade of foreboding slice into her heart.

Yosef had been fine before their meeting with the master and he

had gone to bed immediately afterward. Apart from Potiphar’s

suggestion of freedom and marriage, what could have kept him

awake all night? Since no slave would refuse liberty, Yosef’s

distress could only have come from the idea of marrying her.

“Did our master’s promise…upset you?” she croaked,

barely able to force the words past her unwilling lips.

His face emptied of expression. “I can’t talk now. Let us

begin our work, Tuya.”

The sudden heaviness in Tuya’s chest felt like a millstone.

She dropped her water buckets and sat on a bench. “Can’t

we talk now?”

“No.” His voice was as gentle as his words were disturbing.

“I am not ready to talk about the future.” A host of emotions

struggled beneath the surface of his handsome face. “Some

things cannot be shared before they ripen into clear thoughts.”

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“Even with one who loves you?” Tuya whispered, lifting

her eyes to his.

Right or wrong, she’d said it. No slave dared to love

another, for a life of slavery was too transitory and fleeting,

but she’d just admitted her love to Yosef. Her feelings had

grown in the past year; they now ran far deeper than affection

and stronger than the pleasure of their stolen embraces.

“Tuya—” he began, his voice thick.

“I love you, Yosef.” She slipped from the bench to fall at

his feet. “I would follow you to the end of Egypt if the master

were to sell you. If Anubis opened the road of the underworld

for you, I would follow into death’s darkness and find you in

the gardens of paradise—”

“Tuya!” Yosef knelt beside her, gripping her arms in his

strong hands. All shadows of restraint fled from his face as

his eyes blazed. “Such fierce longing can bring only sorrow

and pain.”

“So you have loved,” she whispered, wilting in his grasp

like a thirsty lotus blossom. “At last the gods have put a figure

on the barrier that stands between us. Who is she, Yosef? A

Canaanite girl?”

“No.” He stood and regarded her with sadness in his eyes.

“Not a girl—my father loved me with the love you speak of.

And now he thinks me dead while I, who would have been

his heir, am enslaved in a heathen land.”

Her feminine perception instantly understood. Yosef’s

heart had not been wounded by lost love, but by the grief of

separation.

“Beloved,” Tuya whispered, rising. “Don’t you think we

all understand what you’re feeling? Every slave has a story

like yours, for we lost our families when we lost our freedom.

I have never known a mother or father, but I have grown ac-

customed to my place. And you, Yosef, remember how our

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master trusts you! He could not be more proud if you were

his son. He believes you are blessed by the gods.”

“Potiphar believes in no one but himself,” Yosef answered,

folding his arms. “But last night when I considered running

away, God spoke to my heart…and I know I am to remain in

Egypt. Perhaps my father could accept my death more easily

than he could accept me—” Yosef swept his hand over his

body to indicate the bronze collar at his neck and the linen

skirt of a slave “—like this.”

A lump formed in Tuya’s throat at the thought of Yosef

leaving, but she clutched at the hope that Yosef’s god approved

of their love.

“Surely your god is wise,” she answered, leaning close.

“Surely he can be trusted. You have trusted him thus far—”

“I have had no choice.” Yosef looked past her toward the

great blue bowl of sky. “He is the nameless longing, the voice

who called Avraham out of Ur. He set a dream in my heart,

and called me away from the bosom of my father. Now he bids

me trust him.”

“Trust him, then,” Tuya said, wrapping her arms around his

narrow waist. Not caring who might see, she placed her cheek

against the smooth skin of Yosef’s chest and heard the proud

beating of his heart. “Trust your god, Yosef. As Potiphar trusts

in your common sense and I trust in the strong arm of Montu,

trust in your god and all will be well.”

Chapter Nine

Potiphar bristled as Narmer entered his bedchamber and

extended a scroll bearing a seal from the king’s scribe. “Why

does Pharaoh send a message instead of calling for me?”

Potiphar asked, sliding his weary legs from beneath a linen

sheet. “Even at this late hour I have often been summoned to

the royal presence.”

The young courtier regarded Potiphar with a look of unut-

terable boredom, but no amount of studied nonchalance could