Dreamers (14 page)

Potiphar concentrated on the rhythmic beat of the drums

giving the rowers their stroke. He was too old to enjoy the adu-

lation of the crowd; he had cut too many throats to relish blood

sport. Foolish young men and idle kings were better suited for

war. If this god-king had at last had his fill of it, perhaps the

kingdom could rest in peace.

The blue-green ripples of water glistened as the barge cut

through the summer Nile. Thinking of home, Potiphar clasped

his hands behind his back and wondered if Paneah would

prove worthy of the trust his master had placed in him.

At his first glimpse of the walls of his villa, Potiphar

thought he’d come to the wrong estate. The tall, crumbling

walls had been repaired and painted; sweet flowers grew

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outside the entrance gate. The gatekeeper, an older slave

Potiphar had never seen, bowed and was about to discreetly

ring a bell when Potiphar stopped him. “Please,” he said, his

scarred hand falling on the other’s tanned one. “I would like

to enter my house alone.”

The man nodded stiffly, his heavy cheeks falling in worried

folds over his slave’s collar, and Potiphar moved past the gate

onto the curving path. A new wall had been erected to separate

the prison from the villa, and Potiphar noted with satisfaction

that neither the sights, smells nor sounds of the prison would

now intrude on the house. The guard at the prison gate saluted

sharply at Potiphar’s approach, but Potiphar only nodded and

turned his back on the somber structure. Paneah would not

have wasted his efforts there. The prison undoubtedly re-

mained as it had always been, a bitter, foul place for bitter,

foul prisoners.

The house rose from the sunbaked ground like an oasis, its

little temple gleaming like new silver in the savage sunlight.

The crumbling statues of Anubis and Osiris had been re-

moved, and nothing remained inside the chamber but a clean

altar and a bowl of burning incense. Potiphar found that the

spareness of the place pleased him. He had never pledged

allegiance to any personal deity, so why should he play the

hypocrite and pretend at piety in his own home?

Potiphar left the temple and continued toward the house.

The sand beneath his sandals had been sprinkled with water to

control the dust, and for the first time in his memory, he could

not smell the stockyard. Through an opening in a wall ahead

he could see women carrying baskets of grain, and beyond

them, three tall, cone-shaped granaries to hold stores of grain

and wheat. There had been but one granary when he left.

“I feel like a stranger visiting the house of a prince,” he

said, then he laughed at the absurdity of his words. Briskly

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climbing the steps to the house, he saw that the doorway had

been repainted, and his name outlined on the lintel in bold,

black letters. A servant prostrated himself at Potiphar’s ap-

proach, so the master stepped over the slave’s body and waved

the man away.

He swept through the north loggia and into his reception

room, then stepped back, amazed at the sight that greeted him.

This central hall, the heart of every nobleman’s residence, had

been a hollow, vacant symbol of Potiphar’s empty, single-

purpose life. Now the room glowed with vitality. The bare

ceiling had been painted the soft blue of a morning sky and

accented with gold wherever the ceiling joined its supporting

pillars. The high windows in the softly painted walls stood

open so air stirred in a sweet morning breeze. The four

matching pillars had been covered in red paint bold enough

to satisfy even Pharaoh’s elaborate tastes. Against one wall

someone had built a low brick dais on which Potiphar would

sit, and next to the dais a brazier glowed with burning charcoal

to chase away the morning chill. On the other side of the room,

a carved limestone slab waited for the dusty hands and feet

of Potiphar’s guests. A pitcher of pure white marble stood

ready to splash away the irritating desert sand.

Handsome panels of red and yellow moldings gleamed

from above the doorways, and niches had been carved into the

opposite walls to balance the openings in the room. At the

northern end of the hall, a staircase led up to the roof. Peering

through the opening, Potiphar could see that a light shelter had

been built to provide shade from the sun.

When a pair of sandaled feet appeared on the staircase,

Potiphar stepped behind a pillar and waited. A tall, imposing

man came into view, a scroll in his hand and a frown on his face.

Potiphar stepped forward and pursed his lips. “Do I

know you?”

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The frown eased into a smile, then the man lowered him-

self to the floor. “Master! Welcome home. I am Paneah, your

servant.”

“Can it be you?” Potiphar stooped and tapped the young

man’s shoulder. “Lift your head, so I may see you better. I did

not realize the desert sun had blinded me so completely.”

“There is nothing wrong with your eyes,” Paneah an-

swered, lifting his face.

Potiphar crossed his arms and stared at the stranger before

him. By all the gods, how a year had changed him! The awk-

wardness of adolescence had completely vanished from the

lad’s limbs, leaving him slim but powerfully built. He had

always been agreeable, but the man before him had been

favored with a striking face, a broad pair of shoulders and an

easy, open manner. His eyes snapped with intelligence, his

smile glimmered with goodwill—unusual in a slave.

“I can only hope I have not changed as drastically,” Potiphar

answered, finally finding his tongue. “I come home to find my

house a different place, and my youthful steward a man.”

“You honored me by placing me in charge of your house-

hold,” Paneah said, standing. “I hope you have found every-

thing to your liking.”

Potiphar raised a hand toward the ceiling, then let his arm

fall to his side. “I can find nothing to dislike, Paneah, unless

you have spent all your energy on this room and no others.”

“Never fear, master, all your affairs are in order,” Paneah

said, laughing. “If you would like a tour of the villa—”

“Of course, lead and show me what you have done.”

Potiphar thrust his hands behind his back. “I only hope you

have not depleted my treasure room so completely I will have

to sell you to feed my sheep.”

“Your treasures are intact and increased,” Paneah an-

swered, leading the way from the reception room. “The cattle

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produced well this year. Every cow brought forth a calf. The

sheep, too, were fertile, and the harvest of your lands has been

so bountiful that I purchased additional slaves to bring in the

harvest. I have trained them all in other jobs, too, so you will

have no fear of waste during the winter months—”

“I do not fear anything, Paneah.” Potiphar clapped the

slave’s back as he fell into step beside the young man. “With

you in charge of my house, I shall not worry about anything

but Pharaoh.”

One week after his return, Potiphar joined the other royal

troops at the palace for Pharaoh’s awards ceremony. Feasting

and rituals would take place throughout the day, beginning with

the sacrifice of the enemy kings at dawn and concluding with

the transportation of Pharaoh’s gods along the Nile at sunset.

After the bloody sacrifice at the temple, Pharaoh’s nobles,

warriors and courtiers moved to the throne room in Pharaoh’s

palace. The gigantic hall was as crowded as Potiphar had ever

seen it, and he gripped the handle of the dagger in his belt as

the crowd churned and surged behind the guards at the open

doors. One by one, the royal scribes read off the names of

those who had been with the king on his military expedition,

and those men, great and small, came forward to acknowledge

Pharaoh’s gratitude. Foot soldiers who had done well in com-

bat received tiny golden flies for “stinging” the enemy; to

others Pharaoh presented golden daggers, carved and painted

shields and handsomely carved bronze arrowheads. To the

archers, Pharaoh gave painted leather forearm protectors, and

to captains like Narmer the king awarded permission to kiss

his royal foot, not just the ground at his feet.

The crowd around Potiphar buzzed when the royal scribe

looked his way. Every standard bearer, petty officer and

foot soldier had been rewarded, only the captain of the

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king’s elite guards waited to receive his prize. For the first

time since the presentations had begun, Pharaoh stood from

his throne.

“Potiphar! Your king and god summons you!”

Potiphar stepped from the line of guards at the king’s right

hand and prostrated himself before Amenhotep. He had lain

in this position before, hoping for the golden chain that hung

around the king’s neck, but this time he had certainly earned

the prize. The Gold of Praise was an exalted honor few men

could wear, and Potiphar had served not only this pharaoh,

but Pharaoh’s divine father…

“Potiphar, how can a king reward his most trusted servant?”

“The warmth of your favor is enough, my king,” Potiphar

called, lifting his head just enough for his words to be heard.

“It is not enough. I must do something more for you, my

friend, and have thought many days on this matter. Horus him-

self has shown me what I can do. Rise, Potiphar, and accept

the gratitude and devotion of your king.”

Potiphar pressed hard on the floor, feeling his age as he

pushed himself upright, then bent his head in submission as

he walked toward the king’s throne. The king could thank him

properly by retiring from war. Another eastern expedition

would likely mean the end of his faithful captain.

“I have thought, faithful friend, about what you do not

have,” Pharaoh said, his voice low.

Surprised at the king’s conversational tone, Potiphar lifted

his eyes to meet Amenhotep’s.

“And I am prepared this day to give you what you lack. You

have received every honor Egypt can give, and every right a

pharaoh can bestow. You kiss the royal foot, even the leg, you

travel by my side and stand beside my throne. A hundred

golden flies decorate the animal skins you wear for a mantle,

and yet you do not possess one reward I can give.”

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Potiphar’s disobedient eyes slipped to the Gold of Praise

about Pharaoh’s neck.

“Once I gave you a beautiful woman. Now I will give you

a noble one. Donkor, my kinsman, has a daughter of fourteen

years. She was born in the royal line of pharaohs, and today

she will become your wife.”

The saving grace of long habit prodded Potiphar to crumple

at Pharaoh’s feet in the proper pose of overwhelmed gratitude.

Reflexively, he murmured his thanks, but his brain roiled with

the king’s words. A wife! Pharaoh did not know, he could not

know! Potiphar was a forty-six-year-old soldier, not the sort

of man to be a husband, and yet Pharaoh wanted to give him

a young royal wife who would demand to be petted, teased

and spoiled…

An audible hush fell on the droning gossips who had

sprung to life at Pharaoh’s words, and the soft swish of fabric

reached Potiphar’s ears. “Rise, Potiphar, and meet your bride,”

Pharaoh called, and the warrior’s arms trembled as he pushed

himself up and turned to face the child who would share his

house…and his future.

Clothed in a diaphanous sheath of reddish-gold, a young

goddess stood before him. She wore a pleated dress bordered

with rich fringe, and the gauzy fabric of the garment allowed

him to see the handsome shape of plump legs, a solid stomach,

strong arms. Distracted, he looked up and into the wide eyes

that peered from beneath a heavy wig. “I am Sagira, my lord,”

a treble voice whispered. “Daughter of Donkor, and kinsman

to the king.”

At first he thought the wreath of lotus blossoms circling

her head put forth an unusually heady scent, then he realized

that the lady also carried a bouquet. She had come to the

palace dressed for a wedding.

Pharaoh must have guessed at Potiphar’s discomfiture, for

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an abrupt burst of laughter escaped him. “My old friend,” he

said, smiling with as much warmth as he dared before a

jealous court. “Did you think you could escape matrimony

forever? Your duty lies in raising sons as brave and devoted

as you are. Take this girl as your wife, here and now, and do

not fail your king.”

Potiphar bowed deeply. “I would not fail you,” he an-

swered, his stomach tightening as the crowd broke into

pleased applause.

In his younger days, he’d have seen such a trap coming

long before it snared him.