Dreamers (15 page)

Sagira felt a blush burn her cheek. Despite his posture of

gratitude, in her new husband’s eyes she could read his dis-

pleasure about this marriage. He should have been overjoyed,

for many fathers had sought to have her for their sons. But,

unwilling to marry Sagira without Pharaoh’s permission, her

anxious parents had waited for the king’s return from the

east. In a private meeting arranged by one of the royal cour-

tiers, Donkor and Kahent approached Pharaoh and mentioned

their desire to find a suitable husband for their noble daughter.

Flushed from the thrill of his military campaign, Pharaoh had

been eager to honor his captain and declared that the resolute

and courageous Potiphar would prove an admirable husband

for Sagira. He needed to honor the grizzled veteran of a hun-

dred wars, and his royal niece needed a husband. What could

be a better match?

Potiphar, Kahent had later confided to Sagira, was strong-

willed enough to serve as Pharaoh should Ramla’s prophecy

be fulfilled in his lifetime. If he proved to be less than a good

husband, he was old enough to die and give Sagira many

more years in which she could marry again.

Sagira knew her fate could have been worse. Despite his age,

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Potiphar was known as a fair and dutiful man, and his house-

hold had prospered in the year of his absence. She had asked

her father to drive his chariot past Potiphar’s villa, and she

found it was one of the most handsome in Thebes. As the villa’s

mistress, she would bring grace and elegance to the place. In

time the old goat would be grateful for Pharaoh’s favor.

Lifting her eyes from her promised husband, she pivoted

gracefully and walked down the aisle extending from the

throne of all Egypt. Promptly on cue, the priests from the

temple of Bastet, her patron goddess, brought forward the

marriage canopy that had been woven from river rushes.

Sagira met her father under the canopy, then turned and waited

for her groom.

A heavy silence settled on the chamber. Potiphar stood

without moving, his mouth gaping like a fish that has been

taken from the safety of the river. For a desperate moment

Sagira thought he would refuse the king’s gift.

Pharaoh’s voice filled the strangely thickened air.

“Potiphar,” he called, a thin note of warning in his voice, “surely

you will want to thank the man who has served you in this

venture. As I searched for a way to honor you, Narmer came

from Donkor and put your bride’s name into my thoughts.”

Sagira saw Potiphar jerk his heard toward the spot where

the courtier stood like a cocky rooster preening his feathers.

Dressed in fine linen and animal skins, Narmer stepped for-

ward and fell to his knees before Pharaoh.

“And what should I give you, faithful Narmer?” Pharaoh

asked, glancing down. “You who have provided so many

answers to my questions?”

“Nothing could ever replace your affection in my heart,”

Narmer said, his eyes humbly fastened to the floor. “But if I

could wear the Gold of Praise about my neck, I would forever

be reminded that Pharaoh holds me in esteem.”

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Amenhotep smiled and laid aside the crook and flail. “So

be it,” he cried, lifting the heavy chain from his neck. “Narmer

will wear his king’s favor on his shoulders. He has received

the divine praise of Pharaoh and had a part in bringing

Potiphar his noble bride!”

A decidedly ugly look settled on Potiphar’s features as he

turned from the strutting courtier to face the bridal canopy.

Sagira shivered and vowed to remember that expression.

Potiphar was a warrior, and would undoubtedly be violent if

pressed. For the sake of her survival, she would be careful

never to rouse her husband’s anger.

The wedding was but another celebration on the program

of Pharaoh’s grand festival, and Potiphar was irritated by his

role in it. In time he might have considered taking an older,

quiet woman to be his wife, for he had occasionally longed

for a companion to share his home, but he did not care to have

a youthful bride thrust on him. The daughter of Donkor was

lovely, in the dark fashion of most Egyptian girls, but she

lacked Tuya’s devoted smile and the long-limbed gracefulness

of women he had observed in the northeastern provinces. At

fourteen, she was still much a child, but her face was com-

posed when she turned to face him.

He should have studied his bride-to-be as the priests began

the incantations of the ceremony, but he couldn’t help being

distracted by her entourage. Behind the girl stood a bald priest-

ess in a spotless robe, a sour-faced, somber creature who re-

garded Potiphar with distrust in her eyes. Donkor stood at his

daughter’s right hand, a royal relative whose enormous belly

advertised his prosperity far better than words. Behind this trio

Narmer paced confidently, his hands behind his back, a smile

on his lips and the Gold of Praise glittering about his neck.

Why hadn’t he simply asked for it? Instead of prattling

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about Pharaoh’s favor and indulging in false humility, why

didn’t he tell the king what was owed? Then he’d have the Gold

of Praise and a young fool like Narmer would have this girl.

But the gods worked in mysterious ways, and Egypt’s

divine pharaoh was the most unpredictable of them. On any

other day, if a man dared to ask for the chain about Pharaoh’s

neck, he’d be crocodile meat before sunset. Narmer was a

fool, but Potiphar could not deny his boldness.

The high priest of Bastet, a bald, sallow-faced man, ges-

tured for Potiphar to extend his hands and feet. Potiphar

obeyed, as did Sagira, and with fresh water from the Nile the

priest washed the limbs of bride and groom to symbolize the

purity of their union. After the washing, a servant offered up

a corn loaf, and Potiphar fumbled with memories of the few

weddings he had attended. He was supposed to feed his bride,

a visible pledge of support, but his hands felt clumsy and over-

sized as he broke the corn loaf and placed a crumb of its crust

between the red lips of the girl beside him.

The priest uttered another incantation as the priestess be-

hind Sagira waved a stalk of sweet-smelling incense. Another

servant handed Potiphar a jug of wine. He would gladly have

drunk the wine in a mad guzzle—better to be rip-roaring

drunk than endure this humiliation—but the eyes of Pharaoh

focused on him.

Potiphar placed the jug on the ground according to the tra-

dition, then drew his sword and smashed the jug with a single

blow. With that action, the wedding was finished.

The crowd responded with cries of praise and approval, and

Potiphar lifted his bride’s hand and presented her to the

people. Sagira, daughter of Donkor, kinsman to the king, had

officially become Potiphar’s wife.

Chapter Twelve

“He has taken a wife?” Tuya asked.

Speechless with surprise, Yosef could only stare at the

messenger, who nodded and wiped perspiration from his

forehead with the edge of his tunic. “This very hour. The

master and his bride are feasting at Pharaoh’s palace, soon

they will return. You must make everything ready.”

A nervous fluttering rose in Yosef’s stomach as he turned

to Tuya. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “How do

the Egyptians marry? In my time here, I’ve never seen any-

thing to tell me—”

“How we marry is not important,” Tuya teased, sweeping

the messenger’s dusty footprints from the floor with a palm

frond. “What matters now is how they spend their wedding

night. And that, Yosef, is the same in any culture.”

“Fresh linens on the bed, fresh water in the basin and

pitcher,” Tuya called as she moved toward the master’s

chamber. “Hot coals in the brazier. Flowers in the basin, and

a garland of blossoms for the room, I think.”

“But how can our master be married?” Yosef took three

sprinting steps and caught Tuya’s arm, turning her toward

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him. “Surely he will not marry unless he is in love, but he has

said nothing of it—”

“Yosef, are you truly so simple?” Her fingers lightly dusted

his brow and pulled a stray strand of hair from his eyes.

“Sometimes I think you are not the wise and capable Paneah,

but a simple shepherd boy from the desert. Our master may

not love this woman now, but he will. The divine pharaoh has

arranged the marriage, and so it will be.”

“But does no one ever protest Pharaoh’s wishes? My father

was forced to marry a woman he did not choose, but he pro-

tested and insisted on marrying my mother as well. If he had

been allowed to marry the one he loved from the beginning,

much strife could have been avoided.”

“Who are we to question the will of a god?” Tuya quipped,

tapping him on the cheek. Yosef clung to her for a moment,

relishing the feel of her in his arms, then she laughed and

pulled away. “Let me go, or our new mistress will be scream-

ing for us to be whipped before she even knows our names. I

must tend to the bridal chamber, and you must see to the rest

of the house. Warn the butler and the baker, have Mert-sekert

bring a supply of linen, for the lady will want to see what we

can offer her wardrobe. There is no time to waste.”

Sighing, Yosef let her go.

Darkness had settled its black cloak over the villa by the

time Potiphar and his wife arrived. Tuya watched from behind

an arbor in the courtyard as the master helped a female figure

out of the chariot and into the house. Impossible to tell what

the woman looked like, for her wig was like that of any noble

lady, and her size obscured by the wine-colored robe that

proclaimed her a virgin bride.

Tuya heard Yosef’s confident greeting in the entryway and

knew he was welcoming their new mistress. Potiphar answered

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in a low murmur and escorted his bride into the house. After

a momentYosef slipped out of the entry and into the courtyard.

“Did you see her?” Tuya hissed from behind the arbor. “Did

you get a good look? What’s she like? Is she very beautiful?”

“Wait,” Yosef murmured, walking calmly over the pathway.

He barred the gate and snuffed the single burning torch, ef-

fectively plunging the courtyard into darkness.

After a moment, Tuya’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the

moon. WhenYosef’s back was turned, she crept from behind the

arbor and needled her fingers into his ribs. “Is she beautiful?”

“God spare me from a curious woman!” he yelped as she

ducked under his arm to confront him.

“Tell me everything.” She pulled Yosef into the privacy of

the shadows. A bench waited in the arbor and she tugged him

toward it, twining her fingers with his. “So—is she beautiful?”

“She is…fair. Very young.”

“Younger than me?”

“Probably. But I am not skilled at guessing a woman’s age.”

“You are too diplomatic. Is she plump or thin?”

“Shorter than you, and therefore she seems—thicker. But

lovely, with dark eyes and hair.”

“How could you tell anything under that wig?”

“Her eyebrows.” Yosef turned and brushed his lips across

Tuya’s forehead. “Her brows were black as night.”

“Don’t speak of other women when you’re doing that,” Tuya

breathed, squeezing his hand as his breath warmed her ear.

“What other women? I saw only Potiphar and you, out here

hiding behind the bushes.”

“I wasn’t hiding, I was waiting. I had a thought to share

with you.”

He draped an arm about her shoulders. “Only a thought?”

She pulled back to give him her brightest smile. “One

thought.”

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“Well…what is it?”

She hesitated, then lightened her tone. “Do you remember

when our master suggested that we might be married if we

served him well?”

He picked up her free hand and pressed it to his cheek. “He

mentioned six years. We have five remaining.”

“Doesn’t that seem like a long time?”

An inexplicable, lazy smile swept over his face. “My father

worked seven years for Lea, and another seven years for

Rahel. He told me the fourteen years flew by like days, so

great was his love for my mother.”

“Has your time here flown by, Yosef?”

He cradled her hand in his as his eyes grew thoughtful. “In

the beginning, no. I wondered what God meant by bringing

me here. Then I wouldn’t allow myself to love you for fear

that I’d be taken away again. But now—” his smile warmed

her “—now the days fly and I wait and pray and hope that God

will be merciful.”

“I offer petitions to Montu.” Tuya lifted her chin and

strengthened her voice so he would know she was serious. “I

think our master’s marriage may be a great boon for us. If

Potiphar, who never thought to marry, finds joy with his bride,