Dreamers (19 page)

master’s wife cast her eyes upon Yosef; and she said,

Lie with me.

Genesis 39:6b–7

Chapter Fifteen

Shadows wreathed Potiphar’s chamber as the sun rose, and

Sagira moved away from the bed where her husband snored

off the effects of the party. Grabbing up her gown, she re-

trieved her wig and sandals from the floor and slipped word-

lessly through the corridor until she came to her own room.

Ramla was still asleep, a thin covering thrown over her.

Sagira tossed her expensive wig toward its stand and sank

onto her bed, biting her knuckles. She wanted to scream, to

beat someone, to cry and lament and tear her clothing. Life

wasn’t fair! She had entered this marriage fully expecting a

normal, happy union, but last night’s reality had hit her like

a cold slap in the face. Potiphar should never have married

her, but her parents, Pharaoh and Narmer had not given him

a choice in the matter. The entire world had conspired against

the bride and groom to play an ironic joke, a terrible trick.

When Ramla stirred, Sagira dropped her hand from her

mouth and sat upright, gathering what little dignity she had

left. Last night she had behaved like a prostitute, flaunting

herself before a drunken crowd and gyrating to silly, use-

less poetry to please a man who could never be a husband

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to her. Did everyone know the truth? How many nobles

would mock her name this morning over their breakfasts?

How would the gossips magnify her forward behavior?

What would Pharaoh say when he heard? What would her

mother think?

“Bastet have mercy,” she murmured, dropping her head

into her hands.

Ramla sat up in the gloom. “Are you happy now, little

one? Shall I begin counting the days until your son is born?”

Drained of will and thought, Sagira shook her head.

“Well, perhaps I will wait,” Ramla murmured. “And if a

child does not come from this occasion, there will be other

times when Potiphar will call for you. Now that the wall

between you has been breached—”

“There will be no son,” Sagira answered dully. “No daugh-

ter, no child. The mighty Potiphar has left his manhood behind

on some battlefield.”

Ramla’s face went pale. “You lie.”

“I do not.” Sagira clenched her jaw. “I may be young, but

I am not a fool.”

“Pharaoh would never—”

“Pharaoh does not know,” Sagira answered, shaking her

head. “How could he? If this were the morning after our

wedding, I would demand that the marriage be set aside. But

how can I explain to Pharaoh that I did not discover this truth

until now? Too many months have passed, Ramla. I would die

of embarrassment if I had to expose the truth before Pharaoh’s

court and—”

“You cannot have the marriage set aside,” Ramla inter-

rupted, settling her elbows on her bent knees and steepling her

fingers. “You will lose Potiphar’s property if you do.” Her eyes

narrowed in speculation. “You must say nothing of this to

anyone. Keep Potiphar’s reputation intact. Be kind and respect-

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ful to him—he was so drunk he will probably recall nothing of

last night. He will think you went to your chamber as usual.”

“But what of my son?” Sagira cried. “The prophecy! How

am I to have a child with Potiphar? The gods have made a

mistake, I was not meant to marry him—”

“Hush for now,” Ramla soothed her. “The gods cannot be

wrong. There is a way out of this, there has to be.” The priest-

ess swung her thin legs out of her narrow cot and drew near,

then placed her cool hands on Sagira’s hot shoulders. “Sleep

now, my lady, and let me consider this. I will consult the

goddess about what we should do.”

Relaxing in the older woman’s authoritative tone, Sagira

allowed herself to be pressed back onto her bed. Ramla

dropped a linen cover over her, and Sagira closed her eyes to

block out the haunting knowledge she’d gleaned in the last

few hours. How many others knew of Potiphar’s war injuries?

Did Paneah know? Had he told Tuya? Last night she had felt

their eyes on her as she swayed before her husband in the

ritual of seduction—were they laughing at her now?

She turned onto her side and thumbed tears of anger and

frustration from her eyes as Ramla began a sacred chant.

For three days Sagira moved throughout the household in

a false and brittle dignity. Underneath her artificial smile

seethed an anger and indignation unlike anything she had

ever felt, but no one seemed to sense it.

When she could no longer endure the sickening sensation

of her life plunging downward, Sagira decided to confront

her husband.

Potiphar came home after dark, as usual, probably hop-

ing that she had already gone to sleep. She waited until the

rushlight burned steadily in his room before creeping to his

door. She was about to enter when she heard Potiphar

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speak, so she flattened herself against the wall and coiled

into the shadows.

Paneah answered, his voice like steel wrapped in silk, and

for a moment she forgot her resolve and concentrated on the

sound. Now there was a man! How handsome the slave was,

and how youthful! But he didn’t like her, and she had made

no attempts to win his approval since the awful day she’d tried

to send Tuya away.

She lingered until Paneah finished his report and left

Potiphar’s chamber. He walked out with his gaze fastened to a

papyrus scroll, and did not look back. Relieved, Sagira pushed

the door aside and boldly entered to stand before her husband.

“Sagira! Is something wrong?” he asked, obviously startled

by her appearance. He had removed his sword and his wig;

she could see ginger-colored freckles on his bald skull. “Do

not worry, my husband,” she said, her gaze darting to the bed

where he would soon take his rest. “I do not intend to stay. I

came only to say that you have wronged me. You should have

told me the truth long before this.”

His face flamed crimson, but he did not deny the unspoken

problem between them. “I tried to tell you I did not intend to

marry,” he said, fumbling with the clasp of a leopard-skin mantle

across his shoulders. “But who can deny the divine pharaoh?”

“Still, you should have been honest with me. For months

I thought you did not take me into your arms because—” She

paused and took a deep breath. It hurt to speak the truth, but

since she was urging him to be honest, she should be just as

forthright. “I thought you did not love me because I am not

beautiful.”

The warrior’s stone face cracked into humanity. “Ah,

Sagira, I never meant to hurt you. I thought you would be

relieved that I did not call you into my chambers. Why should

a young girl yearn for a scarred battle horse like me?”

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Without his wig, he looked like a day-old hatchling, bald,

wobbly and uncertain. Sagira could almost feel sorry for him,

but he had wronged her too deeply.

He shook his head. “I did not think my indifference would

hurt you. You seemed content with your friend, and I—”

“You did not want the court to know the extent of your scars,”

she whispered, looking at the floor. “Does anyone know?”

He hesitated. “Tuthmosis knew, and would probably have

forced me to leave the army, but he died before doing any-

thing about it. Amenhotep has no idea…and I am not going

to tell him.”

He delivered the last remark with a commander’s convic-

tion, yet Sagira sensed that it was also a plea. “Fear not,

Potiphar,” she said, giving him a small smile. “I will not reveal

your secret. To do so would tell the world that Pharaoh made

a mistake.”

“A god cannot make mistakes,” Potiphar said, a note of fond

indulgence in his voice. “How often I have reminded myself

of that truth.” He turned and motioned toward a chair. “Won’t

you sit down, my dear? Perhaps we should talk of other things.

I find that this conversation has left me feeling quite…relieved.”

Sagira took the seat he offered while Potiphar squatted on

the edge of his low bed. “Do not think you are not beautiful,”

he said, looking at her with something that might have been

sympathy in his eyes. “You are a true daughter of the Nile, a

composite of all that is good in our people. I’ve seen your clev-

erness and your zest for living. I must confess…bringing you

into my house has made me feel old.”

Sagira studied her husband carefully. She had never imag-

ined that he thought about anything but Pharaoh and his

warriors. Had she truly affected him?

“Beauty counts for little at the end of a man’s life,” Potiphar

continued. “Faithfulness is what I have come to treasure most.

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The faithfulness of Pharaoh, of the men in my command, of

my able Paneah, who has brought blessings on my humble

house. I don’t ask you to shine as a beauty, Sagira. I only ask

that you be faithful to a husband who will do you no wrong.

And someday—” he gestured toward the outer hall “—this

will all be yours.”

“Faithful,” she whispered the word. “I can be faithful.”

“I believe you.” He rested his elbows on his knees and

chuckled softly. “When a man has more yesterdays than to-

morrows, he learns the value of forthrightness. I will always

speak truly to you, Sagira, and ask that you speak plainly to

me. Let there be no more secrets between us.”

“Agreed,” Sagira said, rising. She walked toward her hus-

band and pressed her palm to the battlefield of wrinkles on

his cheek. “No more secrets,” she echoed, then she kissed his

forehead and left him alone to his sleep.

“What did he say?” Ramla demanded when Sagira reen-

tered her chamber. “Was he angry? Did he deny the truth?”

“He denied nothing.” Sagira slipped her heavy wig from

her head, placed it on its stand, then sighed and reclined on

her couch. “He was glad to be honest with me. He said if I

am faithful to him, he will treat me well. And someday I will

inherit all he possesses.”

“When he dies,” Ramla whispered, her eyes wide. A sud-

den smile broke her usually stern countenance. “So that is how

the gods will work. When Potiphar dies, Sagira, you will

remarry. Then you will bear a son to head the next dynasty!”

“No,” Sagira answered, studying her nails. “I will have a

son of my own choosing. I am tired of waiting for the gods

to work their will. I will travel the road of my own life.”

The priestess blanched. “You speak blasphemy. Bastet will

not listen to you.”

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“Bastet may do whatever she likes,” Sagira answered, her

voice tight with mutiny. “If Bastet does not approve, I’ll send

my offerings to Hathor or Horus or the temple of Amon-Re.

One of them will hear my petition. You have said, Ramla, that

the prophecy cannot be changed. So any god can come to my

aid, and one of them will.”

Ramla stiffened and took on a defensive air, but Sagira

ignored her disapproving frown. In time she would change her

opinion, for Sagira could easily cast off the priestess of Bastet

in favor of a representative from one of the other temples.

“Perhaps, with the proper offerings, Bastet can be persuaded

to assist you,” Ramla finally murmured. “But how will you

choose a son? You cannot plant seed into your own womb—”

“I will have a son whose beauty makes up for my lack.”

Sagira swung her legs onto the floor, then stood and paced in

the room. “I will bear a son whose presence will slap Potiphar

in the face, just payment for the grief I have endured on his

account. My son will be well-suited to wear the double crown

of Egypt—he will possess my cunning and his father’s gifts

of administration and knowledge. The royal blood of the Two

Kingdoms will flow through his veins. I have promised

Potiphar to be faithful, and I will be—faithful to the prophecy,

to myself.”

Ramla moved to block Sagira’s path. “Who?”

Sagira lifted her chin. “I will present Potiphar with the son

of Paneah the slave, and he will not deny my son’s legitimacy.”

“He will have you put away for adultery!” Ramla hissed,

clenching her fists. “The captain of the king’s guard will not

accept a child he knows is not his—”

“He will,” Sagira answered. “All who attended our party

think Potiphar the embodiment of virility. His pride will not

allow him to disown the son I will place into his hands. He is

firmly in my power, for I know his secret.” Her mouth curved

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in a mirthless smile. “A slave’s child will become Potiphar’s

heir and Egypt’s king. The ever-faithful and capable Paneah

will sire my son.”

Ramla felt her way through Potiphar’s garden, easing