Dreamers (29 page)

God would rescue him.

For several days he waited for news of Sagira’s confession,

but apparently that hard-hearted woman would not recant her

story. The second week he expected Potiphar to appear and

announce that he had experienced a change of heart and

needed Paneah to resume control of the foundering household.

But Potiphar did not come. As Yosef paced in his cell,

straining to hear sounds of normal life from Potiphar’s house-

hold, days melted into one another, periods of suffocating heat

followed by cool darkness that chilled his bones and brought

fever to his body.

Yosef lay on the sand in his cell and shivered like a dog even

in the heat of the day. His mind wandered in the twilight world

of illness and conjured up the faces of people God had taken

from his life: Tuya, his father, his mother, eleven brothers.

He had been in a pit once before. This darkness was like

that one, this pain akin to the other, these prayers like the

petitions he had lifted to heaven after his brothers had turned

against him. How could his brothers and his mistress profess

to love him in one hour and devise to take his life in the next?

What harm had he done? What quality in his personality com-

pelled them to despise him?

After a string of days, the fever broke, but unanswered

questions haunted Yosef’s sleep and his waking hours. He had

only done what he ought to do. He had overseen his brothers’

activities because he was a capable manager; he had told his

father about their mistakes because correction would benefit

the entire family. He had managed Potiphar’s affairs because

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he wanted Potiphar to succeed; he had humored Sagira be-

cause she was his mistress and could not be scorned.

Why, then, had his brothers risen against him? Why had

Sagira betrayed him after calling him her best and only friend?

Why had Potiphar ignored years of faithful service and chosen

to believe a lie?

At home he had been the favored son. In Potiphar’s house

he had been the trusted steward, the de facto ruler of the

mightiest estate in Thebes. Now he sat in a prison cell, alone

but for the occasional sag-bellied rat that tumbled into the pit

while searching for scraps of food.

Why, God?
He lifted his face to the sliver of heaven he could

see through the thatched cover over the mouth of his cell.
Was

I blinded by my dreams of power and authority? But you sent

me those dreams; I have sought only your will for my life.

Sagira offered to fulfill his dreams and Yosef chose to

honor God, the one who had left him to rot in a pit. Where

was he in this hour? Why didn’t he answer? Yosef’s pit lay

only a few paces from the chamber where he once lived as

master of Potiphar’s house, yet a world of distance separated

those two places.

No one will hear my cries, God, unless you listen. Sagira

will not come, nor Potiphar, nor Tuya, nor my father, nor my

brothers. All I have is you, and yet you are silent…

His thoughts rambled in an incoherent jumble. Two years

before, he recalled, Tuya had seen Sagira’s intentions and

warned him, but he had not listened. Many years before that,

his father had admonished him against boasting and he had

not listened. Pride blinded him to his brothers’ intentions,

just as it led him to deny Sagira’s lust-laced infatuation.

You knew how she felt,
an inner voice chided him.
Tuya

warned you, Sagira herself demonstrated her feelings. But you

found secret satisfaction in her attentions. You avoided her

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presence, yet took pleasure each time she demanded that you

appear. You pulled away from her touch, yet you hurried to

her chambers each time she called you to work on another of

her projects. She made you the greatest steward in Thebes,

and you allowed her to do it. You were proud of being her pet.

Pride.
The word stung like the bite of a scorpion, for pride

was the seismic fault of his life. He had craved the rich posses-

sions of Egypt, furnishing Potiphar’s house with every treasure

that struck his fancy. He had looked on Sagira and wondered

“what if?” He had listened to the vain flattery of visiting nobles.

Yosef huddled over the ashes of his dreams and bowed his

head to his knees. He had been proud to wear his many-

colored coat before his brothers, flaunting his position as the

most-beloved son among twelve. He had been proud of

Potiphar’s trust in him, placing his position even before Tuya’s

unselfish love. He had been proud of Sagira’s inappropriate

interest and confident of his ability to keep the tigress at bay.

Pride had enticed him into her den; only prayer got him out.

And haughty eyes and a proud heart were loathsome to the

Almighty God.

The endless monotony of confinement forced him to look

at himself, and for the first time he saw Potiphar’s Paneah

through eyes blessed with humility. God had gifted him with

Rahel’s beauty, Yaakov’s keen intellect, his brothers’ strength

and the Hebrews’ divine covenant of blessing. But Yosef had

accepted these qualities as his own, not recognizing that the

gifts of God had been channeled to him through others.

“Would that I had been born ugly, dull and weak,” he

murmured. “Then I would not have cause to lift up my heart

against God.”

Still bent into a position of submission, he extended his

hands and curled the palms toward heaven in supplication.

“Speak to me, God, as you have spoken before,” he whispered,

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his face resting on the ground. “Speak to me though I have not

spoken to you in many months. Do not forget me as I have

forgotten you.”

An hour passed. Yosef’s eyes felt sandy and his bones

ached. Grief throbbed in his soul. God had not spoken. Per-

haps God would not forgive. Certainly the dreams would

never be fulfilled, for he would remain in this pit forever, a

victim of his own pride and foolishness.

He wanted to die, to lie under the desiccating orb the Egyp-

tians called Re until nothing remained but a hollow shell of

the promise he used to be.

Woe unto those who go down to Egypt.

He had not heard the voice in years, but he recognized it

instantly. His eyes flew open as the hairs on his arms lifted.

Woe unto those who go down to Egypt and do not look to

the Holy One of Yisrael. When pride comes, then comes

dishonor, but with the humble is wisdom. Return to him from

whom you have defected, O son of Yisrael, and like a hovering

bird the Lord of hosts will protect you. He will protect and

deliver you; He will pass over and rescue you.

El Shaddai had not forsaken him. Yosef covered his face

with his hands. Tears of relief came in a rush so strong they

shook his body.

“Potiphar!”

Khamat, warden of Potiphar’s prison, waved from the gate.

Reluctantly, Potiphar slowed his step. Since Paneah’s im-

prisonment he had avoided the jail, not wanting to remember

his steward’s disloyalty. The memory of Paneah’s stricken

face still troubled his sleep.

“What is it?” He turned to face Khamat. “I have business

inside the house.” Indeed he did, for problems had erupted like

troublesome weeds ever since Paneah’s departure.

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“Surely you would like to visit the prison, master. It has been

nearly a month since your last inspection and I wondered—”

“I trust you, Khamat. Things cannot have changed so much.”

He turned to leave, but the warden’s next words made him

halt in mid-step. “If the steward troubles you, you do not have

to look at him. He remains in his cell, far from the others.”

Potiphar set his jaw and bit down an urge to slap the man

for making such a presumptuous remark. But everyone knew

he felt guilty about Paneah. The entire household still buzzed

with gossip about the steward’s arrest, and the once-unified

team of slaves had divided into quarreling factions. Most of

the men thought Paneah guilty, for they understood the urges

of a virile youth and had often remarked on the friendship

between the steward and his mistress.

Potiphar had noticed the situation, too. He had encouraged

the relationship because he knew Sagira was lonely, but he

believed his wife regarded Paneah with a feeling akin to the

paternal affection he felt toward the young man.

The female slaves, including Sagira’s handmaids, took

Paneah’s part in the debate. He was too beautiful, they in-

sisted, to take by force what any woman on the estate, includ-

ing the mistress, would have willingly given him. Sagira, the

rumors said, had yearned for the steward like a child longs for

a dangerous toy, pursuing him with an odd mixture of con-

tempt and desire.

But the rumors would not change Paneah’s fate. A noble-

woman’s word was sufficient to convict a slave of anything.

Even if Potiphar had found cause to doubt his wife, the tear-

stained kilt in her hand had sealed the slave’s sentence.

What was he thinking?
Potiphar clenched his teeth as he

considered Paneah’s blunder for the thousandth time.
Sagira

is charming, she is lovely in her way, she has a way of making

a man feel important—

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But Paneah should have known better than to fall into her

trap. And now Potiphar must support his wife, for to do other-

wise would be tantamount to admitting that he had driven her

to seek pleasure in the arms of a slave.

Khamat discreetly cleared his throat, bringing Potiphar

back to reality. “The prison, my lord?”

“The steward does not disturb me,” Potiphar answered,

tossing the words over his shoulder. “He is no longer my

property, but the king’s prisoner. If anyone must worry about

him, let it be Amenhotep.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Take your turn, my wife.”

When eleven-year-old Prince Abayomi shifted impatiently

on his chair, Tuya forced her attention back to the game board.

Her small hound figurines stood in imminent danger of being

devoured by her husband’s ivory jackals, so she rolled the

painted wands on the wooden board. “Three squares, my hus-

band,” she said, moving one hound out of the pack and around

the circular path. “In a moment my hound will be chasing you.”

The royal mouth frowned, but the boy picked up the wands

and rattled them enthusiastically. The young prince had inher-

ited his father’s long and straight limbs, but his mother’s pale

beauty had softened the dark eyes that glared from Pharaoh’s

visage. Abayomi’s quick smile was set in the midst of a du-

rably boyish face that either twinkled with mischievousness

or glowed in the mystic contemplation of a daydreamer. Like

his elder brother, his head had been shaved but for a princely

lock of long hair growing from his right temple.

That lock quivered like a snake as he rattled the wands. “By

the powers of Osiris and Amon-Re, I command double sixes!”

he cried, throwing the wooden sticks. One of the carved wands

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skittered across the board and landed in Tuya’s lap. Amused,

she tossed it back. “A five,” she said. “You may catch one or

two of my hounds, but I shall escape you yet.”

Abayomi frowned and fingered his game pieces, trying to

decide how best to move his jackals, and Tuya smiled at him

with tolerant affection. The all-consuming grief that had cov-

ered her like a mantle in the first year of her marriage had eased

somewhat. Though a weight of sadness lay on her thin face,

few things now touched the secret pool of sorrow within her.

For two years the boy-prince had been her husband. Shortly

after their marriage Tuya realized Abayomi had asked for her

because he considered her a pretty possession, a beautiful

companion to sit by his side, listen to his dreams and play his

board games. He was yet too simple and immature to realize

that dashed dreams and disillusionment had left her heart a

shell, but he was kind and good-natured. He might have

sensed her sorrow, for he took great pains to make her smile.

At first his frantic efforts to please left her bewildered; in time

the mere sight of him gaping up at her was enough to make

her laugh. He fancied himself a good husband, often bringing

gifts: a golden necklace, a kitten, a bowl of candied dates.

As the wife of a royal son, Tuya had her own apartment in

the palace, a bevy of handmaids to do her bidding, the use of

a chariot whenever she wished and a wardrobe box filled with

the most lovely garments she could have ever imagined. Her

husband filled his days with training and games, and called