Dreamers (7 page)

business. In a far corner, a group of musicians played softly

on harps and lyres. The green tile floor, gleaming like the

Nile itself, stretched before Potiphar in a seemingly endless

vista. Conscious of hundreds of eyes on him, he walked

toward the throne.

With military discipline, Potiphar kept his gaze focused on

the king and his favorite wives though he jerked his chin in a

brief acknowledgment of his guards, who stood alert around

the royal family. To the right of the king’s throne stood his

eldest son and heir, seven-year-old Webensennu, and behind

the eldest son stood the younger, four-year-old Abayomi. The

queen, seated to the left of the king, was surrounded by a group

of fashionably dressed ladies of the royal harem. Her majesty’s

pet dwarf waddled in front of her chair, scowling at Potiphar

as if he took too long to traverse the royal throne room.

After Potiphar bowed his head toward the queen, the dark

eyes under the gold tiara and weighty wig blinked slowly in

response. To keep from glancing in fear to Pharaoh, Potiphar

forced himself to read the bold engraving on the queen’s

gilded chair: Mother of Upper and Lower Egypt, Follower of

Horus, Guide of the Ruler, Favorite Lady.

Finally Potiphar allowed himself to look on the person

and face of his sovereign and only god. Amenhotep had

dressed in complete royal regalia for this meeting, a sign that

could portend evil or good. On his head Pharaoh wore the red

and white double crown signifying the union between Upper

and Lower Egypt. At the front of the headdress gleamed a

Angela Hunt

53

golden model of the cobra goddess Wadjet, who could deal

out instant death by spitting flames at any enemy who dared

threaten the king. A long white robe disguised the king’s wiry,

athletic body, and the wide pectoral at his breast covered the

battle scars he had won while fighting with Potiphar against

the Asiatic city-states. Over everything, beating against Pha-

raoh’s heart, hung the heavy necklace known as the Gold of

Praise. Pharaoh wore it because he was King. A select few

men wore it because they had earned Pharaoh’s admiration.

Potiphar allowed his eyes to dart toward the battle paint-

ings to remind Pharaoh that they had been through much

together.
I remember, my king. Do you?

Amenhotep’s dark gaze met and held Potiphar’s as he

extended the crook and flail. “Come forward, Potiphar,”

Pharaoh called, the tip of his false beard wagging like the

finger of a scolding tutor.

Potiphar’s feet obeyed.

“I am the embodiment of the god Horus,” Amenhotep con-

tinued, speaking slowly for the scribes who transcribed every

word. “I am Golden Horus, the king of Upper and Lower

Egypt. I am the son of the sun-god Re. I am your father,

Potiphar, and I wish to honor you this day.”

Potiphar closed his eyes, afraid he gazed too hungrily on

the heavy chain of gold around Pharaoh’s neck. By the king’s

favor he had a house and cattle and sheep and goats and

slaves. He had more than he knew how to manage, but the

Gold of Praise had always eluded him.

“What can I give you, my son Potiphar, that you do not

already have? I have long pondered this question. I and my

fellow gods have already blessed you with life and health.”

“It is enough, O Pharaoh,” Potiphar answered. He fell to

his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground. “It is enough

that you, a god, have consented to rule over us. I am honored

54

Dreamers

beyond any man because you allow me to serve as the captain

of your guard.”

“And yet I think it is not enough,” the king answered.

Potiphar rose from the floor, in grave danger of losing his

self-control as he stared at his king. The royal hand was fin-

gering the Gold of Praise…

“My wife, mother of all Egypt, has given me the answer,”

Pharaoh said, his paint-lengthened eyes narrowing in some

secret amusement. “What you need, noble Potiphar, is a

woman’s touch to steady the lion’s heart that roars in your

breast. You need a wife.”

Potiphar stared at Amenhotep in the paralysis of astonish-

ment. Gold and favor he had expected, but a wife? He had no

interest in women, no need for one, and his independent spirit

rebelled at the thought of an equal to share his house and wealth.

“I—I have not thought of taking a wife,” Potiphar stam-

mered, finding his tongue. An idea leapt into his mind and he

ran with it, pouring forth golden words to soothe Pharaoh’s

prideful ear. “A wife, my king, might impede my service to

you. You are a god, you can divide your limitless time and

power between your duties and your pleasures, but I am a man

of restricted capacities. I would rather surrender my life than

one iota of my devotion to you.”

“Well spoken,” Pharaoh said, nodding. He raised the

ancient crook, the symbol of the shepherd’s staff by which

Pharaoh guided his people. “But you will not deny me this gift,

Potiphar. I will give you a woman, and you may marry her or

not, as you please. As the sun-god embarked this morning, the

keeper of the royal harem reported that an exquisite maiden

has been brought to the palace for my pleasure. I give her to

you, noble Potiphar, as a token of my divine approval.”

“A thousand thanks, my king,” Potiphar said, not daring to

protest again. “I will honor and cherish this beneficent tribute.”

Angela Hunt

55

“I know you will.” Pharaoh placed the crook across his

chest. “Go now, and walk in the favor of Amon-Re and your

king.”

The return of the crook to the king’s chest meant the inter-

view was over. The musicians played louder as Potiphar stood

and walked backward from the throne room. He would have

to find the harem girl and take her to his house straightaway,

or some wagging tongue would tell the king that his favor had

not been readily appreciated. Though Potiphar felt secure in

Pharaoh’s favor, never was it wise to assume anything in the

royal court.

Since only emasculated slaves and the king might enter the

harem’s chambers, Kratas escorted Potiphar’s prize from the

royal apartments to the wide room where foreign slaves were

sorted and evaluated. Despite his disinterest, Potiphar smiled

in appreciation at the sight of the slender girl walking by the

eunuch’s side. Tall and willowy, her skin was the color of bur-

nished honey and surely as sweet. She wore a simple linen

sheath that accented her regal posture, and her face, when she

finally lifted it, was as elegantly chiseled as the goddesses in

the finest temples.

“I must thank you as well as Pharaoh,” Potiphar told

Kratas, his eyes sweeping over the girl. “She will be a beau-

tiful addition to my household.”

The eunuch bowed. “Is your house fully staffed, my lord

Potiphar? We have just purchased several slaves from travel-

ing Midianites. The Asiatics will not do for Pharaoh—he

wants only Nubian slaves.”

“I don’t know, Kratas.” Relieved for an excuse to turn from

the fear-widened eyes of the girl, Potiphar glanced around the

room. Several bearded men, uncouth and raveled in appear-

ance, sat or lay on the floor in a molten mess of humanity.

56

Dreamers

They looked at him with burned-out eyes, soured with bitter-

ness. Most wore defeat like a banner, but one youth caught

his eye. Though stained with dust and fatigue, the teenager’s

face seemed lighted from within. Some god had chiseled in-

domitable pride into that flushed face, along with intelligence

and hard-bitten strength. This lad, if harnessed correctly,

would pull more than his share of the workload.

“That one.” Potiphar pointed to the boy. “How much?”

Kratas frowned. “You don’t want him. His arm has been

broken, and his body burns with fever from the devils of the

desert. He’ll die before two suns have set.”

“I don’t think he is ready to die,” Potiphar countered.

“How much?”

The eunuch scratched his chin and eyed Potiphar thought-

fully. “Fifty deben weight of silver.”

“You have just said he is worthless. Ten.”

“I paid forty for him. Do you want your king to suffer a loss?”

“Within two days the crocodiles will have him. Take

twenty, and be content.”

Kratas frowned again, then he nodded. “So be it, Lord

Potiphar. But I do you this favor only because our divine

pharaoh holds you in high esteem.”

“So it would appear,” Potiphar answered, pulling his purse

from his kilt.

Through a haze of exhaustion and pain, Yosef saw the

exchange of silver and realized that he had been sold to the

loud man who had come for the pretty girl. The king’s man

accepted the money, then one of the guards yanked Yosef

upright. Colors exploded in his brain as the rope chewed on

his splintered arm. The long journey had not afforded his

body a chance to heal, and fever coursed through his veins like

the quick, hot touch of the devil.

Angela Hunt

57

The girl’s wrists were bound as well, then a broad-shoul-

dered slave took the ropes and led Yosef and the girl out of

the chamber. They followed the loud man as he walked

through the palace courtyard and along the streets of Thebes.

People babbled in an unfamiliar tongue as they walked, and

though Yosef had managed to pick up a few words on the

journey southward, his thoughts drifted into a fuzzy haze in

which nothing made sense. He was exhausted, and every step

taxed the small store of energy he possessed. His body cried

out for rest, water and peace.

He walked, dimly aware of the hot sun, whining wind and

the rushing Nile at his right, then the sound of the river re-

treated into the gray fog around him. He slumped to the

ground, surrendering to the cloud of pain that had threatened

him since Dothan.

He thought he slept for a long time, perhaps days. When

he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a narrow bed in a

darkened chamber. A rushlight burned in a corner of the room,

and in the flickering light he could see walls covered with a

patina of dirt. The air felt as if it had been breathed too many

times, and he gasped for breath. He had passed his life in tents

and open fields; the confining atmosphere of the small space

was almost unbearable.

At the sound of his gasp, a dark shape on the floor stirred.

Yosef blinked in surprise when a blanket lifted and a pale face

peered out at him. A spirit? He stared in astonishment as the

pale face spoke, but Yosef could not understand the words.

“Have I died?” he whispered, struggling to sit up. For a

moment he dared hope that he was at home in his father’s tents

and the memories of the past few days were only a lingering

nightmare. But then the creature murmured something and

pressed a hand to his chest, gently forcing him back onto the

58

Dreamers

bed. He realized then that his guardian was no ghost, but a

flesh-and-blood creation. Slowly, the memory of his last con-

scious day returned. The girl beside him was the slave who

had journeyed with him to this place.

“You are—?” he asked in Hebrew, pointing to her.

The girl lifted her brows, then the light of understanding

lit her dark eyes. “Tuya,” she whispered, resting her delicate

hand on her chest. She pointed to him. “Paneah.”

“No.” He shook his head as an inexplicable surge of anger

rose within his breast. Had his brothers stolen even his name?

“I am Yosef.”

“Yosef?” She shook her head and pointed toward the

doorway. “Potiphar.” Her hand fell on his head. “Paneah.”

Yosef sighed and let his head fall back to the bed’s curious

headrest. Anger and denial were of no use. He had a new

name. A new position—because of his brothers’ treachery he

who had been the favored son was now a slave.

What had God done with his dreams of power and au-

thority? Who would bow to him in this foreign place—cattle?

As the girl settled beside him, Yosef closed his eyes in frus-

trated grief. At least a measure of his strength had returned.

His arm no longer throbbed, and the fever-fog that had

clouded his thoughts had lifted. He lay still, helpless in his

ignorance and weakness, lost in the lonely silence of the night.

He would never see his father again. Nor his brothers, nor

the two bright-eyed daughters of the camel-trader he had

teased with promises of marriage. Grief blossomed in his

chest, crushing his lungs, stealing the air he needed to breathe.

Like a drowning man he gasped aloud, trying to lift his head,

reaching out for the family he would never see again—

The girl caught his hands, then stroked his brow and

murmured gentle sounds. As if she sensed his thoughts, she

began to hum, and the room warmed to the odd melody.