through a darkness so complete it felt like liquid. She experi-
enced a similar feeling each time she invoked the powers that
gave her the ability to see into the future. The first time she
had attempted it, fear of the unknown knotted and writhed in
her stomach, but that terrible sensation faded as the heavens
opened and revealed their secrets.
Those secrets bound the priestess to Sagira even now. She
had known for years that Lady Kahent would call at the
temple of Bastet, and the first time her eyes fell on Sagira she
had known she would find her destiny in the swarthy little girl.
If not for that certainty, Ramla would have left Potiphar’s
house long ago. Sagira was spoiled, headstrong and prone to
be foolish, but Ramla could not deny what she had seen. The
girl would make an impression on the sands of time, and
Ramla wanted to be a part of it. She wanted to be…significant.
As a baby, she had been deposited on the steps of Bastet’s
temple, a nameless, malformed creature whose mewing elic-
ited pity from the hearts of the priests. With bitter pride as her
strength, she had grown wise in the ways of the priesthood.
One dark night, much like this one, she had opened her soul
to the powers of the gods.
Those powers had led her to Sagira, and her unwavering
faith in the vision of the future would force her to stay.
Sagira sailed through the next few days like a waterfowl
on the Nile—calm on the surface, but paddling furiously
beneath. The seduction of Potiphar’s steward must be care-
fully planned, for several obstacles lay in her path. First and
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foremost, the entire household knew of the deep love between
Paneah and Tuya. Perfectly attuned to one another, the two
slaves could read glances and upraised brows without speak-
ing a word. Such a bond would not be easy to break.
Sagira’s second problem involved Paneah’s inscrutable de-
tachment. He had learned far better than Tuya how to maintain
a respectful gap between master and slave, and he kept a
careful distance between himself and his mistress. Winning
his confidence would not be easy. Sagira knew that if she
stepped toward him with anything akin to interest in her eyes,
the young man would turn and leave without hesitation.
Other complications begged to be considered—the when
and how and where of the conception, as well as what should
be done about Potiphar when her belly began to swell. Perhaps
he could be pacified with a story about how a god assumed
human form and visited her to beget the worthy and wounded
Potiphar a son. After all, thousands of Egyptians believed a
variation of that tale every time a son of Pharaoh was born.
Without such a visitation from the gods, Pharaoh would not
be a son of his father god, Osiris.
Sagira smiled in contemplation of her success. Her son’s
birth would punish those who had hurt her most, and the child
would be a destroyer of Egypt’s enemies throughout his life.
He would be the greatest pharaoh the world had ever seen, and
as his mother, she would live forever in the memories of men.
For as long as the world exists, men will speak of you…
Such had the prophecy promised.
In order to win Paneah’s participation, Sagira set out to
understand him. Without calling him to her side, she studied
the slave as he served meals; she peered down at him from
the roof as he moved through the stockyard, the granaries and
the slaves’ workrooms. Once she realized that he rendez-
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Dreamers
voused with Tuya every night in the garden, Sagira secreted
herself among the bushes to spy on the lovers sitting at the
edge of the pool.
On her first night amid the acacias, she thought them as
boring as old people who had been married for years. Tuya
inquired about Paneah’s day in the fields; Paneah asked about
the bakers and butler and supplies of oil. Soon they exhausted
the topics of ordinary conversation, however, and fell silent.
The sky was black and icy with a wash of brilliant stars, a
perfect night for lovers. When Paneah ran his hand over
Tuya’s glossy hair, Sagira leaned forward, her hands pressing
on the moist black earth and her knees sliding over the
slippery carpet of fallen leaves.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Tuya.” Paneah’s
voice gentled as he spoke to the girl by his side, and Tuya’s
oval face glowed as she sighed and called her lover Yosef.
Yosef? Sagira frowned. The name was not Egyptian, but it
fell from Tuya’s lips as if she had spoken it a thousand times.
It must have been his name before Potiphar’s house, or perhaps
it sprang from his boyhood. Yosef. The word had an Asiatic
sound, perhaps it was a name from one of the Canaanite tribes.
Sagira made a mental note to ask Ramla to investigate, and
turned her ear to listen more closely. The black earth had to
be staining her linen dress, but she didn’t care.
“I like the cornflowers and nightshade along the garden
wall,” Paneah was saying, his head inclining toward Tuya’s.
“But the lotuses…the fragrance is so sweet, especially when
the flowers have been around your throat.”
When he ducked to sniff the flesh of her neck, Tuya
laughed and gently pushed him away. “The blue lotuses are
my favorite, but I shall not wear a lotus garland ever again if
you cannot control yourself,” she said, teasing him with her
eyes. “I shall wear plain ivy. It has no fragrance at all.”
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Tuya rose to her knees, then moved behind Paneah and
rubbed his shoulders. “Ah, you have found the spot,” he mur-
mured, his head tipping back to rest against her. He closed his
eyes and sighed. “I could spend the entire night right here, but
only if you’ll promise to continue until morning.”
“And how can I do that?” Tuya leaned forward. “When the
sun rises, my work begins, and I must have sleep.”
“As must I,” Paneah murmured. His hand rose and clasped
hers. “We must say goodnight, my love. Until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow,” Tuya answered, lowering herself until
she sat facing him. Their foreheads met for a long moment of
communion, then Paneah lifted his head and pressed his lips
to the girl’s forehead.
From behind the bush, Sagira held her breath, imagining
his lips on hers.
“Four more years,” Tuya murmured when they parted.
“They’ll fly like hours,” Paneah answered, then Tuya stood
and moved away, releasing his hand only when his arm would
reach no farther. Sagira waited until Paneah left the garden,
too, then she emerged from her hiding place and brushed the
soil from her knees and hands.
Four years? What did they mean? She frowned, then set
her feet toward Potiphar’s chamber where a thin stream of
lamplight still glowed beneath his doorway. He would know
what Tuya meant. And, being in her power, he would tell her.
Sagira fidgeted uncomfortably in the garden’s heat. The
fan Tuya moved back and forth did nothing but displace hot
air, and the water in Sagira’s goblet was blood warm, impos-
sible to enjoy.
Ramla approached, back from her month at the temple,
and Sagira sat up, eager to hear news from other parts of
the city. “Welcome, my lady,” Ramla said, as cool as ever
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in her spotless white gown and golden collar. “Bastet has
smiled on you.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Sagira remarked, giving the woman
a half smile. “Sit down, Ramla, and tell me everything you’ve
heard this month. What’s the latest gossip of Thebes?”
“Dismiss these slaves,” Ramla ordered, tossing the back of
her hand toward Tuya. “I find them distracting.”
Sagira nodded toward Tuya and the girl who stood ready
at the pitcher, and both slaves hurried into the house, eager to
be out of the hot sun. When they had gone, Ramla frowned
and shook out the linen veil she used to protect the tender skin
of her shaved head. “By the wisdom of Bastet, why do you
sit here when you could be inside? The sun has obviously
baked your brains.”
“I like the garden,” Sagira said, smiling at the memory of
spying on Paneah. In the last few days she had given Tuya
work to keep the girl busy into the night. Paneah had wan-
dered in the garden alone, waiting, unaware that Sagira
watched his every move. “Tell me.” She leaned toward the
priestess. “What have you learned about the name Yosef?”
Ramla sighed, but a satisfied smile curled on her lips. “It
is a Hebrew name meaning ‘add to me.’”
Sagira tilted her head, marveling. “Our Paneah is a Hebrew?”
“The Hebrews,” Ramla went on, lifting a brow, “have a
history with the ancient pharaohs. The father of the Hebrews,
Avram, came to dwell in Egypt years ago. He traveled with a
beautiful woman he called his sister. She, of course, was taken
into Pharaoh’s harem, so Avram’s god closed up the wombs
of Pharaoh’s wives. Several of them bore dead babies, and
others lost the fruit of their womb before their time had come.
Pharaoh’s priests divined the truth—Sarai was not Avram’s
sister, but his wife.”
“How terrible,” Sagira said, relishing every word of the tale.
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“When the priests of Amon-Re revealed the plague’s cause
to Pharaoh, he called Avram and expelled him, his wife and
all his possessions from Egypt’s borders. A sizable military
force escorted them from the land of the Two Kingdoms. In
the temple scrolls it is written that Pharaoh prayed he would
never again see a Hebrew in the dominions of Egypt.”
“Yet we have one in our house,” Sagira whispered, staring
at the reflecting pool.
Ramla leaned forward. “Do you not think this a bad omen?
You want to have a child with this Hebrew, and his god has
the power to kill babies in the womb—”
“My Hebrew has but one god, and I have a plethora of
them,” Sagira said, turning to the other woman. “Are many
not more powerful than one?”
Ramla threw her a questioning glance, but Sagira only
smiled and tucked her leg under her skirt. She had Bastet,
Amon-Re and all the gods of Egypt to do battle for her. Above
all, she had time to consider her challenge and study the
object of her desire.
Chapter Sixteen
With pleased surprise Yosef noticed that the crop of his
fourth year in Potiphar’s house was more than triple the
amount harvested in his first year. The healthy cattle lowing
in the stockyard pressed for larger quarters, and Potiphar’s
horses won so many chariot races that the noblemen of Thebes
clamored for the foals of the estate’s stallions. Potiphar now
paid more taxes than any man in Thebes, and this fact finally
earned him the coveted Gold of Praise.
His master wore the face of a happy man, and Yosef
thought the household a contented one. Tuya seemed satis-
fied to wait out the remaining years until they should be freed
and wed, and Sagira seemed to have settled into her role as
pampered mistress of the sprawling estate. Ramla kept to her
mistress’s side or to herself in the small temple at the villa.
Though the priestess regarded Yosef with wary eyes, she
stayed clear of his approach and did not bother him.
Though deprived of precious freedom, the slaves of
Potiphar’s household were a great deal more prosperous than
the poor of Pharaoh’s kingdom. Well fed, clothed and housed
by their affluent master, they did not have to work past sun-
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down or labor to pay taxes to the divine pharaoh. Now even
Potiphar’s most disgruntled slave admitted that Paneah was a
gift from the gods. The young man was a compassionate but
firm taskmaster who listened to their grievances and requests.
Most of the slaves even bore a grudging respect for
Potiphar’s wife. Though headstrong and spoiled, Sagira had
brought the household into the circle of nobility. The once dull
and dusty villa now regularly rang with the cultured voices
of visiting nobles and their wives. Potiphar’s slaves felt them-
selves superior to the poor and quite the equivalent of the mer-
chants who lined the dusty streets of Thebes.
One afternoon Yosef had just finished settling a squabble
between the cook and the baker when Tuya came with word
that Lady Sagira wanted to see him in the garden. “I’ll go at
once,” Yosef said, giving Tuya a conspiratorial wink. “She
probably wants me to decorate for another of her parties.”
“Shouldn’t she ask me to do that?” Tuya asked. “What
would you know about a lady’s party?”
Yosef waved her away. “I was joking. I’m sure it’s nothing
important.”
He found his mistress alone in the garden. Her back was
to him as he approached, her thick wig heavy with golden
beads that sparkled amid the darkness of her hair like stars in