expectation. “Go wherever you have to go. No chains shall
bind you, no purse restrain you. You are Potiphar’s steward,
and he has complete faith in you.” She lowered her voice to
a more intimate tone. “The master designer of Potiphar’s
house will soon be known as the greatest man in Thebes.
After that, Paneah, who knows what the future will bring?”
He laughed, and the sound of his sincere humor caught her
off guard. “Have I said something funny?”
His smile melted the sudden frostiness of her heart. “It’s
just that—well, I have dreamed of greatness. And if this is how
I gain it—”
“Be not afraid of greatness,” she whispered, leaning toward
him. She placed her hand on his and smiled when he did not
pull away. “Do your best, Paneah, as I know you will. And
then you may reach for the stars, and Pharaoh himself will not
be able to stop you.”
As the young boy stood on tiptoe to place the ceremonial
crust of bread between her lips, Tuya felt as though she moved
in a dream. In a moment this child, a royal prince, would be
her husband. Hard to believe, but that reality was easier to face
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than the realization that she had walked away from the only
love she had ever known.
Abayomi smashed the ceremonial jug of wine with a sword
he could barely swing, and spectators broke into perfunctory
shouts of approval. No one cared, really, who the boy-prince
married. Tuya knew she ought to be grateful. After only two
weeks in Pharaoh’s household she had exchanged her slavery
for royalty; she would be comfortable and protected as long
as her husband favored her. If next month Abayomi decided
that he no longer cared for her, she would be no worse off than
she had been a month ago.
In Potiphar’s house, passion had burned while reason slum-
bered.
In Pharaoh’s palace, reason wrapped her in comfort while
she buried her passion.
The boy looked at her with a singularly sweet smile and
offered his hand. Tuya adjusted the expression of her face and
stepped out from beneath the bridal canopy with her husband,
a boy eleven years her junior.
Sagira had just approved Paneah’s plans for a new stable
when Potiphar passed through the main hall looking more
frustrated than usual. “What is wrong, my lord?” she called,
glancing up from the scroll over which Paneah hovered.
“The royal wedding,” he said, shaking his head. “It is fin-
ished, but Pharaoh was particularly concerned that nothing
spoil it. He has heard rumors of a conspiracy to take his life,
and his paranoia has reached the point of foolishness.”
“A wedding?” Sagira murmured, making notes about the
marble flooring to be installed in her bedchamber. “Did the
king take another wife?”
“Not the king. Pharaoh’s son married Tuya today.”
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A sudden shock rippled through her system. “Our Tuya
married the crown prince?”
Potiphar sank into a chair. “Not the heir—the king’s sec-
ond son asked for her. And when a slave is beautiful and
the queen is jealous, a young prince may command even
his father.”
Sagira turned to gauge Paneah’s reaction to the news. He
did not lift his gaze from the scroll, but his face had paled
beneath its tan. His eyes, which had blazed with interest as
he told her of his plans for the villa, had filled with the
dullness of despair.
She looked away, torn by conflicting emotions. Yosef still
fancied himself in love with Tuya, but he would never have
her now. And while Tuya may have married into the royal
family, she would be nothing but a nursemaid to her husband
for years to come.
She forced a smile. “Our Tuya has married a baby.”
“Don’t be concerned,” Potiphar said, resting his head on
his hand. “Boys grow into men.”
The days without Tuya melted into weeks, the weeks into
months, the months into seasons. Two full years passed in
Potiphar’s house, and the estate that had been one of the most
prosperous in Thebes now eclipsed all but the king’s.
Potiphar’s nearest neighbors, afraid of appearing shabby next
to his affluence, sold their lands to Paneah at bargain prices
and moved away from the burgeoning estate. Potiphar’s cattle
outgrew the stockyard until Paneah built new pens; Potiphar’s
fields outproduced others’ three- and four-fold.
Potiphar was not shy about sharing the secret of his suc-
cess. “I leave everything to Paneah,” he often boasted. “I take
care of Pharaoh, and Paneah takes care of me.”
Extravagant offers poured in from every quarter of Egypt,
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but Potiphar refused to sell his slave. When it became clear
that no amount of silver or gold could wrest Paneah from
Potiphar’s house, stewards from other noble estates came to
consult with him, usually bearing gifts of silver, linen or ex-
pensive oils and perfumes. They came expecting miracles;
they left with practical advice that did increase the produc-
tivity of their homes and fields. But no estate came close to
matching the success and bounty of Potiphar’s enterprises.
Sagira watched in silent approval as the praise of nobles
and stewards buoyed Paneah’s pride. Like soothing oil on his
wounded heart, their flattering words restored the sureness to
his step, the confidence to his eyes. He commanded the other
slaves with authority, treated visiting nobles with a dignified
deference and communicated more in a cocky tilt of his brow
than Potiphar did in a hundred gruff words.
At twenty-four, Yosef had become tall, lean and muscular
from his labors. Though Sagira felt herself largely responsible
for his success, she stood a little in awe of the man he had
become. Though she still planned to use him to father her son,
now and then she wondered if he was using her. Like everyone
else, she had fallen under his charming spell. In the afternoons
when he dismounted from his chariot, she had to look away
lest she cry out and tell the world she adored him.
She had never intended to love him, but in choosing to
make herself pleasing to him, he had become unbearably
precious to her. When he was away, her mind curled around
thoughts of seeing him again. Her passion was a flower that
flourished in the secret places of her heart, and she often con-
fessed to Ramla that she had become caught in a web of her
own weaving. Though her plan to seduce Paneah had been
conceived in ambition and revenge, couldn’t love erase the
anger that had first propelled her toward him?
She spent her days dreaming. Potiphar was fifty-one years
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old and would not live much longer so her son, sired by
Paneah, would also be fathered by him. She would, she as-
sured Ramla, marry the love of her heart as soon as Potiphar
rested in his tomb. Paneah would be rich beyond measure, the
most powerful noble in Thebes, and when the gods placed the
royal throne into her hands, Paneah would be Pharaoh and
their son the next king. Two prophecies, his and hers, would
be fulfilled.
Sometimes Sagira thought her gnawing hunger would
force her to command Paneah into her chamber. But the date
had been foreordained by the goddess, and Sagira would not
risk divine anger by disobeying. So she waited, feeding her
love-starved heart with fantasies and the rich expectation of
the moment that would come.
On the delicious occasions when she found herself alone
with Paneah, she baited him as she always had, lightly running
her fingers over his muscled back or raking her fingers
through his hair. He did not shy away from her touch now, but
seemed to welcome her massaging hands as he studied evolv-
ing plans for the house and she coaxed the tenseness from his
neck. Occasionally she planted kisses on his ear, loving the
blush that rose from his neck, and more than once she needled
him by saying that if he grew any more handsome she’d
command him to lie with her.
He shook his head and laughed at her jests, saying, “No
more tests, Sagira.” She answered with a smile, pretending
she had meant nothing even though her arms ached to hold
him. Though Ramla still worshipped Bastet, Paneah was
Sagira’s god in slave’s form, joy and torment in flesh. In
conversation, whenever Paneah happened to say “we must
do this” or “we ought to do that,” a thrill shivered through
her senses because he had mingled himself with her in a
simple word.
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So she counted the months and weeks of the final year,
looking forward to the day of the Nile’s full fertility. On that
night she would command Paneah to come to her bed—and
on that night she would not jest.
The eighteenth day of the second month finally arrived, the
first day of the Feast of Opet. The festival began as priests
carried the god Amon from the dark shrine in his temple to
visit his harem at the temple of Southern Opet, and Sagira
could hear the blast of the priests’ trumpets from her bed-
chamber. Soon the city’s inhabitants would pour into the
streets of Thebes to gawk at the gilded shrine as the god
traveled down the Nile.
The house of Potiphar would empty as well. Sagira had sent
a note to Paneah the night before, asking him to remain behind,
but insisting that he grant liberty to all the slaves so no one
might be left out on this happy occasion. Potiphar, of course,
would remain by Pharaoh’s side until the festival ended.
Ramla arose from her bed and murmured incantations as
she helped Sagira bathe, then she scented the room with
incense while Sagira massaged perfumed oil into her skin. A
new wig waited on a wooden stand, a simple, short creation
that made Sagira appear as carefree and innocent as a young
girl. She had ordered a special dress for this day, a simple
garment of the uncluttered design Paneah seemed to prefer.
Wiping the excess oil from her hands, Sagira padded across
the room and ran her hand over the sheer fabric. It was as soft
as a kitten’s ear, and about as subtle as the parade of Opet.
When she stood before Paneah in this revealing tunic, he
would recognize her intentions.
Only a fool would not.
She slipped the tunic over her head and twisted to study the
effect. The transparent garment clung to her like a second skin.
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Dreamers
“Careful,” Ramla cautioned from the bathroom as she
emptied the washbasin. “He is not yet won.”
Like a protective mother, the priestess entered the room and
slipped Sagira’s red cloak over the sheer tunic. The crimson
color heightened the hue in Sagira’s cheeks and matched her
dainty leather slippers.
All was in readiness. Quiet reigned in the area beyond her
chamber, no one stirred in the hall or the courtyard beyond.
“I am ready, you may leave me,” Sagira finally said, eyeing
herself in the new full-length bronze mirror recently installed
in her bedchamber. She glanced around the room. Fresh
curtains hung about her bed, incense burned on the brazier and
lotus petals had been sprinkled on the floor.
“All is ready,” Ramla echoed, as intent as a soldier. She
bowed toward Sagira, then turned and vanished like a shadow
at noonday.
Chapter Twenty
Alone at last, Sagira paced in her chamber, every nerve
strung to a high pitch. She had waited so long for this moment!
So many nights she had lain awake imagining how it would
be. On discovering her here, Paneah, her Paneah, would real-
ize she had taken great pains to ensure their privacy. For him
she had designed Thebes’s most beautiful bedchamber, for
him she wore the most exquisite garment imaginable, for him
she had perfumed her skin and softened her heart. She had
incanted the proper petitions, given the proper offerings. Not
one detail had been overlooked or neglected. They could take
their fill of love until late in the evening when the servants
would return. If they were discreet, Paneah might remain
with her until nearly sunrise…
When she noticed she was walking on tiptoe, she forced
herself to take a deep breath. A strange knocking sound filled
her chamber and she froze in horror, then chuckled when she
realized she was hearing the terrified pounding of her own
heart. Far away the wind stirred the trees along the garden
path; a horse whinnied and another responded, then all was
quiet and still.
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Now. Deftly, reverently, she lifted the bell that would
summon Paneah and rang it with hope in her heart. The
sound pealed through the corridor and echoed in the empty
halls, and for a moment she feared he had not receive her
message. What if he had gone out to enjoy the festival with