for her in the early evening. She dined with him in his cham-
ber, nodding at his stories, laughing at his jokes and smiling
at his compliments. Often they played a board game after
dinner, or Abayomi would entertain her with a demonstration
of his skills in sword fighting or archery. Every once in a great
while, when especially tired or weary, he would invite her to
remain with him throughout the night.
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Because he was yet a child, Tuya realized that these invi-
tations to join him in the royal bed were pleas for compan-
ionship. She often thought no life was as lonely as the one to
which a royal prince was born, for though tutors, warriors,
servants and counselors surrounded him, Abayomi had no true
friends or confidants. His secrets were too exalted to be shared
with common, less divine folk, and his dreams too sacred to
be entrusted to anyone but a wife.
And so, in a vague imitation of his father and his elder
brother, Abayomi wrapped his arms about his wife’s neck and
emptied his soul of its burdens, secrets and joys. And Tuya,
her heart stirred with compassion and maternal tenderness,
stroked the young prince’s brow and resolved that though she
might never be truly happy, she would always be grateful. The
strong arm of Montu had not been able to restore her to Yosef,
but it had kept her from Pharaoh’s harem.
“Aha!” Abayomi’s cry jolted her from her thoughts. “My
jackals have killed all but one of your hounds, wife.”
“Yes, my lord,” she replied, scanning the game board. “As
always, you have won the game. My single hound cannot
escape a pack of jackals.”
“Shall we play again?” Already he was resetting the game
pieces into their positions.
“I am tired, my husband.”
“Please, Tuya? If you will play, I will tell you the news of
the court.”
She shook her head. “I have no interest in people who do
not concern me.”
“But this is news you will want to hear. It concerns
Potiphar—the man who brought you to my father.”
“I see the captain of the guard every day in your father’s
audience chamber. He cares nothing for me, nor I for him.”
“But this news—” Abayomi leaned forward and glanced
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left and right as if telling a great secret “—concerns the man’s
wife. Lady Sagira has accused Potiphar’s steward, the chief
slave in the house, of attacking her.”
“She lies!” The words slipped from Tuya’s mouth without
conscious thought.
Abayomi shook his head. “The lady presented evidence.
The slave’s garment was in her hand, yet the man was foolish
enough to step forward and contradict her.”
In a rush of bitter remembrance, Tuya saw Yosef’s confi-
dent smile.
I can handle Sagira even as I have handled
Potiphar all these years…
He hadn’t been able to handle either of them.
“Is it possible,” she whispered, “that the steward spoke
the truth?”
Abayomi leaned back in his chair. “They say he came
forward with only a scrap of a feed bag to cover himself. Ap-
parently his guilt compelled him to run from his crime, but
he could not go naked into the streets, for they were crowded
with people celebrating the festival of Opet. Potiphar heard
the evidence and sentenced the slave on the spot.”
Tuya’s hand rose to her throat. Ramla’s prediction had come
true, after all. Sagira had seduced her handsome slave. Perhaps
even now her womb stirred with Yosef’s child. And after ac-
complishing her victory, she had thrownYosef out of the house
and accused him of an act for which the penalty was death.
Tuya’s hands and feet felt as cold as the tomb. “The
slave is—dead?”
Abayomi propped his gangly brown legs on a footstool.
“Potiphar sentenced him to prison. Apparently he maintained
great affection for this steward, and did not wish to see him die.”
A mingling of relief and dread rushed over Tuya. Yosef’s
unseen god had spared his life, for any other husband would
have killed an accused slave on the spot. But prison! She
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lowered her gaze and shuddered as she recalled Potiphar’s jail.
The place had lain behind the wall of the house, a desolate strip
of red stone buildings and reed-covered pits from which she
had often heard the agonized screams of Pharaoh’s prisoners…
“My husband,” she said, feeling limp with weariness, “the
night waxes old and I am tired.”
I want to weep. I want to close
my eyes and cry for the noble Yosef I once knew, the man who
would not betray his god or his father, the one who loved
purely and honestly…
But that man had vanished forever, replaced by a cheap-
ened Paneah who would spend the rest of his life in prison.
She would mourn for Yosef; she would water her bed with
tears for what might have been.
Please, Montu, please let my
husband dismiss me…
Abayomi leaned forward. “One more game, Tuya, please.
One more, and then we shall sleep.”
Obediently, Tuya gathered the painted wands.
Potiphar’s garden was dense with trees and leaves and blue
shadows, and Tuya moved through it as if she had wings.
Floods of cornflowers lined the tiled walkway, a blurred and
heady bunching of color from potted and earth-sown plants.
She felt happy and relaxed, for she had escaped the walls of
the palace for an hour of rendezvous with Yosef.
Lowering herself to the ground under an acacia tree, she
gazed up through the sun-shot leaves and waited. The tur-
quoise sky brimmed with gold radiance, but nothing could
match the beauty of the man she loved.
“Tuya.”
He stood before her, awash in the sun’s golden light, his
eyes snapping with joy. With sure steps he crossed the garden
and knelt at her side, his hand lifting her chin, his arm encir-
cling her. Tremors of rapture caught in her throat as he whis-
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pered her name; she closed her eyes and gasped in an attempt
to still the wild pounding of her heart. She trembled in his
arms, fire racing along every sinew of her body, and then his
lips touched the moist hollow of her throat.
“Yosef.” She reached for him, but her hand closed on
empty air.
Stunned, she opened her eyes. She sat alone in a leafless
garden where a hot, whining wind hooted her name. Some-
where far away, a woman laughed in derision.
She woke herself with weeping and shuddered in the dark-
ness, terrified by the persistence of her dreams.
With careful deliberation, Khamat let the rope slide
through his fingers and into the pit. He’d placed an extra slice
of brown bread and a shat cake into the steward’s bucket. The
prisoner had not eaten in seven days, and death would soon
claim him if his appetite could not be tempted and awakened.
“If it please you, my lord, hear me.” Startled by the strong
voice, Khamat leaned forward to peer into the pit, wondering
if he had approached the wrong cell.
The Hebrew slave was emaciated, but alive. He sat on the
ground with his legs crossed and his arms resting on his knees.
Through the glistening skin Khamat could count the man’s
ribs. “Speak.”
The bearded face lifted and dark eyes flitted over
Khamat’s face. “If it please you—” The slave paused as if
gathering his courage. “Would you ask the captain of Pha-
raoh’s bodyguard to grant me an audience? I would like to
speak to my master Potiphar.”
“Potiphar says you are no longer his concern,” Khamat
answered. The slave’s mouth was slack with submission, but
his eyes glittered with resolve. Khamat had heard that this
Paneah possessed a keen intelligence, and cunning and des-
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peration were a dangerous brew. If this humble pose was not
sincere, those eyes might flash with murder and rebellion
when the jailer turned his back…
“If he will not see me, perhaps you will relay my mes-
sage,” the slave called. “I would speak to Potiphar not as his
favored steward, but as the king’s prisoner, one worthy of
death. I will not ask for pardon. Even though I am innocent
of the charge for which I am imprisoned, I am guilty of a
grave error—most grave.”
Without rising at all, the prisoner’s voice took on a subtle
urgency. Khamat leaned forward to hear better.
“I would ask Potiphar,” Paneah continued, “not for release
or pardon, but for a duty. I served in his house, and would like
permission to work in his prison. Let me wait on these who
have sinned against Pharaoh so I may learn…humility.”
Khamat gaped into the pit. Serve the prisoners? No man
wanted to serve prisoners! This place held only those who
were beneath idiots, beneath slaves, even beneath prisoners
of war. No, this request could not be sincere; the man had to
have a hidden motive. Perhaps the cramped conditions of the
pit had worked on his nerves. Perhaps he looked for an op-
portunity to escape…or to return to the house to take ven-
geance on the lady Sagira.
“If you were to do what you propose,” Khamat hedged,
testing the waters, “you would not be transferred from this pit.
After your work, when you had cleaned the cells of the others,
you would find yourself back here again.”
“It matters not where you confine me,” the prisoner called,
shrugging. “Do with me as you will.”
“I would watch you like a hawk watches the rabbit, with a
whip and sword in my hand. The gates and doors would be
locked. There will be no opportunity for escape.”
Paneah lifted a dark brow. “Was it not I who ordered that
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the wall be made higher?” He smiled as if he had been re-
minded of something, then lifted his hands. “Use your whip,
warden, even your sword, if you see a single sign of pride or
rebellion cross my face.”
Khamat paused. He had never thought to employ one of
the prisoners as a servant, but the idea was delightful. Potiphar
usually assigned the prison’s cleaning detail to members of
his guard whose misdeeds warranted disciplinary action;
when there were no rebels Khamat himself had to empty slop
buckets, bandage festering wounds and carry the dead from
the cells in which they breathed their last. Why not use a
slave to do a slave’s work? The idea was logical. If the man
disobeyed, no one would mourn him.
“I will speak to the captain,” Khamat promised.
Two days later, pressed by his warden, Potiphar stood at
the lip of Yosef’s cell and barked out a greeting. Dazed by the
familiar sound, Yosef scrambled to his feet. “Master?”
“I am your master no more,” Potiphar said, his face lined
with a scowl that did not quite reach his eyes. “Speak, slave,
for my patience is limited.”
“Thank you for coming,” Yosef called up, wiping his hands
on his kilt. Now that his master stood before him, the eloquent
words he had prepared slipped from his mind like water
through his fingers.
“This is not a social meeting,” Potiphar called. Behind him,
Khamat peered over the captain’s shoulder, andYosef knew the
warden must have had difficulty convincing Potiphar to come.
“Master Potiphar,” Yosef answered, finding his tongue. “I
would ask your permission to serve your warden.”
“Indeed.” Potiphar’s dark eyes raked Yosef’s face. “My
warden says you have admitted your guilt in this crime.”
“Guilt, no,” Yosef answered, slowly feeling his way. The
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urge to reveal Sagira’s role in the situation gnawed at his heart,
but Yosef knew that temptation sprang from pride. His task
was to align his own soul with God’s purposes, no one else’s.
“I admit—” he fixed his gaze to Potiphar’s “—that the
voice of ambition encouraged me to lift my head above my
station. I listened to those who praised my efforts in your
household, and took those voices too seriously. I was nothing
but a slave, a reflection of God’s wisdom, the instrument of
his will. A slave has no right to claim honor and praise as I
did. My god has pronounced his judgment on me, and he has
brought me to admit the error of my ways. My faults are mine
alone. My successes have sprung from the hand of God.”
“Your pious babbling means nothing to me, Paneah. You
know I judge men by common sense and loyalty. If you will
not admit your guilt, why have you called for me?”
“Idleness chafes at my soul, master. Let me restore my soul
to humility by serving the warden of this prison. In this way
I can serve you still.”
He had hoped that his words would move Potiphar’s heart,
but the master’s granite face remained as expressionless as it
had been on the night of Yosef’s disgrace. “Do what you will
with him,” he said finally, jerking his gaze toward Khamat.