See how he favors the vizier, for he has the same beauty and
clarity of features—”
“The beauty is his mother’s,” Yosef said, commanding at-
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tention with a nod of his head. “As God lives, I have fathered
only two sons, Ephraim and Manasseh.”
Narmer scowled at the vizier. “You are not capable of such
restraint. There is yet another witness who will testify to your
misdeeds. Another voice will prove my contentions and our
pharaoh’s dying words.”
In a voice as cold as his eyes, Narmer turned toward the
double doors of the throne room. “I call Sagira, widow of
Potiphar, to speak to us!”
From the outer hall, Sagira heard the summons and ran her
hands over her gown. The doors swung open to admit her, and
she blinked, afraid she had forgotten some item of dress in
her hurry to answer the midnight summons. Narmer’s mes-
senger had been most explicit—she must appear, she was im-
portant, she would be rewarded for her cooperation.
Her knees quivered as she stepped into the room, yet she
held her head high. She had not been invited to the palace
since Paneah’s trial, and the magnificent room seemed
broader and taller and more colorful than she remembered it.
Her gaze drifted to the square of inlaid tiles where she had
stood under a wedding canopy and received Potiphar as her
husband. That memory belonged to another lifetime, to
another girl, a younger girl.
The mood of the gathering was somber, the faces around
her drawn and tense. In the open space before the throne, Tuya
stood between a pair of royal guards like a lily between two
watchdogs. Across from Tuya, Paneah stood surrounded by
six of Pharaoh’s bodyguards.
Drawn like a moth to a flame, Sagira stared at her former
slave. She thought he nodded at her, and the friendliness in
his smile puzzled her.
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Between the prisoners, Narmer paced like a dog marking
his boundaries. He said nothing as she approached, allowing
her to make a suitably impressive entrance, and Sagira took
advantage of the silence to run her gaze over the crowd. The
gathering included half a dozen men and women wearing the
shaved heads and the spotless robes of the priesthood, a few
nobles, Paneah’s stricken wife and her maids and a remnant
of Pharaoh’s guard. A dozen scribes sat in a corner, scribbling
to record this event for posterity.
On her gilded chair, Queen Mutemwiya sat regal and
composed, while the crown prince hunched on a stool at her
feet, his pale face streaked with tears.
Sagira paused at the end of the aisle. To whom was she
supposed to bow? Narmer must have sensed her discomfiture,
for he launched into a long recitation of her history.
Sagira only half listened as her eyes drank in her surround-
ings. Everything in sight might have been hers if Ramla had
spoken a true prophecy, but the priestess had lied. Sagira would
die alone and forgotten, and she would die soon. The disease
that had left her barren and bleeding was robbing her of life.
But she was still of royal blood, and by all rights, she
should have been included among the family members seated
behind the throne. This conviction sent her spirits soaring, and
she smiled at the assembled crowd as Narmer finished his
speech: “This gentle lady, the widow of Potiphar, can attest to
Zaphenath-paneah’s crime. She will prove his words false, for
he has never been able to restrain himself when faced with a
beautiful woman. He once attempted to force even her, his
master’s wife.”
Like a many-eyed creature, the company turned to stare at
her. She met their eyes with boldness, determined to face
down the rumors that had circulated in Thebes for years. The
gossips called her a drunkard, a harlot, a fool, but she was
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better these days. She was the daughter of a princess, a widow
with authority, a woman not to be underestimated.
A pair of mirror-brilliant eyes in the crowd snagged
Sagira’s attention. Ramla! The priestess of Bastet stood be-
hind Chike, her clawed hand hidden at her waist, her head
inclined as if in mild interest. But from those dark eyes blazed
ambition, hunger and zeal.
The priestess nodded, acknowledging Sagira’s gaze, and
flashed her brows in a silent signal:
Tell them, Sagira, what they
want to know, and you will be rewarded. Narmer will allow
you to assume your rightful place in the palace, and I will
again be your priestess. Can you think we have not heard of
your lonely and silent house? Tell them, Sagira. We are waiting.
The intensity of those black eyes left Sagira feeling unset-
tled. She wrested her attention from Ramla and struggled to
find her voice.
“Well?” Narmer stepped closer. “We are waiting for you
to confirm the vizier’s character.”
“Pharaoh has already ruled on these accusations,” Chike
interrupted. “The divine pharaoh declared Zaphenath-paneah
innocent of all charges.”
“But Lady Sagira did not recant her charge,” Narmer
pointed out, his finger wagging like a scolding tutor’s. “What
if the vizier’s magic was strong enough to dupe even a god?”
A murmur of wonder rippled through the crowd, and
Narmer turned to Sagira again. “We are waiting, Lady.”
“I will speak.” She glanced around. Tuya stood straight and
tall between her guards, surprisingly youthful without her
heavy wig. How could they have been childhood friends?
Though she had only lived thirty-three years, Sagira felt as
though she had endured fifty.
Reluctantly, Sagira’s gaze shifted toward Paneah. She ex-
pected to see revulsion, hatred, even resignation on his face,
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for hadn’t she once destroyed him? Like the glorious Phoenix
Paneah had arisen from the ashes, but now Narmer had offered
a means with which she could crush him again. With a handful
of words she could obliterate Paneah’s unfairly favored life,
snuff the intelligence from his exquisite eyes and send his soul
to the other world. He had to know what she was thinking,
that her soul yearned to find significance…for this she would
be remembered as long as the Nile flowed.
She lifted her eyes to his. An odd mingling of compassion
and curiosity stirred in his face, as though he didn’t care what
she might say, but felt pity for her need to say it. Pity! For her?
She’d received no pity from the nobles of Thebes, from the
women of Pharaoh’s court or even from her servants. Only
Paneah and Tuya had ever shown her the slightest bit of
sincere compassion or concern. The two most caring people
in her life had also been the most loved, the most hated and
the most beautiful…
Her blood ran thick with guilt. In quiet serenity Paneah and
Tuya stood beside her even now. Sagira had been surrounded
by beauty throughout her life, but until this moment she had
never realized that the beauty of Tuya and Paneah was not so
much a physical manifestation as it was an inner one. The
accused man standing beside her bore the fine wrinkles of his
age with elegance. Gray hair sprouted from his temples, yet
no man in the room was more striking. And though grief had
left Tuya’s face haggard and tense, her eyes shone with a
peace Sagira had never known. Behind the throne, the ugliness
of Ramla’s ambition raised its horrid head, the same prideful
zeal that had convinced Sagira to despise the only true friend
she had ever known…
Abruptly, she turned to Chike. “I want the entire assembly
to know the truth,” she said, her voice ringing. “I tried to
seduce my own slave, but he would not submit, nor would he
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be disloyal to his master. I believe Zaphenath-paneah to be
incapable of disloyalty. He would not be unfaithful to
Potiphar. He could not be unfaithful to Pharaoh. This inquest,
this charade, is a naked attempt to steal the throne from
Pharaoh’s only son. If you must seek an adulteress, look to
the woman who sits on the throne. She and this Narmer have
been plotting to take the throne for years. Queen Mutemwiya
plans to discredit the rightful prince, then marry Narmer and
make him Pharaoh.”
“She lies!” Mutemwiya rose from her chair with such force
that it toppled from the dais and clattered to the floor.
“No.” Sagira shook her head. “I have no reason to lie, and
nothing to gain by falseness. Illness has shortened my days
and only by blessing of the Almighty God will I live to see
the land green again.”
Narmer stuttered while Sagira prostrated herself on the
floor before Amenhotep. After a moment of whispered con-
sultation with his fellow priests, Chike stepped forward. “May
Thoth, who judges the hearts of men, judge yours with
mercy,” he told Sagira as she huddled on the floor. “May the
Almighty God bless you for what you have done here tonight.
I speak for the gods of Egypt, who approve an honest heart,
but never a deceitful one.”
The priests murmured in agreement. One by one, they ap-
proached Amenhotep, who stood while they knelt before him.
“This is an outrage,” Narmer said, finally finding his tongue.
He stamped his sandaled foot on the marble floor. “Pharaoh’s
dying words—”
The vizier held up his bound wrists to be unloosed. “Are
known to the Almighty God, but not to us.”
Sagira shivered in happiness when Zaphenath-paneah
smiled at her.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Two months later, as the sun continued to toast the Egyptian
landscape, Pharaoh Tuthmosis IV was laid to rest in his ex-
traordinary tomb. With the blessing of Queen Tuya, the high
priest Chike appointed Zaphenath-paneah to act as Amen-
hotep’s regent until he came to an age where he would be
capable of ruling the kingdom. Thus the vizier inherited
another title: “Father to Pharaoh.” The fate of the two con-
spirators, Narmer and Mutemwiya, was left to Zaphenath-
paneah, who decreed that the two should be exiled in the
empire of the Mitannis, far from Egypt’s borders.
The trade routes over which the Egyptian guards escorted
the two evildoers had widened considerably in the last year,
for men throughout the world heard that grain flowed like
water in Egypt. Famine and drought had shrilled over the
entire earth, and foreigners throughout civilization journeyed
to trade in Egypt.
While the young pharaoh studied his lessons and prepared
to lead his country, the treasure houses of Egypt filled as the
princes of the world brought gold and jewels and silver in
exchange for grain so they might live and not die. The people
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of Egypt blessed Zaphenath-paneah and their new king, for
despite the famine, the hand of a protecting god had made pro-
vision for their lives.
Tuya still walked in the gardens with Yosef and her son, and
often she stopped by the pool where the blue lotus flowers
bloomed in abundance. After plucking a flowering stem, she
would wrap the long tendrils around her bare arm and fondly
remember the boy who had grown into a man and a truly
great king.
“You miss him, don’t you?” Yosef asked one afternoon as
she savored the fragrance of a blossom. Amenhotep walked
ahead of them, well beyond the range of their voices.
“I do.” Tuya fingered the gentle petals of the flower. “I am
sometimes sorry I did not appreciate him sooner. He was a
noble king and a wise man. He hungered for God in a way
few men do.”
“I know.” Yosef thrust his hands behind his back as they
walked. “Amenhotep, you know, has a fine mind, sensitivity and
courage. He could be the greatest king Egypt has ever known.”
Tuya smiled. “We shall see.”
They walked in companionable silence for a moment,
then Yosef cleared his throat. “I don’t want you to be
lonely,” he began, setting his jaw. “And at last the time is
right. Will you marry me, Tuya? There is no reason why you
should not.”
Tuya laughed softly. “I can think of a good reason. Years
ago, you told me about your father and his two wives.”
“Lea and Rahel?”
She stopped on the path and turned to face him. “Your
father loved one and was kind to the other. Yet because he did
not love them both, you and your family have suffered greatly.”
She lifted his precious hand and pressed it to her cheek.
“Asenath is a lovely woman, and you have two fine sons. You
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will not be happy loving one wife and offering mere kindness
to the other.”
His hand curved around her cheek, then he nodded. A
moment later, he was gone, following Amenhotep, but Tuya
remained on the path, relishing the warmth on her face. “And