Dreamers (12 page)

conceal the jealousy in his eyes or the disdain in his posture.

Yet the man never failed to shine in Pharaoh’s presence.

Narmer lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “The king thought it

best to send his wishes with me,” he said, underscoring his

position in Pharaoh’s confidence. “Perhaps you should not

keep him waiting.”

Scowling, Potiphar broke the seal on the scroll and read the

message penned there:

In life, prosperity, health, and in favor of Amon-Re,

king of the gods, and of the Ka of King Amenhotep II.

Greetings, Potiphar, most trusted guard of Pharaoh. The

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empire enlarged by my father, Tuthmosis III, may his

name be ever praised, has experienced turmoil in the

eastern nomes along the river known as Euphrates. I am

ready to vent my displeasure on these rebel chieftains,

and await your presence for this venture. Come at once,

and do not delay. Narmer waits to bring you to me.

The scroll had been sealed with Pharaoh’s official scarab,

and Potiphar knew he could not waste a moment of the king’s

patience. “I will make ready at once,” he murmured, not

looking up. “You will wait outside in my reception rooms. I

will send a girl to wash your feet.”

Narmer held up a defensive hand. “I would not stop to wash

my feet while the king waits.”

“Nevertheless, you shall, for I am not ready,” Potiphar

answered, standing. With shameless efficiency he propelled

Narmer toward the doorway. When he saw Tuya walking in

the corridor, he clapped his hands. “Tuya! Take this messen-

ger to the central hall and wash his hands and feet.”

“I am not, Lord Potiphar, a mere messenger,” Narmer said,

fury lurking beneath his smile.

“Today you are,” Potiphar answered with an easy grin.

“Our divine pharaoh will not mind if you are a moment out

of his presence. And I will have you back at the palace before

your youthful face can sprout its next pimple.”

Narmer flushed and clenched his fists, but he followed

Tuya.

Potiphar stalked back into his chamber, indignation seeth-

ing beneath his breastbone. The trouble lay in his spending

too much time at home. Of late his villa had become a refuge

from the pitfalls of the palace, but while Potiphar was away,

a new cat had come to toy with the royal favor. The smell of

ambition rose from Narmer like a cheap perfume, and Amen-

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hotep was wily enough to goad his old friend and fellow

soldier with a fresh and competitive face.

This Narmer would not act high and mighty for long.
I may

be an old cat,
Potiphar thought, stepping into a fresh kilt and

fastening a belt at his waist,
but I have learned tricks from the

wisest souls in this world and the one beyond.

Abruptly, he bellowed for Paneah.

The dim haze of sleep still filled Yosef’s head when he

entered Potiphar’s chamber and stooped to help his master dress.

“I must go away,” Potiphar said as Yosef strapped on his

sandals, “and I am leaving the household in your care. I cannot

say how long this whim of Pharaoh’s will last, for something

has aroused the bloodlust in him. We are traveling to the

eastern dominions and back, a journey of some months.”

The sleep haze vanished like fog before the sun. “Through

the lands of Canaan?” Yosef asked, not looking up. Did he

dare suggest that he accompany Potiphar? The army might

cross the lands of Yaakov, might even encounter the family.

Yosef could return to his father in the company of the foremost

military general of the world’s greatest king. He could repay

his brothers’ treachery with righteous vengeance; in one bold

move reveal that ten of Yaakov’s sons were fiends and one,

thought dead, alive and strong.

“Of course we’ll pass through Canaan,” Potiphar snapped,

fumbling with the leopard-skin belt that held his dagger.

“The Mitanni tribes are causing trouble, probably feuding

with the Hittites.”

Yosef finished fastening the sandals and reached up to

hook the enclosure of the dagger belt. “You might have use

for a servant on the journey.”

The master’s brows knitted in a frown. “I have ten thousand

soldiers at my bidding, Paneah,” he said, his voice surprisingly

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gentle. “What I need—what I have never had till now—is a

home waiting when I return. I place you in charge of every-

thing you find here. Speak with my full authority and act as

my steward.”

Narmer stalked into the room as Potiphar finished speak-

ing. With a superior smirk, he lifted a jeweled hand and

pointed to Yosef. “Dare you leave your house in the care of a

slave? You will have nothing when we return, for even this

boy will run away.” He snickered. “Can Potiphar’s renowned

wisdom be fading?”

“My gift of discernment is still strong,” Potiphar answered,

not bothering to look at the younger man as he made a last-

minute check of his person. “I would trust Paneah with my life.”

He turned to Yosef and lowered his voice, his eagle eye

staring down his nose. “I trust you, Paneah, with all I have.

Do not prove my intuition wrong.”

Yosef straightened. “I will not, my lord.”

Potiphar nodded, then scowled out the doorway.

Rebellious would-be kings from the northeastern provinces

of Carchemish and Tegarama had amassed a sizable force, but

their troops proved no match for the swift battalions of Pha-

raoh’s golden warriors. The well-organized Egyptian army,

comprised of both infantry and chariot troops, flew across the

desert like a whirlwind, churning up sand and wind and

debris. The chariots, each manned by two soldiers and two

horses, were made of the lightest wood available and designed

so wounded horses could be unstrapped and the chariot hauled

by prisoners of war if necessary. Behind the chariots came the

infantry—foot soldiers carrying spears, shields and battle-

axs to wipe the field clean of enemy troops that might have

survived the first onslaught.

Potiphar rode next to Amenhotep’s own chariot. The king’s

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charioteer, a grizzled veteran of several foreign wars, held the

horses steady as the king bellowed and sent arrows in a whis-

tling cloud toward the enemy. Potiphar preferred the battle-

ax to the bow. His weapon, a curved golden blade resting in

a silver-shafted handle, had been blessed by Pharaoh and had

never failed to leave a battle without tasting blood.

The ground around them bristled with enemy arrows, but

Amenhotep’s courage did not fail. Delighting in the combat,

he sent his arrows flying into waves of approaching rebels. A

descending arrow glanced off the king’s forehead, and blood

from the wound transformed his features into a glistening

mask that did more to discourage his foes than the over-

whelming Egyptian weaponry. Whether from fear or intimi-

dation, the enemy fell back, and Potiphar smiled in grim

relief. This battle would not last long.

When at last the rebels threw down their weapons, scores

of men lay motionless on the ground, the life gone out of them

like an extinguished light. Potiphar drove his weary horses to

Pharaoh’s chariot and bowed. “A good victory, my king,” he

said, taking pains to keep his voice strong and pleasant. “Are

we ready to turn for home?”

“By all the gods, no!” Amenhotep roared, his eyes still

shining with the thrill of combat. “I will follow in my father’s

footsteps and subdue these troublesome kings again. We will

march from this place to the river Euphrates, and there I will raise

a stela of victory to record my accomplishments and military

successes. We will return to the Nile with a host of captive kings

to sacrifice to Egypt’s gods, and the tale will go forth from this

place. None of these will rise up against Egypt again!”

Potiphar forced a smile. “I will tell the men,” he said, gath-

ering the reins of his chariot. “Rest well, my king. May the

morrow bring yet another victory.”

Chapter Ten

Slanting sunlight shimmered off the glowing green foliage

of the trees; the day was far too pretty to waste. From the gate

of Potiphar’s villa, Tuya called to Yosef. “Will you never

finish? The festival is beginning!”

“The cattle and sheep don’t know today is a feast day,”

Yosef grumbled, striding out of the stockyard. He left

his box of papyrus scrolls with the gatekeeper and paused

to give the man instructions. No one worked during the

Feast of Opet, but Yosef seemed determined that neither

Potiphar’s fields nor his livestock would feel neglect during

the holiday.

Yosef stepped out of the gatehouse and gave Tuya a smile

as bright as the sun. “Your escort awaits you, my lady.”

A deep sense of happiness flooded Tuya’s soul as she took

Yosef’s arm. With Potiphar away, she could almost imagine

that she and Yosef were lord and lady of the house. For nearly

a full year Yosef had handled the estate with a firm hand,

monitoring the servants who ran the fields and the stockyard

and managing to keep Pharaoh’s tax collectors at bay while

he stockpiled Potiphar’s crops and treasures. When and if the

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master returned from his military foray, he would find himself

a vastly wealthy man.

Tuya took a deep breath of the dry air and enjoyed the

warmth of the sun on her face. The rising sun had swallowed

up the wind, and the dazzling blur of the sun-god’s boat stood

proud and fixed in the white-blue sky. Heat covered the city

like a blanket, but Tuya felt deliciously cool in the exquisite

white linen sheath she had sewn for herself. As fine as any

lady’s gown, the loose garment fastened at the shoulders with

delicate tassels. A pair of red leather slippers adorned her feet,

and she felt especially pampered because yellow scented

saffron oil perfumed her arms and neck. The precious scent

had been a gift from Yosef, and she had protested its extrava-

gance when he slipped the vial into her hand.

“Potiphar’s name will be praised when people see that even

his slaves conduct themselves like royalty,” Yosef murmured,

giving her a heart-stopping smile. “And when they see you, my

beautiful Tuya, Potiphar’s reputation will ascend to the heavens.”

So she had relented, hoping that the sweet scent would

draw Yosef to her in the way a flower attracts a bee. Like any

man who loves work, he found it difficult to relax, but Tuya

took his hand and led him through the streets, explaining the

meaning of the festival ceremonies and the altars and stelae

that had been set up to commemorate the occasion.

“The festival begins when the shrine of the god Amon is

carried from the dark chamber of his temple at Karnak into

the sunlight,” Tuya whispered, pullingYosef through a jostling

crowd of merrymakers who vied for a spot along the riverbank.

“Why does the god wish to leave his temple?”

“Well—” Tuya blushed “—he goes each year to visit his

harem at the temple of Southern Opet.”

Yosef laughed, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “And

what pleasure can a harem give a god of stone?”

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“Quiet!” Tuya glanced around, afraid someone would

overhear his blasphemy. “Who knows what the gods do? Men

cannot see into the underworld. We cannot divine things of

the spirit.”

“Perhaps we can,” Yosef answered, but Tuya wasn’t in the

mood for one of his debates. Craning her neck, she pointed

toward the river. “Here they come! Closer, Yosef, stand here.

You’ve never seen anything like this!”

He didn’t answer, but rested his hands on her hips as they

swayed in the throng along the riverbank. They heard the an-

ticipatory roar of the crowd, then the whine of the priests’

horns and the pounding of the drum. Finally the god’s cedar-

wood barge came into view. On the flat platform a host of bald

priests in long white robes stood guard over an object swathed

in white linen and supported by a gleaming altar. Many in the

crowd fell to their knees as the barge passed, and petitions to

the great god Amon filled the air.

“Merciful Amon, hear my cry!”

“Restore unto me the money I have lost!”

“Amon, hear the plea of a childless woman!”

“Amon-Re, grant our king safety and return him to the land!”

The barge did not travel under its own power, but teams of

horses on both sides of the river’s banks pulled it forward. The

pious pilgrims closest to the banks scattered as the animals

approached, but a few of the most fervent dashed beneath the

ropes as if they meant to swim out and personally present their

petitions to the god. The appearance of leather-skinned croco-

diles in the water kept even the most religious celebrants on