Dreamers (23 page)

placed into a loving family. You had a friend.”

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Her black eyes widened as she stared over the tips of her

fingers. “I was taken to the temple, the place I would have sent

you if Potiphar had allowed it. The priests shaved my head

and circumcised my female parts to persuade me to remain

consecrated to Bastet.”

Tuya felt her heart shudder. Every feeling of antipathy she

had borne toward Ramla melted into pitiful concern. “I’m

sorry,” she whispered, scarcely daring to look at the woman

who had suffered so much.

“I should have known you would come into my life again,”

Ramla said, an odd smirk crossing her face. “What a jest the

gods have played on their resentful priestess! But I, too, have a

sense of humor. Tell me, Tuya, do you want to know the future?”

Tuya shook her head and turned to Ramla’s box of posses-

sions. “Some things are better left unseen.”

“Some things are better foreseen,” Ramla contradicted.

She dropped her hands and stood in a single, fluid motion.

“Tell me the future, Tuya. Do you think we will find

Potiphar’s household as we left it?”

Struggling to mask her rising fear, Tuya painted on a warm

smile. “The flood has come, so the land will be muddy and

gray. But our Paneah will be preparing for the planting—”

The priestess snickered. “Our Paneah? Do not think of

him as yours, my dear, for he is a slave belonging to your

master and mistress.”

“Of course. I did not mean to imply—”

“I’m not implying anything.” Ramla moved back to her

chair. “I know the future. I know the present. I know that

Paneah will give Sagira a son. It is her sworn ambition. Even

now your mistress works to win your love’s heart. Why do you

think you were sent away?”

The lid of Ramla’s trunk fell from Tuya’s hand as her limbs

and feelings went numb.

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Unrelenting, the priestess continued: “You know Sagira

and her determination. She is a woman of strategy and cun-

ning. She will lure the handsome Paneah into her arms before

he can think to resist.”

Tuya’s breath came in short, painful gasps. “Paneah will

not—”

“Paneah will do whatever he is commanded to do,”

Ramla went on, her eyes gleaming as she studied the effect

of her words. “He will give Sagira what she wants, or he

will die. If he wants to be rewarded, he will perform his

duties—enthusiastically.”

A sudden vise pressed on Tuya’s stomach. Overcome by

nausea, she bent and ran from the room.

Chapter Eighteen

Yosef surveyed the items spread over the wide mat. “Have

you remembered everything, Sagira?”

He and his mistress were outside the city, in the center of

the Theban Hills. He had spent the greater part of two months

showing his lady how the household functioned, and she, in

turn, had promised to show him the wonders of the land he

had never really seen.

Sagira had ordered the kitchen slaves to load the chariot

with special provisions for this outing, and Yosef had been im-

pressed with her preparation. They had left the villa shortly

before sunrise, while the rest of the household still slumbered.

“I brought everything,” she said, struggling with the last

basket.

Yosef sprang to assist her. “Let me get that.” The basket

seemed enormous in her frail arms, and her eyes lit with

gratitude when he carried it to the papyrus mat she had spread

on the sand.

“Now that everything is unpacked,” she said, placing her

hands on her hips, “look around you, Paneah! This is Egypt’s

glory! Some have called this place the Temple of the World.”

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Yosef lifted his gaze to the open horizon. A huge semicir-

cle of sheer cliffs rose straight from the floor of the Nile

Valley and dominated the west bank of the Theban Hills.

Forming an extraordinary foil for the elaborate temples across

the yawning chasm, the long prominence of cliffs shimmered

as if dancing to a rhythm only audible to desert creatures.

“Look there!” Sagira called, holding her light wig with one

hand as she pointed in the opposite direction. To the east, the

silvery Nile lay below a black bank of the fertile soil Yosef

had come to love. The yellow-green of new crop growth

glowed under ochre cliffs as red as Sagira’s lips. The entire

spectrum of colors brushed up against a blue sky that dazzled

Yosef’s eyes.

“I told you it was beautiful!” Sagira called.

Yosef nodded, too moved for words.

Far below, in the canyon beneath the cliffs, a whirlwind

swayed with the grace of a Hittite dancing girl. He and

Re’uven had once seen such a whirlwind, and Re’uven had

made a jest about one of Dan’s wives, a woman who danced

in the same way. The funny-sad memory made Yosef smile

and blink back unexpected tears.

The wind ruffled his hair, brushed his clean-shaven cheeks

and billowed his kilt about his knees. He had not felt the

strength of such a wind since he traveled the open land with

his brothers…and his father.

Would his family know him if they saw him with this face,

in this kilt? He would go to them if he could, offer his for-

giveness…but were they ready to accept it?

“Isn’t it— Why, Paneah, what’s wrong?” Sagira gazed at

him with concern in her eyes and clasped his arm when he

turned away. “I am your friend. You can tell me your deepest

sorrow.” She placed a gentle hand on his cheek. “As you care

for me, let me care for you.”

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The soothing sound of her voice, combined with the pain

of memory, broke the dam of resistance in him. Embarrassed

at his weakness, he lowered his head into his hands, then

allowed her to lead him to the mat where he crumpled into a

formless heap and released the bitter tears he had never been

able to shed.

He did not know how long he cried, but he felt doubly the

fool when he lifted his head from her lap. A man did not cry

in front of a woman, and a slave certainly did not weep in his

mistress’s arms.

“I am sorry.” He straightened and hoped she would forget

the incident. “I have behaved…improperly.”

“Nonsense.” Sagira slipped her hand around his upper arm.

“You were upset.”

“What I did was not appropriate.”

“There is no one here but you and me, and we shall judge

what is appropriate.” Sagira smiled, her eyes bright. “I cried

on your shoulder once, remember? I have only returned your

kindness.” She leaned into him. “What upset you, my Paneah?

The sight of the tombs? We do not fear death, you know. We

are only afraid of being caught unprepared for it.”

He shook his head. “The whirlwind reminded me of my

brothers. I try not to think about my family, for the memory

is painful, but a moment ago I would have leapt into that

chariot and driven northward to find them if you—”

He meant to say that he belonged to Sagira and couldn’t

very well steal her chariot and leave her stranded, but she

seemed to find a deeper meaning in his words, for she pressed

her lips to his shoulder. He clenched his fist, resisting the urge

to pull away. To do so would offend her, and she had been

kind. After all, in his weakness, he had reached for her.

She pressed her warm cheek to his upper arm. “You would

not leave me, would you?”

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“No, mistress,” he answered, shifting uncomfortably. He

propped his elbows on his knees and gripped his hands.

“A moment ago you called me Sagira,” she said, looking

up at him. “I would have you call me that whenever we are

alone. In fact—” she lifted her arm in an imperial gesture “—I

command it.”

“As you wish…Sagira.” He couldn’t resist smiling at her

playfulness. Perhaps he had misread her. She could be quite

charming, and he couldn’t deny a quiet pride in his position.

Of all the slaves, he alone had managed to befriend her.

“You are quick to please me,” she murmured, her eyes

watering in the wind.

“I am your slave.”

“You are my friend.”

He inclined his head, remembering the fellowship they

had shared over the past two months. “If friendship is possible

between a slave and mistress, I suppose we are.”

“Of course it is possible.” She pouted prettily. “Friends

want to make each other happy, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And a slave aims to make his mistress happy, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is no contradiction in the matter.” She slid across

the mat until she sat facing him, then her arms fell lightly

across his shoulders. “Kiss me, Paneah. The kiss of friendship.”

When he frowned, not at all pleased with this turn of the

conversation, she threw back her head and laughed. “If you

could see your face,” she said, locking her hands behind his

neck. “By the eye of Horus, Paneah, what do you think I

intend? I am a married woman!”

He forced a smile. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Have you never heard of the kiss of friendship? Potiphar

kisses Pharaoh’s leg every time he stands before him, and only

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truly important people are allowed to kiss the royal leg. But

when I offer you a chance to kiss my lips because you are a

special friend, you gaze at me as though I had sprouted the

horns of Thoth!”

He chuckled, and did not protest when she placed her

hands on his face and brought her lips close to his. “See, a

kiss is not torture,” she said, smiling against his mouth.

Though he felt ridiculous, he managed a reply. “No.”

She pulled away, still smiling, then leaned forward and de-

liberately gave him a childish peck. Yosef bore the kiss with

good humor, then gripped his hands, eager to begin the journey

back to the villa. His spoiled mistress could be a trifle dan-

gerous when she did not get her way. If only she would finish

this little game so they could begin the journey home…

She rose to her knees and pulled his head back, studying

him as if he were a life-size doll. “I am glad you do not wear

a wig, Paneah,” she said, splaying her fingers through his hair.

“Your hair is black as a raven’s wing, and as lovely as you are.”

“Mistress—” he tried to pull away “—the sun dips toward

the west. This heat will tire you unless we leave soon.”

“In a moment.” She took a deep breath and lowered her gaze

fully into his. “Kiss me as a man kisses the woman he loves.”

A small smile curled her lips. “Lie with me here, under the sun.”

“No.” The word sprang from him before he had time to think.

He struggled to rise, but she had planted herself firmly in his lap.

“Come now,” she said, still playful. “We are friends, are

we not? Don’t you desire to please me?”

“I cannot take my master’s wife.”

“He will never know.”

“I will know.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” When her warm

lips smothered his mouth, he stood in a panic, but he could

not throw her off. She clung to him like a burr to a cat.

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“Sagira!” he cried, pressing against her shoulders with as

much force as he dared.

She released him and raised the back of her hand to wipe

her lips, then gave him a steady look. “Do not be so alarmed,

Paneah. That was only a little test. I can tell Potiphar you

passed with flying colors.”

Struggling to catch his breath, Yosef eyed her with suspi-

cion. “A test?”

“To discover the strength and resolve of your virtue. I shall

tell my husband that you are as unexcitable as a eunuch.”

She turned and sashayed toward the chariot with the con-

fidence of a departing queen. To regain his composure, Yosef

crossed his arms and turned to face the open canyon. He was

accustomed to Sagira’s biting wit and flashing temper, but her

last remark was a slap at his manhood. She had implied that

he was not a man at all, but if he had accepted her proposi-

tion, she might have slapped him and had him thrown to the

Nile crocodiles.

He shook his head and sighed. His mistress could be hot and

cold, loving and sharp, caring and diffident. Compared to

Tuya, Sagira was a bundle of sharp angles and rough edges,

but for some reason God had placed her at the center of his life.

Amon-Re’s blood-red sun had nearly disappeared beyond

the western horizon when Ramla’s entourage returned to

Potiphar’s house. Tuya was disappointed when the crowd of

welcoming servants did not include Yosef. Where was he? He

should have been in the house attending his master at this hour,

but Potiphar stood on the porch alone, his hand lifted in greeting.

Sagira, Tuya noticed, was absent as well. As much as she

tried to force Ramla’s cruel prediction from her thoughts,

Tuya could not forget the mental image of Sagira with her arm