own wines. Potiphar wasn’t sure what sort of magic Tuya had
worked, but he now slept on perfumed linen sheets and wore
pressed and pleated kilts.
Even Pharaoh had noticed a change. “How polished and
well-fed you look, Potiphar,” he had remarked only a few days
before. “Age certainly seems to agree with you.”
“I only reflect your bounty, divine Pharaoh,” Potiphar had
replied, bowing. “The light of your favor has caused the Nile to
bring forth a good crop. Your people will not hunger this year.”
Paneah had worked wonders in the fields outside the walls
of Potiphar’s villa. What had been a sprawling field of haphaz-
ard planting was now a neat arrangement of small squares,
each divided by mud walls the height of a man’s hand. Be-
tween the squares a runnel conveyed water from a shaduf at
the river’s edge. Each square could be watered separately by
blocking the runnel with a mud wall, thus insuring that thirsty
crops received plenty of water while the drier crops were not
overwhelmed.
After the floodwaters had receded in the spring, Paneah
urged the serfs to walk slowly and drop seed in neat rows
across Potiphar’s muddy fields. Teams of long-horned African
cows followed the slaves, their hooves burying the seed deep
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inside the life-giving earth. To ensure that the seed lay snug
beneath the silty soil, Paneah had the stockmen drive a herd
through the fields. Potiphar had been home long enough to
watch the merry affair. A scampering young boy lured the
stubborn goats through the fields with a handful of grain
while the adult herdsmen chased the beasts with whips of
twisted rope.
With a steadfast and sure hand, Paneah directed Potiphar’s
slaves through each stage of agriculture: plowing, sowing,
treading in the seed, reaping, treading out the grain, winnow-
ing, loading on donkeys and depositing the harvest in gra-
naries. The result was a crop that filled Potiphar’s coffers to
overflowing. In the past he had relied on his wages as an
officer in Pharaoh’s army to supply his haphazard household,
but after a year of Paneah’s leadership, he was pleasantly sur-
prised to realize that his household might be able to support
itself. He might even become rich.
Quiet laughter interrupted his musings. Someone walked
through the garden below, and Potiphar’s hand automatically
crept toward the dagger sheathed at his side. Rubbing his
tongue against the back of his teeth, he peered through the
shadows of the trees, but saw only Paneah and Tuya walking
along the edge of the lotus pool.
Potiphar released his dagger. His training as a warrior kept
him too much on edge. Perhaps Paneah had been right to
suggest that Potiphar learn to relax in his own home. What
better place could there be? The house that used to remind him
of his own inefficiency had become a place of refuge, an oasis
away from the quicksand of Pharaoh’s court. Paneah had
made the villa efficient; Tuya had filled it with the sweet
sounds of singing.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax his rigid
posture.
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“You did not!” Tuya’s voice was a teasing caress in the
warmth of the night. “You would not do such a thing!”
Surrendering to the human urge to eavesdrop, Potiphar
stepped back into the shadows on the wall.
“I did,” Paneah said, facing the young girl at his side. Her
face, lit by the moon, tilted toward his. From his hiding place
Potiphar could see love shining from Tuya’s eyes like a star
streaming in the night.
The nearness of that lovely face seemed to steal Paneah’s
breath for a moment, then he caught the girl’s hands and held
them close to his breast. “I did,” he repeated, looking at her
as if he could drink her in. “I did ask the shepherds to name
a lamb for you. So when I go out to the fields, I will think of
you instead of—”
He looked away for a moment, and Potiphar noticed the
way her body curved toward him. “The old dreams again?”
she whispered.
“The old memories,” he said, turning his dark eyes to her
glowing countenance. “My brothers. I think of them every
time I walk under the sun, every time I see a herd of sheep
or cattle. I pray that God will rid my heart of my sorrowful
bitterness—”
Tuya’s fingertips flew to his lips. “Speak not of it anymore.
Anger is a poison that destroys the soul. It will destroy our
happiness, too, Yosef, if you dwell on these things.”
“I would not destroy your happiness for the throne of
Egypt,” the young man answered, his words running together
in a velvet sound. As he bent to brush his lips over the girl’s
forehead, Potiphar felt the gall of envy burn the back of his
throat. How could two slaves without power, position or
possessions find happiness while he, Pharaoh’s Potiphar,
wandered on the wall of his villa with nothing to fill his lonely
heart? It was natural that a handsome youth and a beautiful
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girl should find each other, for they were young and the
appetites of love are fierce in youth…
But he had always been more stirred by bloodlust than
lust alone.
Potiphar stood motionless until the couple parted to walk
to their separate chambers, then the master clasped his hands
behind his back and took the stairs down to his empty room.
Anticipation of nights in the garden with Yosef dulled the
cutting edge of Tuya’s loneliness. The young man had
stepped into the void left by Sagira and more than filled the
empty spaces in her life. He was handsome enough to set even
the oldest kitchen slave’s tongue to wagging when he ap-
peared in the doorway, but Yosef’s attraction for Tuya went
far beyond his physical appearance. In him she found a depth
of understanding and insight sorely lacking in the slaves
around her. Her people were simple, cheerful and quick to
learn, but most of the Nile’s children were practical and un-
imaginative. Not given to deep speculation or thought, they
were unwilling to evolve or express the abstract ideas Yosef
delighted in debating.
Yosef differed from the typical Egyptian in other ways, too.
While the average resident of Thebes was highly superstitious
and quick to placate any god he might have offended, Yosef
often spoke with deep and abiding respect of El Shaddai, the
god to whom he prayed every morning. And yet his devotion
could not have been based on blind faith, for though most
Egyptians accepted everything the priests said without ques-
tion, Yosef wanted to know the reasons behind every law or
precedent Tuya mentioned.
He seemed to take a particular pleasure in bantering with
Tuya about the pantheon of Egyptian gods. “You say Pharaoh
is one of the gods,” he teased one afternoon, “and yet they say
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Pharaoh has a headache today. How can a god suffer pain?
And when Pharaoh’s life is done, how can a god die?”
“He is both God and man,” Tuya explained, trying not to lose
her patience. “When a pharaoh dies, the divine spirit is removed
and placed within the heir. The chosen heir becomes God and
Pharaoh, and the dead and buried god becomes king of the
dead, ruler of the underworld. He becomes the great and terrible
judge to whom the dead must answer for their deeds on earth.”
“I would rather serve a god who cannot die,” Yosef
answered, laughter in his eyes. “A god who is the same yes-
terday, today and forever.”
Tuya waved him away. “You are a dreamer.”
She was about to add that dreams were foolish and risky,
but the light in his eyes dimmed. “Yes, I am,” he replied, and
his expression filled with such pain she had resolved never to
speak of dreams again.
She knew he had come from a large family in the land of
Canaan. From his speech she had gleaned that he was a
Hebrew, but in the last year he had taken great pains to become
fluent in the Egyptian language. With his quick ear and agile
tongue, every trace of his Canaanite accent had been erased.
He now shaved his beard in the Egyptian fashion and wore
his hair covered by a cloth of ribbed black silk. He wore the
traditional white linen kilt of a slave, ornamented with an
enameled collar and bronze armbands. Nothing of the He-
brews remained but his memories, and Yosef clung to them
with the tenacity of a terrier. Occasionally his eyes darkened
and he spoke bitterly of his brothers, but he would not dwell
on the subject or speak further when Tuya pressed him.
Like the Egyptians, Yosef was gentle, devoted to his friends
and his god and easily pleased. He had the confidence of a
lion, a quiet air of authority and even seated he looked taller
than any man in the house. She could feel the power of his
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presence from across a crowded room, and her heart thudded
like a drum whenever he happened to pass. Without stopping
to analyze her feelings, Tuya allowed her attraction for him
to blossom into love. What she couldn’t understand was why
he seemed to resist caring for her in the same way.
His eyes had caressed her in the garden, and she knew by the
way he smiled at her that he felt something for her. She could
tell from his admiring gaze that he appreciated her skill at
managing the household fully as much as he esteemed her
beauty. Interest had radiated from the dark depths of his eyes
from the first day she began to nurse him, and their friendship
had deepened on a number of levels. But whenever the conver-
sation turned to personal topics, or whenever Tuya feltYosef was
close to opening his heart, an invisible wall rose between them
and he withdrew as surely as if he had moved across the garden.
Tonight Yosef was intent on the scroll in his lap. The air of
the garden vibrated softly with the insect hum of the trees, and
Tuya sat on the tiled walkway and trailed her fingers over the
still waters of the reflecting pool. The lotus blossoms on the
water moved gently in the quiet of the night shadows, a ro-
mantic picture, but Yosef’s thoughts were far away.
“The language is fascinating,” Yosef murmured, running
his hand over the papyrus spread between his knees. “Such
beauty in these hieroglyphics! You are a good teacher, Tuya,
and I a poor student. If I could only learn to write this well.”
“You will have no more time for learning in this house,”
Tuya said, glancing over her shoulder. “Those who go to
scribes’ schools labor from dawn until dusk for a dozen or more
years. Their signs must be perfect, and the teaching priests
believe a boy’s ears are on his back.” She smiled when Yosef
looked up with an inquisitive glance. “They are great lovers of
the whip,” she explained, leaning toward him. “But you,Yosef,
know nothing of this. Potiphar does not beat his servants.”
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“Only because Potiphar does not care for his household,”
Yosef answered, returning his attention to the scroll. “I am
certain he would not hesitate to use his whip on his soldiers.”
Tuya jerked upright when leather slapped against the cool
stone of the patio. Potiphar stepped out of the shadows and
stood before them, his eyes gleaming like lighted coals. What
had he heard? She and Yosef might feel the whip yet.
“Greetings, master,” she blurted out, extending her arms
toward him as she touched her forehead to the floor. She
closed her eyes and hoped Yosef would have the good sense
to follow her example.
“Good evening,” Potiphar replied. Tuya blinked in surprise.
He spoke in a composed voice, like a man out for a casual walk
in his garden. Had he heard nothing of their conversation?
“You may rise,” the master called, and Tuya lifted her head,
half expecting to feel the sting of his hand across her cheek.
But Potiphar stood before them with his hands joined
loosely at his waist. Their master’s weather-beaten face was
calm, but something flickered in his dark eyes.
“Paneah—” he began, looking at Yosef.
“Yes, master?”
“Why does Tuya call you by a strange name?”
Yosef hesitated only for the flash of an instant. “It is not
because I dislike the name you gave me. I have come to ap-
preciate the name Paneah. The life in which I was known by
another is far behind me.”
Potiphar lifted a brow. “And yet this girl calls you by the
other name.” In one disobedient glance Tuya allowed her eyes
to leave her master’s face and dart toward Yosef.
A wry smile curled on Yosef’s lips. “She is my bridge. She
brought me from the old life safely into the new. If she had
not nursed me—”
“It was you, master, who rescued him from the slave
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market,” Tuya added, eager to return the conversation to a