Dreamers

by Angela Hunt

  Intent on studying the scrolls on his lap, Donkor grunted.

  “It is time, I believe,” Kahent persisted, “to approach Pharaoh about finding Sagira a husband. Surely the king knows his sister has a daughter of noble blood.”

  Donkor finally looked up. “Pharaoh knows what?”

  Kahent sighed, careful not to let her frustration show. “Our king knows we have a daughter. Now he must be told that she has reached marriageable age. Her red moon has flowed twice now.”

  “She is too young.” Donkor waved his hand carelessly and returned his attention to his scrolls, but Kahent would not be deterred.

  She had borne his indifference for years. If he had been more attentive, or she more beautiful, they might have had more than one child. But Donkor cared more for his treasures than for the people who lived in his house. After resigning herself to her husband’s cold heart, Kahent had invested her love and life in her daughter.

  She stood and leaned against one of the columns in the room, steeling herself for a confrontation. “Sagira is young,” she said, not daring to contradict him, “so we have time to find the best man for her.” She lifted her chin so the beads in the heavy wig she wore clicked together as they fell against her smooth shoulders. “This endeavor will not require your effort, my husband, only your permission. Grant me your blessing to speak to my brother about our daughter. Your honor demands that I do this.”

  Donkor’s brow furrowed as he looked up from his scroll, and Kahent knew he had only half heard her words. “Pharaoh will see to the girl’s marriage when I publish the news of her maturity.”

  “We must proceed slowly,” Kahent said, with a cautionary lift of a manicured finger. “We should find a suitable man before we reveal our intentions, then we may drop the suggestion on Pharaoh’s ear. Our daughter’s husband must be close to Pharaoh, for the line of kings flows through my veins and Sagira’s. If something should happen to Pharaoh or to his sons—” She finished with an expressive shrug.

  Donkor gave her a smile of reluctant admiration. “I have seen eyes like yours in the faces of my enemies.” He lifted his scroll again. “I would not like to have your determination set against me.”

  “Why should you?” she asked, glad that he had looked at her with the light of amusement in his eyes. “There is one other thing. I must be rid of the servant girl, Tuya.”

  The scroll dropped again. “But Sagira would be lost without her. It is impossible to imagine one without the other.”

  “Have you looked at Tuya lately, my husband?” Kahent found it impossible to keep an edge from her voice. “The slave has become quite attractive. If Tuya follows our daughter into her marital home, the slave will capture the groom’s attention.”

  Donkor scoffed. “Our daughter is lovely. I cannot believe that you, her mother, would belittle her—”

  “I do not dispute Sagira’s loveliness.” Kahent sank onto a gilded settee and reached for one of the figs piled atop a golden platter on a nearby stand. “But I want to give our daughter every possible advantage. Sagira is attractive, but a woman must believe herself beautiful to become so. I fear Sagira will compare herself to Tuya, whom the gods have unfairly blessed.”

  “So how to you intend to separate the girls?” Donkor’s voice had flattened, and Kahent knew she had already lost his attention to the papyrus scroll in his lap.

  “I will make an offering to the goddess Bastet,” she murmured, bringing the fig to her lips. “She will show me the way.”

  Chapter Two

  The glare of the desert sun blinded Potiphar for a moment. He raised his hand to shade his eyes, and nodded in silent satisfaction as warriors laid bodies before him: twenty-six rebels dead, their blood staining the sand, thirty-three others now in the bonds of defeat. He would present the slaves to his royal master, Pharaoh Amenhotep II, and further prove that he had earned the name Potiphar, captain of the guard, the appointed one of Pharaoh.

  He signaled for his men to leave the dead as a warning to any others who might invade Pharaoh’s peaceful delta. Let their mongrel bodies be consumed by worms and rats; their immortal souls did not deserve to travel through the afterlife.

  “Potiphar!”

  The cry from a warrior on a cliff above them wrested his eyes from the dead.

  “Horus, the falcon god, salutes you!”

  The warrior lifted his hand to the sky where a hawk circled lazily above the blood-soaked sands. Potiphar smiled in reply. “So be it.” He turned from the grisly scene and murmured under his breath as he strode toward his waiting chariot. “But it is not Horus’s approval I seek.”

  He had entered royal service during the latter part of the reign of Tuthmosis III, the pharaoh whose first battle had been to unseat his stepmother from the throne of the Upper and Lower Kingdoms. A common man with an uncommon love for battle, Potiphar joined the king’s army for the campaign that culminated at the fortress of Megiddo, Armageddon. Overflowing with youthful enthusiasm, drive and shrewd intuitions, Potiphar discovered that the prospect of war affected him like a fever. In a moment of reckless abandon, he approached the king’s generals and suggested that the Egyptian army cross Mount Carmel to surprise the enemy from behind.

  Tuthmosis appreciated the subtlety of the strategy. The Asiatics expected the Egyptians to approach in a direct attack from the southern plains, so when the Egyptian cavalry appeared on the northern horizon, the panicked enemy fled into their fortress. Leaving Potiphar to maintain the siege of the stronghold, Tuthmosis raided the lands of neighboring kings and chieftains, then returned to the starving fortress to claim his victory. Pharaoh completed his conquest by harvesting the crops of the land. The Asiatics, who had to eat, bowed before the Egyptian king in submission.

  The king’s victory at Megiddo secured Potiphar’s place in the royal retinue. Under Tuthmosis III, Potiphar led armies that conquered lands from the fifth cataract of the Nile to the Euphrates River. Tuthmosis, like Potiphar, relished the thrill of war. His standing army included hundreds of ferocious Nubian warriors whose ancestors had won battles for previous pharaohs.

  Iron-willed and hard as stone, Potiphar thought himself invincible until he was taken prisoner on one expedition with the Nubians. After his capture, he spat in his captors’ faces, fully expecting to die. The king of Kadesh, a wily and able adversary, wielded his sword and extracted from Potiphar what many would have considered to be the ultimate sacrifice a man could make for his king.

  But after days of blinding white pain, Potiphar did not die. A contingent of Egyptian troops stormed the enemy’s camp and rescued their general, bringing the wounded Potiphar back to stand before Tuthmosis. The fading warrior-king, in the fifty-fifth year of his reign, proclaimed before his entire court that Potiphar was a friend of Pharaoh and would henceforth serve as captain of the king’s bodyguard. Potiphar was awarded a villa, a staff of slaves and a secure position, but before his body could heal, the great king died.

  From his bed of convalescence, Potiphar watched with trepidation as the crown prince assumed the throne. Twenty-year-old Amenhotep II loved the sea and had spent most of his princely preparation at the Egyptian naval base at Pernefer, near Memphis. Potiphar wondered how the new king would feel about joining his father’s court at Thebes, but join it he must. The pharaoh of Egypt could not afford to appear weak or indecisive. With the mighty Tuthmosis III dead, the Asiatic city-states and their allies would undoubtedly attempt to throw off the Egyptian yoke. They would put the young new king’s military prowess to the test.

  In the following months, neither Potiphar nor the far-flung cities found the new king lacking. Excelling in battle, archery and horsemanship, Amenhotep delighted in hand-to-hand combat. With Potiphar at his side, he led his troops into battle, howling in royal rage. Often the mere sight of his ferocious visage convinced dismayed enemy troops to surrender.

  Now, in the thirteenth year of his reign, Amenhotep had accomplished his military goals. The far-flung provinces dutifully sent tri
bute to their king and toiled to keep peace in the land. Military maneuvers now involved only infrequent skirmishes from rebellious territories, and Potiphar rarely rode with the army. He found it difficult to admit, but at forty-four, he had grown tired of the wind in his face and sand in his teeth. But he continued to venture onto the battlefield in the hope that a spectacular victory would bring him the one prize he lacked—the Gold of Praise to encircle his neck.

  The Gold of Praise—the most obvious and visible symbol of Pharaoh’s favor—was a solid gold chain awarded to the man who had proved himself a friend of Pharaoh. Though Tuthmosis had proclaimed Potiphar his friend, that noble king had died before presenting his wounded general with the Gold of Praise.

  Potiphar had earned it. If the gods were just, at some point in this life he would yet wear it around his neck.

  Chapter Three

  A bitter wind howled around the caravan, and Yosef found himself wincing with every step across the desert sand. A stout rope bound his wrists, while the end of the rope connected him to the saddle of a sour-faced camel belonging to a caravan of Yishmaelites from Gilead. With each step of the Yishmaelites’ beast, the rope tightened and tugged on Yosef’s broken arm.

  Every step, every breath, brought exquisite pain. He had fainted when they first wrenched his arm to tie him with the other prisoners bound for Egypt; one of the traders tossed a bucketful of foul water in his face to wake him. Now Yosef stumbled through the desert in a stupor of agony and grief. In lucid moments he wondered why his life had taken such a vicious and unpredictable turn.

  His father, the one constant loving figure in his life since his mother’s death, would feel this loss even more keenly than the grief of losing his beloved Rahel. “At least I have you,” his father had often said, his gnarled hand patting Yosef’s as they walked together. “As long as I have you, Rahel lives on in your eyes.”

  How could his brothers do this to their father? To him? Why did they hate him so?

  Nothing in his past warranted such treatment. A loving and obedient son to his father, he had been the favored first-born of Yaakov’s favorite wife, Rahel. His brothers were less than doting, probably because they were envious of the close relationship he shared with their father. When Rahel died while giving birth to Binyamin, Yaakov pulled Yosef aside and spilled his heart, opening a window through which Yosef glimpsed a love as strong as God and a grief as deep as death. For the first time, Yaakov recited his personal history, explaining to Yosef how each of his other brothers came to be born. Compassion conceived the sons of Lea, duty resulted in the sons of Bilhah, guilt fathered the sons of Zilpah. Only with Rahel, Yaakov told Yosef, were sons given life in love.

  Perhaps this knowledge gave birth to his dreams. One night not long after his mother’s death, Yosef had dreamed that he and his brothers were binding sheaves of grain. Suddenly Yosef’s sheaf jerked itself out of his hands as if it possessed a life of its own. Dancing away from the rope with which he would have tied it, the tall sheaf moved to the center of the cleared field and stood upright. Within minutes, the sheaves of his brothers were similarly animated, but those sheaves circled Yosef’s, then prostrated themselves on the ground before the golden sheaf in the center of the circle.

  His brothers had not found the dream at all entertaining. “Do you intend to reign over us?” Yehuda sneered when Yosef told them of the strange vision. “Will you actually rule us?” Only Re’uven’s diplomatic intervention prevented a fistfight.

  The next night Yosef had a similar dream. In this dream he sat on a star while the sun and moon and eleven other stars drew near and bowed to him. When he described the dream the next morning, even his father laughed. “What is this?” Yaakov said, his face darkening to a deep shade of red as he sat before the breakfast fire. “Will your departed mother and I join your brothers and actually bow before you? Surely you think too much of yourself, Yosef, and of these dreams. Forget them, my son, and remember that when pride comes, disgrace follows.”

  His father’s words proved strangely prophetic. Yosef had taken quiet pleasure in those dreams while he dwelled securely in his father’s favor. But now, in the harsh light of reality and the bitterness of pain, those mocking fantasies seemed as false as vows made in wine. He had dared to dream that God would honor him as primary inheritor of the blessings and promises of Avraham, but those hopes, too, were surely foolish. Disgrace and despair walked with him across the desert.

  From the chatter of the Yishmaelites Yosef knew he was on his way to the “black land,” Egypt. He had heard much of the place, for his great-grandfather Avraham had found trouble among its people. Plagued by fear and blessed with a beautiful wife, Avraham lied to the Egyptians and told them that Sarai was his sister, not his wife. Unaware that he desired another man’s wife, Pharaoh took Sarai into the royal harem and suffered the plagues of God for his sin. When the truth was revealed, Pharaoh asked Avraham to take his wife, his livestock, all that he had, and leave the country. The king’s army had escorted Avraham from the land to ensure that nothing remained behind.

  Now Avraham’s great-grandson was returning to Egypt as a bloody and broken slave, reeking of camels and filth. Was this God’s divine punishment for Avraham’s sin? Were the Egyptians now to have their vengeance on one of his descendants?

  Despite the pain, Yosef lifted his head in pride as the rope bit into his wrists and pulled him forward. Whatever happened, he would not repeat Avraham’s sin. He would not lie. But to preserve his life, neither would he admit to anyone that he was of the house and lineage of the one they had known as Avram.

  Chapter Four

  Kahent woke before the sun’s rising and dressed in her finest garment, a narrow sheath of white linen that fell in intricate pleats from her shoulders to the floor. She selected her favorite beaded necklaces, bracelets and belt, then sat at her table to paint her face. Dipping an exquisitely carved copper applicator into the container for her kohl, she outlined her eyes and dabbed her fingers into a secret compartment inside a carved ivory duck on her dressing table. With a deft movement, she swiped a mixture of ground malachite and animal fat across her eyelids, effectively giving them a golden-green glow. Green, she reflected, was the color of fertility, the root and purpose of the petition she would bring today.

  When her face had been properly painted, Kahent’s maid lifted her heavy wig from its stand and placed it on her mistress’s head. Like all Egyptian noblewomen, Kahent wore her hair clipped short, a necessity when no woman of standing went out in public without her wig. The massive wig was as wide as Kahent’s shoulders and several layers thick. A lush fringe of bangs accented the dark lines around her eyes, and the beads that had been woven into the ends of the woolen strands clicked together with a pleasing sound.

  Kahent slipped her feet into her papyrus sandals, then lifted a bag of silver from her husband’s treasure chest. Offerings of fruit and meat would not be enough for today. She planned on asking the goddess Bastet for a serious boon, and a noteworthy offering would certainly be required.

  Her maids stood back and Kahent pointed wordlessly to the one who would accompany her to the temple. The other blinked, probably in relief, and the chosen slave lifted the earthen lamp from its stand and moved toward the outer courtyard where a special bundle waited. Kahent had chosen the goddess Bastet as her patron god, and since cats were sacred to that goddess, more than thirty cats lived within the walls of this household. When they died, Kahent paid handsomely to have the animals mummified and wrapped in linen. A storeroom near the temple of the house was stocked with cat-shaped coffins in which the mummified cats rested in their eternal journey.

  The sleepy servant lifted one of the papyrus coffins into her arms and laid it across her mistress’s open palms. Reverently, Kahent carried the burden through the gate and led the way through the streets of Thebes to the temple dedicated to the goddess Bastet.

  After entering the rectangular enclosure surrounding the temple, Kahent left her maid in the outer c
ourtyard and carried the small coffin into Per-Hair, the House of Rejoicing. In front of its towers stood twin statues, two cats carved of green marble. Dark crevices loomed where the eyes should have been, and golden rings hung from the nostrils. A silver pectoral with the sacred eye of Horus decorated the chests of both animals, signifying that Horus himself protected the cat from evil.

  Kahent always felt a sudden chill whenever she saw an amulet depicting the wadjet eye. According to the legends of the gods, Seth, a god of evil, tore out the eye of Horus in a struggle for the throne of Egypt. Once in a temple play Donkor forced her to attend, an actor portraying Seth had actually plucked the eye from an unfortunate prisoner. After the bloodletting, Kahent had left her husband’s side and fled the theater, knowing full well that the ancient legend would require that the prisoner also be dismembered before the play’s end.

  No bloody legends were associated with Bastet. She was the daughter of Re, the sun-god, and represented the benign power of the sun to ripen crops.

  After kneeling before the two regal statues, Kahent proceeded to the sacred burial grounds and placed the cat coffin in an empty space. She bowed her head to the earth and murmured words of allegiance, then walked slowly back to the Per-Hair and passed through the entryway.

  The morning sun had begun to beat on the earth in relentless waves of energy, but cool air filled the House of Rejoicing. Moving through a long, columned hall adorned with wall-carvings of the king and queen, she came to the chamber known as Gem-Bastet—the Finding of Bastet. A long, narrow court stretched ahead of her, crowned by an altar atop a flight of steps. Beyond the altar a causeway ran toward yet another pair of lofty columns. Kahent passed through them into a second court, then into a third, and finally into the smallest sanctuary.