by Angela Hunt
She was about to say that reasons didn’t matter, but his finger fell across her lips.
“I do know that the touch of your satin skin is enough to drive me to distraction,” he whispered, his voice husky. “But my father taught me that a righteous man does not touch a woman until she becomes his bride. So until our master allows us to join in marriage, your Paneah should keep a careful distance from the lips you offer so willingly.”
To challenge his resolve she lifted her face to meet his, but Yosef only smiled and stood, still holding her hands. “Goodnight,” he whispered, squeezing her hands before he dropped them into her lap.
Could he not see that he was driving her insane? “Yosef—”
Only an echo came through the night shadows. “Goodnight, my love.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sunlight had burnished the warm morning air when Tuya walked to the series of storage and workrooms that served as the kitchen. Her new mistress would probably sleep late, but would then welcome a bath and a bowl of fruit to break her fast. Tuya had seen no slaves accompanying her mistress, so if the lady did not own a personal maid, Tuya was prepared to offer her services.
Abu, the goatherd, stood in the doorway, stuffing grapes into his mouth. “Have you met the new bride?” she asked.
The man shook his head and muttered around a mouthful of fruit. “Our master left early this morning to attend to his duties at the palace. Paneah is in the house now, trying to find a suitable chamber for the lady’s companion.”
“A companion?” Tuya frowned. “Will her maid sleep in the house?”
“She’s not brought a maid, but a priestess,” Abu answered, rolling his eyes. “The lady decreed this morning that Potiphar’s temple is to be dedicated to Bastet.” Abu glanced around as if the goddess might hear him, then lowered his voice. “They’re bringing a horde of cat mummies this afternoon. The lady says they’re to be kept in the temple, and no one’s to argue about it.”
A sense of foreboding descended over Tuya with a shiver, but she thanked Abu and carried a bowl of fruit to the house. Hundreds of priestesses served the nobles of Thebes, and thousands of people claimed Bastet as their patron goddess. Surely Abu’s words meant nothing.
She climbed the steps to the outer porch and met Yosef. “Is our lady awake already?” she said, sharing the smile she reserved for him alone.
He returned the smile, and for a moment she thought he would have kissed her in greeting, but too many others milled about. “She is awake,” he said simply, checking a sheet of parchment in his hand. “And she has a list of needs and wants I am to see to at once. Our master is out for the day, but we are to make our lady happy.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Tuya offered, moving past him into the central hall. The room was empty, spacious and quiet in its grandeur, but noises came from the master’s chamber at the end of the hall. The women’s sitting room stood empty, as usual, but would now have to be furnished. Tuya made a mental note of mentioning this to Yosef—suitable furnishings could be found immediately, of course, but if the lady wanted spectacular she would have to give the carpenters and artisans time to work.
A wailing sound came from the master’s chamber, and Tuya paused on the threshold, uncertain how to proceed. Peering around the edge of the doorway, she saw a short-cropped head swathed in sheets, a huddled mass in the center of Potiphar’s bed.
The shrouded figure silenced its weeping as dark eyes fastened on Tuya. The slave carefully lowered the bowl of fruit to the floor, then prostrated herself. “I am here to serve you, mistress,” she said, hoping the lady hadn’t seen her spying glance.
The sheets rustled, a bare foot smacked the floor. Footsteps padded over the tile until ten pampered and painted toes moved into Tuya’s range of vision.
“Rise, slave, and let me have a look at you,” a young voice commanded.
Steeling herself for confrontation, Tuya stood, lifting her head at the last moment. The bride gasped before she did, but Tuya had heard a warning in Abu’s words.
“Good morning, Lady Sagira,” Tuya said, her heart skipping a beat. It would be easy to turn and walk away, leaving Sagira as alone and frightened as Tuya had once been. But the girl had stared out from beneath the bedsheets like a frightened animal looking out from the brush.
Tuya gave her mistress a polite and practiced smile, then folded her hands and lowered her head, waiting to see how this joke of the gods would play out.
She stepped back, stung, when Sagira rushed forward and embraced her.
Sagira did not know whether to laugh or cry at the sight of Tuya. Part of her wanted to flee in embarrassment, but another part yearned to embrace her childhood friend. Finally she did both. She hugged Tuya for the sake of their former friendship, then retreated back under the bedcovers. She did not have to act the part of a regal bride and noble lady before Tuya.
“Mistress, what’s wrong?” Tuya asked, stepping to the edge of the bed. She bent and lifted a corner of the sheet. “You can come out. No one will hurt you.”
“Oh, Tuya, it was awful!” Sagira blushed, the horror of the memory sweeping over her again. “Never in my life have I imagined that marriage would be like the night I’ve just passed.”
Tuya lifted a brow. “Did your mother not prepare you?”
“I was prepared for a night of love.” Sagira wiped her damp nose with the back of her hand. “I was prepared for anything and everything except—”
Tuya gazed at her in bewilderment. “Except?”
“Nothing!” Sagira cried, fresh tears stinging her eyes. “Potiphar lay down and fell asleep. I sat beside him, waiting, until I knew he would not wake, then I paced this chamber all night, trying to decide what I should do.”
Tuya sat on the edge of the bed, a look of confusion on her face, and Sagira threw herself into the older girl’s arms as she had a thousand times when they were younger. It felt good to fall into Tuya’s comforting lap. The slave had always been unflappable. Whenever Sagira did wrong as a child, Tuya took the blame or made everything all right. And now the gods had returned Tuya, and Tuya knew Potiphar. She would know how to correct Sagira’s problems.
“Our master Potiphar did not plan on being married yesterday,” Tuya was saying, so Sagira sniffed and tried to concentrate on the girl’s words. “He has just returned from the military expedition. He is older, and he was tired. He probably wanted to rest.”
“He doesn’t think I’m pretty,” Sagira said, lifting a corner of Tuya’s skirt to wipe her nose. “I read that much in his eyes as we were married. I don’t know what kind of woman he likes, but I’m not his—”
Abruptly, she shrank back and glared at Tuya. “Are you his concubine?”
“No, no.” Tuya flushed scarlet. “Never. The master has kept me busy with work of the house. He has never invited me to his bed.”
“Do you swear this by the goddess Bastet?”
“By whatever god you like, my lady. You can ask the other servants. Our master sleeps alone.”
Sagira sighed, then lay down and propped her head on her hand. “He has never had a wife?”
“No.”
“Or a concubine?”
“None I know of.”
“He is not—” Sagira raised a brow.
Tuya blushed. “He is not like that.”
Sagira idly ran her finger over the linen sheets. “Tired or not, if he is a man, he can be stirred to action. Ramla has told me what I must do. The prophecy demands that I bear a son.”
Tuya stiffened at the mention of Ramla’s name. “The prophecy, my lady?”
Sagira pressed her lips together. She had said too much, especially in the house of the captain of Pharaoh’s bodyguard. Even a hint that Pharaoh’s lineage might not be established for eternity would be tantamount to treason.
“Nothing.” She waved the matter away. “I want a child. Doesn’t every woman?”
Ramla’s sharp voice interrupted the reunion. “I thought we had rid ourselv
es of this slave.”
“Ramla, don’t scold,” Sagira said, sitting up. She smiled at the priestess. “Tuya assures me that my husband was tired last night. I am not to blame for his diffidence.”
The priestess crossed her arms. “I am not surprised.”
“He went to sleep,” Sagira said, standing and taking the sheet with her. “But he will not sleep tonight. Prepare my bath, Tuya, and spread the fruit on a mat for me. I’m hungry.”
Tuya reached for one of the papyrus mats rolled in a corner of the room. “You should eat first.”
Sagira glanced at the gleaming grapes, pomegranates and dates. Tuya must have taken pains to gather the ripest, most delicious-looking fruit…
She reached for a bunch of grapes, but Ramla stepped forward and slapped her hand. “I cannot believe you would listen to the suggestion of a slave,” she snapped, fire in her eyes. “You are the mistress here. You are no longer a child. Such softness was allowable in a girl, but you are now a woman of means. You do not confide in slaves, you do not obey them, you do not heed their wishes. Do you understand?”
Sagira shrank back as if the goddess herself had chastised her. Ramla had often been coyly disapproving, but never had she let loose with an outburst like this. “Tuya is an old friend and means me no harm—”
“Tuya is a slave who once thought herself your equal. Have you forgotten the words I taught you? The instruction of King Amen-em-Hat warns those who will rule that they should be on their guard against subordinates—‘Trust not a brother, know not a friend, make not for yourself intimates, for in these things is no satisfaction.’ Remember the prophecy, Sagira! Live like a queen, discipline your heart!”
Sagira grimaced at Ramla’s words, but Tuya turned to face the priestess. “I mean no harm to my mistress,” she said, her voice firmer than Sagira had ever heard it. “I would not harm her or my master Potiphar for the world.”
Ramla lifted her hands to the sky in an eloquent gesture. “Bastet, preserve us! Must I endure a pair of fools?”
Torn between the longing for the past and her hopes for the future, Sagira buried her head in her hands. “Where is the master of the slaves in this house?” She spat the words between her clenched fingers. “I would speak to him at once!”
“There is only one master below Potiphar,” Tuya answered, her voice distant. “Paneah is the steward.”
“Bring him to me at once!” Sagira muttered, not lifting her eyes. “No! Send him. You need not return.”
She waited until Tuya’s footsteps faded before lifting her gaze to meet Ramla’s.
“Sometimes, my Sagira, you behave like a simple-minded child,” the priestess said, crossing to an elegant chair in the corner of the room. She seated herself and inclined her head like a queen granting favors. “Tuya is a great beauty, can you not see it?”
“She is a slave,” Sagira whispered. “I am a lady.”
“Your mother sent Tuya away because she knew the slave’s beauty would overpower yours.” Ramla’s dark eyes glowed with cunning. “She thought you would never win a husband if you stood in your maid’s shadow. And yet today you embraced your enemy, completely blind to the fact that your husband will never look at you with desire or give you the child you need as long as she remains here.”
“Potiphar has not touched her—”
“Would she tell you if he had? But even if she speaks the truth, how do you know he does not dream of her?” Ramla released a delicate, three-noted giggle, as out of character as her misshapen hand was out of place. “A wise woman never allows competition to exist in the same room.”
The oily tone in Ramla’s voice, so different from Tuya’s soft responses, brought bile to the back of Sagira’s throat. “Then why,” she whispered, fighting an impulse to gag, “do you stay with me?”
The priestess tented the fingers of her good hand against the deformed digits of the other. “I have seen the future, and it fascinates me,” she whispered. “You, Sagira, will be immortalized in this world as well as in the eternal one. Men will speak of you for as long as the Nile flows.” Her eyes narrowed. “I hope to follow in your shadow.”
Yosef found the two women eating fruit in Potiphar’s bedchamber. The bride, who looked more child than woman in the dazzling light of early afternoon, regarded him with a frankly admiring glance. The other woman, a tall, slender creature with the shaven head of priestess, did not lift her eyes to acknowledge him.
“I am Paneah,” he said, bowing to the stranger. “I assume you are our mistress’s priestess. A chamber not far from this one has been reserved for you.”
“I will need it only three months out of four,” the woman answered, nodding slightly to acknowledge his comment. “When I am away, I must attend to my duties at the temple.”
Yosef turned to his mistress. She paused with her hand in the fruit bowl, watching him. “I met you this morning,” she said, turning so that a bare leg peeked from beneath the sheet she had wrapped around herself.
“Yes, mistress. You gave me a list of your desires, and we are hurrying to find the things you need.”
“There is another thing I need,” the girl said, plucking a grape from the bunch in her hand. She regarded the grape for a moment, then popped it into her mouth and gave the priestess a one-sided smile. “There is a slave here who does not please me. I want you to sell her immediately.”
Yosef felt his smile stiffen. His staff had been trained to be quick, efficient and subtle. How could any of them have displeased this girl? “Perhaps, my lady, there has been a misunderstanding.”
“No misunderstanding,” the mistress answered. “The slave called Tuya is offensive to me. My priestess has suggested that the gods might be pleased if she were surrendered as an offering to the temple of Bastet. See to it at once, Paneah.”
Yosef blinked. “Tuya, offensive?”
“Yes.”
“But, my lady, Tuya is capable and strong. She is one of the master’s favorites.”
“It matters not.” The lady Sagira cast him a bright smile. “I want her gone by day’s end, or you will find yourself sleeping in the slave market tonight.”
Unthinking discipline took over his limbs as Yosef nodded and withdrew. His feet carried him from the lady’s chamber into the courtyard. Once he was safely away from his mistress’s eyes, he held his head and rocked back and forth, trying to regain his sense of balance.
What had happened? He had worked hard, he had found love. He had hoped God would have mercy, but his soul had just been torn asunder again. Like any slave, Tuya knew she could be sold at any time, but she had fallen in love, she was clinging to the master’s promise. This separation would kill her…especially since Yosef would have to enforce it.
For the second time in his life, someone dear to his heart would suffer the deepest throes of grief on his account.
Staggering with the realization, Yosef made his way to the workroom where he fell on his knees and begged God for an answer.
Mercifully, the answer came with Potiphar’s arrival. The master entered the courtyard just as Yosef called Tuya out from the kitchen, about to break the terrible news. Potiphar took one look at the stricken look on Yosef’s face and asked what troubled him.
“My mistress, your wife,” Yosef said, taking pains to keep his voice under control, “has ordered me to take Tuya to the temple of Bastet before the sun sets today.”
“By all the gods, why?” Potiphar’s voice snapped through the courtyard like a whip. “What has the girl done?”
“Nothing, my lord.” Tuya turned horror-filled eyes on Yosef. “On my honor, I did nothing.”
“I asked our mistress, and she admits Tuya has done nothing wrong,” Yosef told Potiphar. “Apparently the lady’s priestess thought Tuya would make a favorable offering to the gods. I was ordered to take Tuya or surrender myself to be sold at the slave market.” He lifted his chin. “And although it would pain me to leave you, sir, I would endure such a fate if necessary.”
&n
bsp; Potiphar snatched a quick breath, then sent a dark look toward the house. “You shall do no such thing.” For a moment he glared at the walls as if he could see the lady within, then he softened his glance and laid a hand on Yosef’s shoulder. “You are like a son to me, Paneah, and I would sooner lose a wife than you. Trust me—neither you nor Tuya will be forced out of this household as long as you continue to serve me as you have in the past.”
With his hand on the dagger in his belt, Potiphar climbed the steps to his house and went to confront his wife.
Though Ramla hovered near when Potiphar entered the women’s reception room, Sagira thought the iron-willed priestess cowered slightly before the warrior’s fierce gaze.
“What are you thinking, girl?” he roared, the muscles of his face tightening into a mask of rage. “I leave you for the space of a few hours and find that you have already begun to destroy my household!”
Sagira thrust her chin upward. “The slave Tuya is no stranger to me. I have known her for years, and know she is not a suitable ladies’ maid.”
“Then find another girl to be your maid,” Potiphar snapped, planting his feet as though he intended to fight. “I have twenty slave girls in this house. Surely one of them can paint your face. If not one of them, let this one do it!”
He indicated Ramla with a disdainful flip of his hand, and Sagira saw the priestess’s bosom heave in indignation.
“Ramla is my counselor,” Sagira answered, smoothly arranging her skirt. “She will not do a slave’s work.”
“Tuya and Paneah have been in my household over two years,” Potiphar answered, his voice steadier. “You will not dismiss them on a mere whim.”
Sagira saw the seriousness in his eyes and decided not to argue the matter. Instead, she folded her hands and gave him an obedient smile. “As you say, my lord and husband.”
“And now you will dismiss this one from the room—” Potiphar jerked his chin toward Ramla “—for I wish to have a private word with you.”
