Dreamers (18 page)

rising, she often heard his easy laughter in the stockyard as

he checked the horses with Paneah, and occasionally she

heard him tease Tuya in an almost paternal manner. Yet for

her, his wife, he had nothing but insignificant conversation

and the most casual of greetings.

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Sagira’s temper rose to a flash point each time she thought

of her husband’s disinterest, then she remembered the proph-

ecy. She had to win his affection. Her father had been a coolly

indifferent figure in her life, and it galled her to think her

husband might prove to be as distant. But one way or another,

she would bear a son. She had not studied the love lyrics of

the ancient poets for nothing.

“Rehearse for me the song I will sing to Potiphar,” Sagira

called to Ramla one afternoon as the women sat by the reflect-

ing pool in Potiphar’s garden. Two servants had loaded a

stand at Sagira’s right with fruit, flowers and wine; a harpist

and fan bearer stirred the warm air in an effort to make their

mistress’s afternoon a little more pleasant. The sight of the

lotus-filled pool stirred Sagira with memories of playful days

gone by, and for a moment she wished that Tuya, not Ramla,

sat with her at the water’s edge. But Tuya kept a careful

distance from both Sagira and Ramla.

Ramla opened a papyrus scroll and ran her finger along the

colorful images as she read:

My god, my brother, my husband—

How sweet it is to go down to the lotus pond and do as

you desire—

To plunge into the waters, and bathe before you—

To let you see my beauty in my tunic of sheerest royal

linen,

All wet and clinging and perfumed with balsam!

I see my husband coming—

My heart is in joy, and my arms are opened wide to

embrace him;

And my heart rejoices within me without ceasing—

Come to me, O my lord!

When I embrace you and your arms enlace me,

Ah, then I am drunk without beer!

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O would that I were the ring on your finger,

So you would cherish me as something that adds beauty

to your life!

“Stop,” Sagira commanded, emotion clotting her voice.

Her husband did not cherish her, for she did not possess

beauty enough to add to his life. Why should he long for a wife

when he could feast his eyes on Tuya, whose beauty put all

others to shame? Even the handsome Paneah possessed more

beauty than Sagira did. No amount of perfume, cosmetics or

fine clothing could disguise the fact that she was the plainest

thing in Potiphar’s household. No wonder he despised her.

“You are pitiful.” Ramla’s icy voice intruded on Sagira’s

thoughts. “Sitting in a gilded chair while you feel sorry for

yourself.”

Sagira turned away. “I do not need you to help me feel worse.”

“I won’t flatter you now,” Ramla said, rising. She moved

toward Sagira like an approaching vulture. “Years ago, your

childish ego could not bear the truth.Your mother and I assured

you of your beauty, your intelligence, your wit. That time is

finished, Sagira, and yet you still yearn for childish coddling.”

“I do not!” Sagira blazed up at the priestess. “I am a wife,

mistress of this house—”

“You are nothing here. The slave Paneah runs this house, for

Potiphar does not trust you. Tuya pleases your husband more

than you do, for I have heard them laughing together in the

courtyard, and Paneah has become the son of Potiphar’s heart.

You are good for nothing, Sagira, and yet you sit here, loving

your wounds. A born whiner, all you ask for is a little neglect—”

“You’re wrong! I am going to do something about Potiphar!”

“Prove it.”

Ramla tossed the challenge casually, then sank gracefully

back into her chair. Sagira looked away and bit her thumb-

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nail. How could she do anything with a man as strong-willed

as the captain of Pharaoh’s guards? Ramla was right, Potiphar

didn’t trust her to even dispose of a troublesome slave. But if

he saw her administrative and social talents on a small scale,

perhaps he’d appreciate her. Then he’d spend time with her,

just as he visited with Paneah whenever he came home.

She sat up and clapped her hands, then smiled when her

handmaid came running. “Send the household scribe to me

at once, and have a messenger ready to take a message to

Potiphar at the palace,” she said, tossing her head so the

weight of her wig fell back over her shoulders. “And send

Paneah to me. Tell him to drop everything he is doing, for

Potiphar is going to host a party.”

Ramla laughed when the girl had gone. “Do you truly

think a party is going to win your husband’s heart?”

“It’s something I do well,” Sagira answered, bounding out

of her chair with the first burst of energy she’d felt in weeks.

She wasn’t sure how Paneah managed to convince him, but

Potiphar agreed to host a party, the first he had ever given. All

of the greatest nobles in Thebes received invitations to the

villa, and not one of them declined the opportunity to visit

Potiphar’s fabled estate.

The celebration fell on a quiet day after an entire week of

wind, and Sagira rejoiced to see the house look its best. Fresh

flowers adorned each room, the braziers burned with incense,

the perfumed cones of fat sat in orderly rows on a tray by the

front porch. After making certain the house stood ready to

receive its guests, she retreated to her chamber to make herself

as beautiful as possible.

She had ordered new jewelry, for Potiphar’s treasure chests

contained nothing worth wearing, so now the finest creations

the jewelers of Thebes could provide adorned her neck, wrists,

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fingers and ears. Cunningly wrought in gold, silver and elec-

trum, the ornaments dazzled her handmaid and even im-

pressed Ramla as Sagira pirouetted in her dressing room.

“Be still and let us adorn your face as well,” Ramla said,

pressing Sagira onto a stool before her dressing stand. The

maid stood ready with kohl and ground red ochre to color

Sagira’s lips.

Ramla studied Sagira’s face for a moment, then motioned

for the maid to begin. “You will be so beguiling that Potiphar

will forget his insane notions of not needing a wife.”

“He thinks me a child,” Sagira said, pouting so the maid

could freely apply the lip color. “Tonight he will see a grown

woman in his house.”

“He will see only you.” Ramla picked up the perfumed

cone that would adorn the top of Sagira’s wig. She sniffed at

the cone and nodded in approval. “With perfumed and oiled

skin, you will win him,” she said, smiling. “Tonight you will

have all the weapons of a woman at your disposal.”

Sagira studied her sparkling reflection in her bronze mirror,

then closed her eyes. The image that had looked back at her

was mature, sophisticated and as magnificently adorned as

Pharaoh’s queen. Surely Potiphar would be impressed. If he

was not, by night’s end, at least he would be drunk.

She nodded at the priestess. “Tonight, the old warrior will

surrender to me.”

Yosef crinkled his nose as he and Tuya stood apart from

the merrymakers in a doorway off the central reception room.

Before them, in various stages of revelry, the most illustrious

nobles of Pharaoh’s court were eating, drinking and singing.

The guests had been drinking since their arrival at noon, and

the sickly sweet odors of beer and perfume mingled in the

hall. To counter the sour odors of sweat and beer, Tuya had

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placed garlands and fragrant flowers throughout the house,

and to Yosef had fallen the task of securing enough jars and

cups, bowls and vases of gold, silver and alabaster to lend an

air of opulent gaiety.

“Potiphar’s house was lovely,” Tuya whispered, leaning

toward Yosef’s ear. “Tonight I find it gaudy. I prefer the or-

dinary arrangement of things.”

Yosef nodded in wordless agreement as he surveyed the

scene. Though he had long ceased to be surprised by the os-

tentatious Egyptians, his senses were overwhelmed by the

abundance of fleshly pleasures in the room. An orchestra of

thinly clad maidens played double-reed pipes, lutes, lyres and

harps, while a dancing girl clad only in a bronze belt beat out

rhythms on a rectangular tambourine as she whirled in front

of the drunken guests.

The mood of the gathering had been formal and decorous

when Potiphar and Sagira first greeted their guests, but the

party had gathered momentum as the wine and beer flowed.

Now it surged with raucous life in the tinkly rhythms of the

slave girls. Those who chose to dance had progressed from

slow, dignified posturings to wild gyrations. One dancer, a dark

slave brought by one of the nobles, culminated her dance in

a series of leaps, somersaults, back flips and hand springs. The

delighted partygoers applauded with heavy hands and loud

cries for more.

An army of serving maids circulated among Potiphar’s

guests, plying the drunken nobles with food of every descrip-

tion. Servants wended their way through the crowd, refilling

silver cups with pitchers of flavored beer and wine, while

other slaves supplied disheveled guests with fresh floral gar-

lands or paused to tidy up kilts that had slipped out of their

proper positions.

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Yosef thought he could almost measure the disintegration

of the party by the speed with which the cones of perfumed

fat had begun to drip down the persons of the formerly digni-

fied guests. Only two participants at the party had kept their

composure—neither Sagira nor Ramla had partaken of more

than one cup of wine. Ramla sat apart from the company, her

dark eyes surveying the group as if she measured and weighed

their hearts, and Sagira contented herself with wandering

through the crowd and overseeing the needs of her guests. But

as the sun set and darkness came on, Sagira surprised the entire

gathering by standing on a stool and clapping for attention.

“Hear me, oh guests of Potiphar, the appointed guard of

Pharaoh!” she called, her voice ringing over the gathering. A

silence, thick as wool, wrapped itself around the revelers.

Secure in the limelight, Sagira lifted her hands and turned

toward her husband, who leaned heavily on the arm of his chair.

“My husband!” she cried, clapping her hands over her

head. “I have composed a poem for you!”

“Let’s hear it!” came the cry.

“A poem for Potiphar!” another voice called.

“Tell us!”

“Speak!”

Swaying like a palm tree in the desert, Sagira let the long

cloak she had worn all night fall from her shoulders. She stood

before the crowd in a sheer golden sheath as transparent as a clear

sky. Yosef felt a blush burn his cheek. Embarrassed, he averted

his eyes from Sagira’s slender figure and studied his master.

“Hurriedly scampers my heart,” Sagira recited, swaying in

the pulsing rhythm of the room,

When I recall my love of you—

It does not allow me to go about like other mortals—

It seems to have been uprooted from its place.

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It doesn’t even let me put on my tunic or even take my

fan—

I am not able to paint my eyes or anoint myself with

perfume.

‘Don’t linger thus! Get back to yourself!’ I say when I

think of you.

‘Don’t cause me silly pain, O my heart!’

Just sit cool and he’ll come to you, and everyone will see!

Let not people say of me, ‘There’s a girl fallen hope-

lessly in love!’

Stand firm when you think of him, O my heart! Don’t

bound about so!

Wild applause met the finish of her poem, and Sagira

stepped down from the stool and prostrated herself at

Potiphar’s feet, her hands on his ankles. Yosef could not hear

if she said anything to the master, but amid the wild hooting

Potiphar stood, lifted Sagira to her feet and covered her lips

with his in a rough kiss that set the crowd to cheering. Sagira

blushed and pulled away, suddenly modest and coy, and in

response the master swept his bride into his arms as the guests

raised their cups and cheered his prowess. In the rhythm of

the drunken throng’s escalating roar, Potiphar winked and

lurched from the dais where he had been sitting while Sagira

tightened her arms about his neck. While the others laughed

and lifted their cups, the party’s unsteady host and hostess

departed the hall for the privacy of the master’s chamber.

Yosef and Tuya exchanged glances. It had taken a party and

two hin of wine to accomplish it, but Sagira had finally won

her husband.

Sagira

And Yosef was a goodly person, and well favoured.

And it came to pass after these things, that his