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
