shore, however, and within a few moments the god’s barge
had passed.
“Now the real excitement comes,” Tuya promised, smiling
at Yosef. Behind the sacred god came the gold-plated barge
of Pharaoh, commanded in the king’s absence by Queen Merit-
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Amon. On this barge the queen and the high priest of Amon
made continual offerings of food and incense to the god,
while on the riverbank opposite them paraded a great host that
included befeathered Nubian drummers, a band of lute
players, scantily clad acrobats, blind harpists and Egypt’s
finest wrestlers. A company of soldiers in the gilded chariots
of Pharaoh’s guard followed, their standards lowered to in-
dicate that their captain was away.
“Potiphar’s men,” Tuya said, pride stirring in her breast as she
watched the guard. “They are probably anxious for his return.”
Yosef’s hands tightened about her waist. “Are you?”
“No,” she answered, then turned to face him. “I mean, yes.
He is a good master, but it has been so nice—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Yosef answered, smiling. “I,
too, have found myself imagining what it would be like if the
house, the horses, the fields, the servants—” his gaze focused
on her lips “—were mine.”
The crowd around them surged and moved to follow the
procession, but Yosef and Tuya stood as if rooted to the river-
bank. “You could pretend until the master returns,” Tuya
whispered. Gathering her slippery courage, she entwined her
arms about his neck. “No one here will know, Yosef, that you
are not the master and I am not…your wife.”
She knew he wanted her. They had worked and laughed
and worried together for nearly two years, and their souls were
as close as two could be without joining their bodies in the
mystical union the gods had ordained for husbands and wives.
She had labored to bring Yosef back from the edge of the
underworld, and he had rescued her from unendurable lone-
liness and erased the sting of Sagira’s rejection. Why shouldn’t
they enjoy each other? No one would care if two slaves did
not wait for marriage; no one would bother two sub-citizens
who found delight in each other…
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“Ah, Tuya,” he whispered, gazing at her with something
deeper than mere masculine interest.
Her heart shuddered expectantly. The crowd continued to
jostle them and a passing company of merchants argued over
the price of some trinket. “Come.” Yosef pulled her away.
“This is not the place for us.”
A trembling thrill raced through her as Yosef linked her
fingers with his and took her away from the crowd of revelers.
Yes. No. Yes. No. With every step Yosef’s heart turned from
one conviction to the other. Why shouldn’t he take this girl
who loved him? Over the months he had come to trust Tuya,
and in the security of her steadfast devotion he had finally
found the courage to confide the secrets of his past, his hopes,
even his strange dreams. Surely the feeling between them
was as strong as that which had existed between his father and
Rahel! And Potiphar had practically promised to grant them
permission to marry. It was not a question of if, but of when.
So why not now, when the bloom of youth still graced them
and the fragrance of love filled the air?
He had become a man of Egypt—he dressed like an
Egyptian, spoke like an Egyptian, wrote the language of the
Egyptians. The Egyptians would see nothing wrong with his
taking Tuya into his arms and mingling his flesh with her own.
Egypt had a dozen gods and rituals dedicated to the celebra-
tion of fertility, and the act he was considering would be a
ritual of worship in the eyes of the pagan priests. The other
slaves did not curb their passions. Sometimes, when darkness
obscured faces, some of the men in the slaves’ quarters baited
Yosef with doubts about his masculinity because he hadn’t
already surrendered to Tuya’s considerable charm.
His body yearned to possess her. His heart slammed into
his ribs every time he thought about pressing his lips to hers,
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and the sight of her shadow slipping over a wall was enough
to send a wave of warmth along his pulses. He was nineteen
years old, strong in limb and desire, and alone in a place
where kings and slaves thoughtlessly devoted themselves to
the pursuit of pleasure. Tuya was willing, he knew. Only her
great love for him had preserved her patience.
The crowd buzzed around him, but his ears centered on the
sound of the quiet puff of her eager footsteps in the dust. She
had no doubts about his reason for seeking a private place—
she was certain the time had come.
Had it? Yes. No. Perhaps.
Unbidden, Yaakov’s voice and image came to him on a
wave of memory. His father spoke slowly, still staring at the
mound of rocks where they had just buried Rahel. “For seven
years I worked and waited for your mother without taking her
into my tent. The years passed like hours, so great was my
love for her.” Yaakov let out a short laugh touched with em-
barrassment. “Though her beauty drove me to kiss her the first
time I saw her, I did not sleep with your mother until her father
gave her to me in marriage. Remember this, my son—a pa-
tient man is better than a warrior. A man who controls his
desires is stronger than one who rules a city.”
Yosef stopped in the middle of the street, knowing what his
decision must be. “Oh, Tuya,” he whispered, turning to her. He
caught his hands in her hair as shafts of restless energy coursed
through his veins. What words could make her understand?
“Yosef,” she murmured, ignoring the passersby as she
lifted her lips and flowed toward him.
“What are ye waitin’ for?” an aged crone called from the side
of the street. Startled, Yosef looked up to see a toothless hag re-
garding him with bright eyes. “Kiss her, boy, and get on with it!”
Yosef flushed as a rush of warmth washed over him. He
yanked Tuya forward, desperate to be free of the crowd.
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* * *
Tuya willingly followed Yosef into the shadows of an acacia
grove. Away from the teeming multitude along the river, the
world seemed now to consist only of two. How fitting that he
should lead her here, for trees were the confidantes of lovers…
“Tuya,” Yosef said again, and she turned to face him,
offering her heart and her embrace.
“We cannot do this.” His hands tightened on her arms, but
Tuya did not feel the pressure, so startled was she by the dart
that had pierced her heart.
She shivered in the chill shock. “You do not want me?”
“This is wrong. You belong to Potiphar, and he has placed
his trust in me. To do this would be a sin against God and a
crime against my master.”
“Potiphar will not know! He is far away, perhaps dead.”
“God will know. I will know, and you will know that I have
committed this wrong.”
Tuya stared at him, her mind reeling with his denial of their
mutual desire. “Is it wrong to share love? You cannot tell me
you do not want me.”
“I do want you,” he whispered in an aching, husky voice
she scarcely recognized. “God knows how much. But I cannot
sin against him. We will have to wait.”
Her heart sank with swift disappointment. “For how long,
Yosef? Until tomorrow? Next year? When will this god of
yours approve?” She narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps you are
waiting for some Canaanite girl to enter the household.”
“No,” he whispered, dropping his hands from her arms.
Without the warmth of his touch, she felt alone and vul-
nerable. “I love you with all my heart and soul,” he said, his
eyes raking her face. “But here—” he tapped the space of flesh
over his heart “—I know we need to wait.”
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She choked at the sight of his hand on the place where she
had so often pressed her ear to hear the reassuring beat of his
pulse. In that instant, her capacity for understanding reached
its limit and her emotions veered from frustration to fury.
“You have mocked me with your talk of love!” she snapped,
turning away.
His strong arm caught her and pulled her back. “I honor
you too much to mock you. I honor you too much to commit
this wrong. We will do what is right, and when our master
returns, he will see that his faith in us was well-served.”
Tuya turned her face from his as she struggled to gather
her thoughts. He did not truly love her. The trees, the gray and
blue-green shadows of the grove reminded her of the garden
where once, during another lifetime, she had offered her love
to Sagira. That love, too, had been spurned.
“I have often thought,” she whispered, watching a slender
finger of light that probed the foliage, “that I was not meant
to find love. Love is not for slaves.”
“How can you say that?” Yosef lifted her chin with his
fingers. A wounded look lay behind his dark eyes. “Love has
found you, it has found us. But we will have to wait, and trust
our master.”
She closed her eyes. “Our master will not know what we
do today.”
“He might. If you have a child, Tuya—what would we do
then?”
She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. The priest-
esses had potions and charms for women to use, but Yosef
would not want to hear of those things.
“Trust the master,” Tuya echoed. She lifted her hand and
gently ran her fingertips over the lovely face she could never
deserve to call her own. “Perhaps you are right, Yosef. We
must honor the master. We must not lose our heads.” She
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gathered her composure and gave him a brittle smile even
though she longed to throw herself on the ground and weep
in frustration. “We will wait for Potiphar, my Yosef.”
She had taken three steps toward the street when his words
made her pause. “I love you, Tuya,” he called, his voice heavy
with longing.
She was certain he spoke only out of kindness, but she
could not be angry with him. Her wounded pride would heal,
but not without the balm of friendship from the only person
she dared trust.
“I love you, Yosef,” she answered, glancing over her shoul-
der. She held out her hand and breathed a sigh of relief when
he took it and led her from the acacia grove.
Chapter Eleven
Potiphar bit back an oath when he learned that Narmer, the
king’s obsequious courtier, had been named a standard bearer
and placed in charge of two hundred fifty men. In addition to
the elite guards Potiphar commanded, other troops were or-
ganized into various corps. At the head of one of those corps,
Narmer now strutted like an ostrich.
Amenhotep II and his troops had been in the east for four-
teen months. During their trek through the numerous buffer-
states, Pharaoh’s warriors either put down rebellions or his
courtiers visited the camps of kings to confirm existing peace
treaties. For his help in subduing the warlike Hittites, the king
of the Mitanni tribe, a plump polyp of a warrior, demanded
and received assurance that one of his daughters would wed
the next pharaoh of Egypt. Tribes from many kingdoms sent
tributes to Pharaoh, and those who did not were engaged in
battle and forcibly vanquished. Kings were captured and
defeated men pressed into service as Pharaoh’s army covered
the land like a swarm of locusts.
At last Pharaoh stood on the banks of the Euphrates where
his father and grandfather had erected stelae to commemorate
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their victories. Amenhotep raised his own pillar to record his
meritorious accomplishments. After the proper sacrifices,
chants and prayers, the king ordered his army to return to Egypt.
The captive kings were bound and marched overland in
front of the advancing army. When Pharaoh boarded the royal
barge at the naval port of Peru-nefer, his warriors hung the
captive chiefs upside down on the prow of Pharaoh’s boat to be
displayed before the throngs of adoring, triumphant Egyptians.
Potiphar knew the chiefs would eventually die at Pharaoh’s own
hand as he beheaded them in a religious ceremony.
The army was finally on its way home. The late afternoon
sun streaked the water crimson as Potiphar stood at the stern
of the king’s boat. “Sweet breath of the Nile, lead me south-
ward,” he whispered, absently staring at the line of boats fol-
lowing Pharaoh’s. Their oars flashed like the wings of
dragonflies, churning up the river with furious motion. Along
the side of the ship, living water sang the king’s praises; along
the riverside, Pharaoh’s adoring people wept and fainted from
unexpected joy. Their god, the divine pharaoh, had returned.