Potiphar concentrated on the rhythmic beat of the drums
giving the rowers their stroke. He was too old to enjoy the adu-
lation of the crowd; he had cut too many throats to relish blood
sport. Foolish young men and idle kings were better suited for
war. If this god-king had at last had his fill of it, perhaps the
kingdom could rest in peace.
The blue-green ripples of water glistened as the barge cut
through the summer Nile. Thinking of home, Potiphar clasped
his hands behind his back and wondered if Paneah would
prove worthy of the trust his master had placed in him.
At his first glimpse of the walls of his villa, Potiphar
thought he’d come to the wrong estate. The tall, crumbling
walls had been repaired and painted; sweet flowers grew
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outside the entrance gate. The gatekeeper, an older slave
Potiphar had never seen, bowed and was about to discreetly
ring a bell when Potiphar stopped him. “Please,” he said, his
scarred hand falling on the other’s tanned one. “I would like
to enter my house alone.”
The man nodded stiffly, his heavy cheeks falling in worried
folds over his slave’s collar, and Potiphar moved past the gate
onto the curving path. A new wall had been erected to separate
the prison from the villa, and Potiphar noted with satisfaction
that neither the sights, smells nor sounds of the prison would
now intrude on the house. The guard at the prison gate saluted
sharply at Potiphar’s approach, but Potiphar only nodded and
turned his back on the somber structure. Paneah would not
have wasted his efforts there. The prison undoubtedly re-
mained as it had always been, a bitter, foul place for bitter,
foul prisoners.
The house rose from the sunbaked ground like an oasis, its
little temple gleaming like new silver in the savage sunlight.
The crumbling statues of Anubis and Osiris had been re-
moved, and nothing remained inside the chamber but a clean
altar and a bowl of burning incense. Potiphar found that the
spareness of the place pleased him. He had never pledged
allegiance to any personal deity, so why should he play the
hypocrite and pretend at piety in his own home?
Potiphar left the temple and continued toward the house.
The sand beneath his sandals had been sprinkled with water to
control the dust, and for the first time in his memory, he could
not smell the stockyard. Through an opening in a wall ahead
he could see women carrying baskets of grain, and beyond
them, three tall, cone-shaped granaries to hold stores of grain
and wheat. There had been but one granary when he left.
“I feel like a stranger visiting the house of a prince,” he
said, then he laughed at the absurdity of his words. Briskly
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climbing the steps to the house, he saw that the doorway had
been repainted, and his name outlined on the lintel in bold,
black letters. A servant prostrated himself at Potiphar’s ap-
proach, so the master stepped over the slave’s body and waved
the man away.
He swept through the north loggia and into his reception
room, then stepped back, amazed at the sight that greeted him.
This central hall, the heart of every nobleman’s residence, had
been a hollow, vacant symbol of Potiphar’s empty, single-
purpose life. Now the room glowed with vitality. The bare
ceiling had been painted the soft blue of a morning sky and
accented with gold wherever the ceiling joined its supporting
pillars. The high windows in the softly painted walls stood
open so air stirred in a sweet morning breeze. The four
matching pillars had been covered in red paint bold enough
to satisfy even Pharaoh’s elaborate tastes. Against one wall
someone had built a low brick dais on which Potiphar would
sit, and next to the dais a brazier glowed with burning charcoal
to chase away the morning chill. On the other side of the room,
a carved limestone slab waited for the dusty hands and feet
of Potiphar’s guests. A pitcher of pure white marble stood
ready to splash away the irritating desert sand.
Handsome panels of red and yellow moldings gleamed
from above the doorways, and niches had been carved into the
opposite walls to balance the openings in the room. At the
northern end of the hall, a staircase led up to the roof. Peering
through the opening, Potiphar could see that a light shelter had
been built to provide shade from the sun.
When a pair of sandaled feet appeared on the staircase,
Potiphar stepped behind a pillar and waited. A tall, imposing
man came into view, a scroll in his hand and a frown on his face.
Potiphar stepped forward and pursed his lips. “Do I
know you?”
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The frown eased into a smile, then the man lowered him-
self to the floor. “Master! Welcome home. I am Paneah, your
servant.”
“Can it be you?” Potiphar stooped and tapped the young
man’s shoulder. “Lift your head, so I may see you better. I did
not realize the desert sun had blinded me so completely.”
“There is nothing wrong with your eyes,” Paneah an-
swered, lifting his face.
Potiphar crossed his arms and stared at the stranger before
him. By all the gods, how a year had changed him! The awk-
wardness of adolescence had completely vanished from the
lad’s limbs, leaving him slim but powerfully built. He had
always been agreeable, but the man before him had been
favored with a striking face, a broad pair of shoulders and an
easy, open manner. His eyes snapped with intelligence, his
smile glimmered with goodwill—unusual in a slave.
“I can only hope I have not changed as drastically,” Potiphar
answered, finally finding his tongue. “I come home to find my
house a different place, and my youthful steward a man.”
“You honored me by placing me in charge of your house-
hold,” Paneah said, standing. “I hope you have found every-
thing to your liking.”
Potiphar raised a hand toward the ceiling, then let his arm
fall to his side. “I can find nothing to dislike, Paneah, unless
you have spent all your energy on this room and no others.”
“Never fear, master, all your affairs are in order,” Paneah
said, laughing. “If you would like a tour of the villa—”
“Of course, lead and show me what you have done.”
Potiphar thrust his hands behind his back. “I only hope you
have not depleted my treasure room so completely I will have
to sell you to feed my sheep.”
“Your treasures are intact and increased,” Paneah an-
swered, leading the way from the reception room. “The cattle
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produced well this year. Every cow brought forth a calf. The
sheep, too, were fertile, and the harvest of your lands has been
so bountiful that I purchased additional slaves to bring in the
harvest. I have trained them all in other jobs, too, so you will
have no fear of waste during the winter months—”
“I do not fear anything, Paneah.” Potiphar clapped the
slave’s back as he fell into step beside the young man. “With
you in charge of my house, I shall not worry about anything
but Pharaoh.”
One week after his return, Potiphar joined the other royal
troops at the palace for Pharaoh’s awards ceremony. Feasting
and rituals would take place throughout the day, beginning with
the sacrifice of the enemy kings at dawn and concluding with
the transportation of Pharaoh’s gods along the Nile at sunset.
After the bloody sacrifice at the temple, Pharaoh’s nobles,
warriors and courtiers moved to the throne room in Pharaoh’s
palace. The gigantic hall was as crowded as Potiphar had ever
seen it, and he gripped the handle of the dagger in his belt as
the crowd churned and surged behind the guards at the open
doors. One by one, the royal scribes read off the names of
those who had been with the king on his military expedition,
and those men, great and small, came forward to acknowledge
Pharaoh’s gratitude. Foot soldiers who had done well in com-
bat received tiny golden flies for “stinging” the enemy; to
others Pharaoh presented golden daggers, carved and painted
shields and handsomely carved bronze arrowheads. To the
archers, Pharaoh gave painted leather forearm protectors, and
to captains like Narmer the king awarded permission to kiss
his royal foot, not just the ground at his feet.
The crowd around Potiphar buzzed when the royal scribe
looked his way. Every standard bearer, petty officer and
foot soldier had been rewarded, only the captain of the
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king’s elite guards waited to receive his prize. For the first
time since the presentations had begun, Pharaoh stood from
his throne.
“Potiphar! Your king and god summons you!”
Potiphar stepped from the line of guards at the king’s right
hand and prostrated himself before Amenhotep. He had lain
in this position before, hoping for the golden chain that hung
around the king’s neck, but this time he had certainly earned
the prize. The Gold of Praise was an exalted honor few men
could wear, and Potiphar had served not only this pharaoh,
but Pharaoh’s divine father…
“Potiphar, how can a king reward his most trusted servant?”
“The warmth of your favor is enough, my king,” Potiphar
called, lifting his head just enough for his words to be heard.
“It is not enough. I must do something more for you, my
friend, and have thought many days on this matter. Horus him-
self has shown me what I can do. Rise, Potiphar, and accept
the gratitude and devotion of your king.”
Potiphar pressed hard on the floor, feeling his age as he
pushed himself upright, then bent his head in submission as
he walked toward the king’s throne. The king could thank him
properly by retiring from war. Another eastern expedition
would likely mean the end of his faithful captain.
“I have thought, faithful friend, about what you do not
have,” Pharaoh said, his voice low.
Surprised at the king’s conversational tone, Potiphar lifted
his eyes to meet Amenhotep’s.
“And I am prepared this day to give you what you lack. You
have received every honor Egypt can give, and every right a
pharaoh can bestow. You kiss the royal foot, even the leg, you
travel by my side and stand beside my throne. A hundred
golden flies decorate the animal skins you wear for a mantle,
and yet you do not possess one reward I can give.”
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Potiphar’s disobedient eyes slipped to the Gold of Praise
about Pharaoh’s neck.
“Once I gave you a beautiful woman. Now I will give you
a noble one. Donkor, my kinsman, has a daughter of fourteen
years. She was born in the royal line of pharaohs, and today
she will become your wife.”
The saving grace of long habit prodded Potiphar to crumple
at Pharaoh’s feet in the proper pose of overwhelmed gratitude.
Reflexively, he murmured his thanks, but his brain roiled with
the king’s words. A wife! Pharaoh did not know, he could not
know! Potiphar was a forty-six-year-old soldier, not the sort
of man to be a husband, and yet Pharaoh wanted to give him
a young royal wife who would demand to be petted, teased
and spoiled…
An audible hush fell on the droning gossips who had
sprung to life at Pharaoh’s words, and the soft swish of fabric
reached Potiphar’s ears. “Rise, Potiphar, and meet your bride,”
Pharaoh called, and the warrior’s arms trembled as he pushed
himself up and turned to face the child who would share his
house…and his future.
Clothed in a diaphanous sheath of reddish-gold, a young
goddess stood before him. She wore a pleated dress bordered
with rich fringe, and the gauzy fabric of the garment allowed
him to see the handsome shape of plump legs, a solid stomach,
strong arms. Distracted, he looked up and into the wide eyes
that peered from beneath a heavy wig. “I am Sagira, my lord,”
a treble voice whispered. “Daughter of Donkor, and kinsman
to the king.”
At first he thought the wreath of lotus blossoms circling
her head put forth an unusually heady scent, then he realized
that the lady also carried a bouquet. She had come to the
palace dressed for a wedding.
Pharaoh must have guessed at Potiphar’s discomfiture, for
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an abrupt burst of laughter escaped him. “My old friend,” he
said, smiling with as much warmth as he dared before a
jealous court. “Did you think you could escape matrimony
forever? Your duty lies in raising sons as brave and devoted
as you are. Take this girl as your wife, here and now, and do
not fail your king.”
Potiphar bowed deeply. “I would not fail you,” he an-
swered, his stomach tightening as the crowd broke into
pleased applause.
In his younger days, he’d have seen such a trap coming
long before it snared him.