Sagira felt a blush burn her cheek. Despite his posture of
gratitude, in her new husband’s eyes she could read his dis-
pleasure about this marriage. He should have been overjoyed,
for many fathers had sought to have her for their sons. But,
unwilling to marry Sagira without Pharaoh’s permission, her
anxious parents had waited for the king’s return from the
east. In a private meeting arranged by one of the royal cour-
tiers, Donkor and Kahent approached Pharaoh and mentioned
their desire to find a suitable husband for their noble daughter.
Flushed from the thrill of his military campaign, Pharaoh had
been eager to honor his captain and declared that the resolute
and courageous Potiphar would prove an admirable husband
for Sagira. He needed to honor the grizzled veteran of a hun-
dred wars, and his royal niece needed a husband. What could
be a better match?
Potiphar, Kahent had later confided to Sagira, was strong-
willed enough to serve as Pharaoh should Ramla’s prophecy
be fulfilled in his lifetime. If he proved to be less than a good
husband, he was old enough to die and give Sagira many
more years in which she could marry again.
Sagira knew her fate could have been worse. Despite his age,
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Potiphar was known as a fair and dutiful man, and his house-
hold had prospered in the year of his absence. She had asked
her father to drive his chariot past Potiphar’s villa, and she
found it was one of the most handsome in Thebes. As the villa’s
mistress, she would bring grace and elegance to the place. In
time the old goat would be grateful for Pharaoh’s favor.
Lifting her eyes from her promised husband, she pivoted
gracefully and walked down the aisle extending from the
throne of all Egypt. Promptly on cue, the priests from the
temple of Bastet, her patron goddess, brought forward the
marriage canopy that had been woven from river rushes.
Sagira met her father under the canopy, then turned and waited
for her groom.
A heavy silence settled on the chamber. Potiphar stood
without moving, his mouth gaping like a fish that has been
taken from the safety of the river. For a desperate moment
Sagira thought he would refuse the king’s gift.
Pharaoh’s voice filled the strangely thickened air.
“Potiphar,” he called, a thin note of warning in his voice, “surely
you will want to thank the man who has served you in this
venture. As I searched for a way to honor you, Narmer came
from Donkor and put your bride’s name into my thoughts.”
Sagira saw Potiphar jerk his heard toward the spot where
the courtier stood like a cocky rooster preening his feathers.
Dressed in fine linen and animal skins, Narmer stepped for-
ward and fell to his knees before Pharaoh.
“And what should I give you, faithful Narmer?” Pharaoh
asked, glancing down. “You who have provided so many
answers to my questions?”
“Nothing could ever replace your affection in my heart,”
Narmer said, his eyes humbly fastened to the floor. “But if I
could wear the Gold of Praise about my neck, I would forever
be reminded that Pharaoh holds me in esteem.”
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Amenhotep smiled and laid aside the crook and flail. “So
be it,” he cried, lifting the heavy chain from his neck. “Narmer
will wear his king’s favor on his shoulders. He has received
the divine praise of Pharaoh and had a part in bringing
Potiphar his noble bride!”
A decidedly ugly look settled on Potiphar’s features as he
turned from the strutting courtier to face the bridal canopy.
Sagira shivered and vowed to remember that expression.
Potiphar was a warrior, and would undoubtedly be violent if
pressed. For the sake of her survival, she would be careful
never to rouse her husband’s anger.
The wedding was but another celebration on the program
of Pharaoh’s grand festival, and Potiphar was irritated by his
role in it. In time he might have considered taking an older,
quiet woman to be his wife, for he had occasionally longed
for a companion to share his home, but he did not care to have
a youthful bride thrust on him. The daughter of Donkor was
lovely, in the dark fashion of most Egyptian girls, but she
lacked Tuya’s devoted smile and the long-limbed gracefulness
of women he had observed in the northeastern provinces. At
fourteen, she was still much a child, but her face was com-
posed when she turned to face him.
He should have studied his bride-to-be as the priests began
the incantations of the ceremony, but he couldn’t help being
distracted by her entourage. Behind the girl stood a bald priest-
ess in a spotless robe, a sour-faced, somber creature who re-
garded Potiphar with distrust in her eyes. Donkor stood at his
daughter’s right hand, a royal relative whose enormous belly
advertised his prosperity far better than words. Behind this trio
Narmer paced confidently, his hands behind his back, a smile
on his lips and the Gold of Praise glittering about his neck.
Why hadn’t he simply asked for it? Instead of prattling
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about Pharaoh’s favor and indulging in false humility, why
didn’t he tell the king what was owed? Then he’d have the Gold
of Praise and a young fool like Narmer would have this girl.
But the gods worked in mysterious ways, and Egypt’s
divine pharaoh was the most unpredictable of them. On any
other day, if a man dared to ask for the chain about Pharaoh’s
neck, he’d be crocodile meat before sunset. Narmer was a
fool, but Potiphar could not deny his boldness.
The high priest of Bastet, a bald, sallow-faced man, ges-
tured for Potiphar to extend his hands and feet. Potiphar
obeyed, as did Sagira, and with fresh water from the Nile the
priest washed the limbs of bride and groom to symbolize the
purity of their union. After the washing, a servant offered up
a corn loaf, and Potiphar fumbled with memories of the few
weddings he had attended. He was supposed to feed his bride,
a visible pledge of support, but his hands felt clumsy and over-
sized as he broke the corn loaf and placed a crumb of its crust
between the red lips of the girl beside him.
The priest uttered another incantation as the priestess be-
hind Sagira waved a stalk of sweet-smelling incense. Another
servant handed Potiphar a jug of wine. He would gladly have
drunk the wine in a mad guzzle—better to be rip-roaring
drunk than endure this humiliation—but the eyes of Pharaoh
focused on him.
Potiphar placed the jug on the ground according to the tra-
dition, then drew his sword and smashed the jug with a single
blow. With that action, the wedding was finished.
The crowd responded with cries of praise and approval, and
Potiphar lifted his bride’s hand and presented her to the
people. Sagira, daughter of Donkor, kinsman to the king, had
officially become Potiphar’s wife.
Chapter Twelve
“He has taken a wife?” Tuya asked.
Speechless with surprise, Yosef could only stare at the
messenger, who nodded and wiped perspiration from his
forehead with the edge of his tunic. “This very hour. The
master and his bride are feasting at Pharaoh’s palace, soon
they will return. You must make everything ready.”
A nervous fluttering rose in Yosef’s stomach as he turned
to Tuya. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “How do
the Egyptians marry? In my time here, I’ve never seen any-
thing to tell me—”
“How we marry is not important,” Tuya teased, sweeping
the messenger’s dusty footprints from the floor with a palm
frond. “What matters now is how they spend their wedding
night. And that, Yosef, is the same in any culture.”
“Fresh linens on the bed, fresh water in the basin and
pitcher,” Tuya called as she moved toward the master’s
chamber. “Hot coals in the brazier. Flowers in the basin, and
a garland of blossoms for the room, I think.”
“But how can our master be married?” Yosef took three
sprinting steps and caught Tuya’s arm, turning her toward
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him. “Surely he will not marry unless he is in love, but he has
said nothing of it—”
“Yosef, are you truly so simple?” Her fingers lightly dusted
his brow and pulled a stray strand of hair from his eyes.
“Sometimes I think you are not the wise and capable Paneah,
but a simple shepherd boy from the desert. Our master may
not love this woman now, but he will. The divine pharaoh has
arranged the marriage, and so it will be.”
“But does no one ever protest Pharaoh’s wishes? My father
was forced to marry a woman he did not choose, but he pro-
tested and insisted on marrying my mother as well. If he had
been allowed to marry the one he loved from the beginning,
much strife could have been avoided.”
“Who are we to question the will of a god?” Tuya quipped,
tapping him on the cheek. Yosef clung to her for a moment,
relishing the feel of her in his arms, then she laughed and
pulled away. “Let me go, or our new mistress will be scream-
ing for us to be whipped before she even knows our names. I
must tend to the bridal chamber, and you must see to the rest
of the house. Warn the butler and the baker, have Mert-sekert
bring a supply of linen, for the lady will want to see what we
can offer her wardrobe. There is no time to waste.”
Sighing, Yosef let her go.
Darkness had settled its black cloak over the villa by the
time Potiphar and his wife arrived. Tuya watched from behind
an arbor in the courtyard as the master helped a female figure
out of the chariot and into the house. Impossible to tell what
the woman looked like, for her wig was like that of any noble
lady, and her size obscured by the wine-colored robe that
proclaimed her a virgin bride.
Tuya heard Yosef’s confident greeting in the entryway and
knew he was welcoming their new mistress. Potiphar answered
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in a low murmur and escorted his bride into the house. After
a momentYosef slipped out of the entry and into the courtyard.
“Did you see her?” Tuya hissed from behind the arbor. “Did
you get a good look? What’s she like? Is she very beautiful?”
“Wait,” Yosef murmured, walking calmly over the pathway.
He barred the gate and snuffed the single burning torch, ef-
fectively plunging the courtyard into darkness.
After a moment, Tuya’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the
moon. WhenYosef’s back was turned, she crept from behind the
arbor and needled her fingers into his ribs. “Is she beautiful?”
“God spare me from a curious woman!” he yelped as she
ducked under his arm to confront him.
“Tell me everything.” She pulled Yosef into the privacy of
the shadows. A bench waited in the arbor and she tugged him
toward it, twining her fingers with his. “So—is she beautiful?”
“She is…fair. Very young.”
“Younger than me?”
“Probably. But I am not skilled at guessing a woman’s age.”
“You are too diplomatic. Is she plump or thin?”
“Shorter than you, and therefore she seems—thicker. But
lovely, with dark eyes and hair.”
“How could you tell anything under that wig?”
“Her eyebrows.” Yosef turned and brushed his lips across
Tuya’s forehead. “Her brows were black as night.”
“Don’t speak of other women when you’re doing that,” Tuya
breathed, squeezing his hand as his breath warmed her ear.
“What other women? I saw only Potiphar and you, out here
hiding behind the bushes.”
“I wasn’t hiding, I was waiting. I had a thought to share
with you.”
He draped an arm about her shoulders. “Only a thought?”
She pulled back to give him her brightest smile. “One
thought.”
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“Well…what is it?”
She hesitated, then lightened her tone. “Do you remember
when our master suggested that we might be married if we
served him well?”
He picked up her free hand and pressed it to his cheek. “He
mentioned six years. We have five remaining.”
“Doesn’t that seem like a long time?”
An inexplicable, lazy smile swept over his face. “My father
worked seven years for Lea, and another seven years for
Rahel. He told me the fourteen years flew by like days, so
great was his love for my mother.”
“Has your time here flown by, Yosef?”
He cradled her hand in his as his eyes grew thoughtful. “In
the beginning, no. I wondered what God meant by bringing
me here. Then I wouldn’t allow myself to love you for fear
that I’d be taken away again. But now—” his smile warmed
her “—now the days fly and I wait and pray and hope that God
will be merciful.”
“I offer petitions to Montu.” Tuya lifted her chin and
strengthened her voice so he would know she was serious. “I
think our master’s marriage may be a great boon for us. If
Potiphar, who never thought to marry, finds joy with his bride,