the others?
But footsteps sounded on the marble in the great hall, and
she turned from the doorway, afraid to face him. After a
moment woven of eternity she heard the creaking of the cedar
door that led into her chamber. “You rang, mistress?”
Every nerve leapt and shuddered at the timbre of his voice.
“Yes, Paneah, I did,” she said, turning toward him. “And it’s
Sagira, now, remember? We are quite alone.”
He wore his best linen kilt, a pleated garment of her own
design, and the narrow waistline accented his trim waist and
his broad shoulders. Handsome leather sandals adorned his
feet, and a single golden band lay on his upper arm. His hair
hung lush and lovely about his memorable face as he awaited
her request. How like a god he was! How appropriate that he
had dressed in his best for this day.
He hesitated at the threshold of her chamber. “Do you
want me to drive you to the river for the festivities?”
“I don’t want to be in a crowd today,” she said, smiling at
him through tilted eyes. “I want to enjoy this place that we have
built—you and I.” She opened her arms, but he did not stir
from the doorway. She rolled her eyes, amused at his reticence.
“Come here, Paneah, don’t loiter like a child at the door.”
“You know more about childhood than I,” he said, stepping
into the room. “I’m older than you by far.”
“I’m nineteen.” She tipped her head back to look up at him.
“Old enough to know what I want.”
“I think you’ve always known.” He came forward and planted
himself on the floor in front of her. “And you have yet to tell me
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207
what you want. Do you have plans for another room? Another
garden? Perhaps a pool that will put Pharaoh’s to shame?”
“We are not working today.” She drew in her cheeks until
her lips formed a rosette, then blew him a kiss. “I’m in the
mood for poetry, Paneah. Read to me from the scroll you’ll
find on my bed.”
He gave her a faintly reproachful glance, then crossed to
the bed. He lifted the scroll and began to unroll it, but Sagira
draped herself across the bed and propped her head on her
hand. “Sit while you read,” she ordered. “I am not comfort-
able with you standing over me like a vulture.”
He sighed and sat on the edge of her bed, facing the wall. “Is
there anything sweeter than this hour?” he read, the sound of
music in his voice. Sagira turned onto her back and folded her
arms, hoping the words came from his heart and not just his lips.
For I am with you, and you lift up my heart—
For is there not embracing and fondling when you visit
me and we give ourselves up to delights?
If you wish to caress my thigh,
then I will offer you my lips also—they won’t thrust you
away!
Will you leave because you are hungry?
I can satisfy your hunger!
Will you leave because you need something to wear?
I have a chestful of fine linen!
Glorious is the day of our embracings;
I treasure it a hundred thousand millions!
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Paneah turned. “What is wrong?”
“Ah, my Paneah—” she stared at the ceiling “—I don’t
expect you to understand.”
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Dreamers
“Have I not understood your hurts in the past?”
“You have been the only one who understood—but you
cannot understand this.”
“Perhaps I can.” His voice gentled as he offered a smile. “We
will not know until you explain the sound of tears in your voice.”
Had any plan ever gone so well? Surely the gods were
smiling. “Paneah,” she said, letting her gaze mingle with his,
“my heart breaks because I am a young woman who will
never bear a son.”
He turned as if afraid to broach this personal topic, but she
pushed herself up and placed her hand on his back. He could
not escape her now.
“Potiphar is more feeble than you know,” she went on,
hurrying so he could not question her. “I am young and yearn
to suckle a baby.” She spoke the honest truth now, and felt
reckless with power. Why not be honest with him? The star
of ambition burned bright in his character and the prophecy;
perhaps he would seize her dream as his.
“Mistress—Sagira—”
“The royal blood of the pharaohs flows through my veins,”
she said, slipping off the bed, “and the child I could have will
someday be pharaoh of Egypt.” She crossed to Paneah and
knelt at his feet, then placed her hands on his knees. “If the
gods decide to destroy Amenhotep’s house, I will be the
heiress, the embodiment of Horus, the Lady of Heaven. My
husband will be Pharaoh, and our child will be the greatest
ruler in the world.”
His eyes held a teasing light; he did not understand the sig-
nificance of the truth she had just revealed. “Potiphar would not
accept the double crown, Sagira,” he said, gently gripping her
hands. “Has Ramla filled your head with these silly visions?”
She clung to him. “The gods themselves have spoken. I will
have a child, Paneah, sired by the man I love.”
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“Potiphar will be pleased.”
“Not Potiphar.” His eyes were as unreadable as water; she
yearned to look into his soul and see what thoughts stirred
there. An indulgent smile rested on his lips, and his hands kept
her at a distance even though she leaned toward him, drawn
by his masculine power. “Not Potiphar,” she repeated, sway-
ing as he held her. “My son will spring from the loins of the
man who has stolen my heart from its rightful owner.”
The meaning of her words took hold. His gaze traveled up
and down her as his face flooded with color, then he tried to
rise. “Mistress, you do not know what you are saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” she said, rising before
he could escape. She sat in his lap and wound her arms about
his neck. “Today, Paneah, you and I will share everything we
should have been sharing for the many months we have
known each other. Have you not noticed that I adore you? I
admire the curve of your mouth, I appreciate the gentleness
in your eye, I idolize the graceful strength of your hands.”
“This is not right,” he said, struggling in her grasp. “I
cannot—”
“Have you never had dreams of greatness, Paneah?” She
lowered her head and murmured into his ear. “In divining
your future, Ramla has foretold that one day every knee in
Egypt will bow to you.” As if she had struck a chord, his re-
sistance eased.
Sagira exulted at this first sign of victory. “Have you dared
to dream as high as Pharaoh’s throne?” she continued, feeling
his heart pound beneath her palm. “The way to your destiny
lies in my arms. How sweet this path is, my love! How gentle
the gods are with us! Imagine it, my god in flesh, kings and
queens from the world over will bow before your throne. As
the divine son of Osiris, even the sun and moon will bow
before you!”
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Dreamers
Sagira smiled in triumph when he gasped. Pride had paved
the way to his heart, and ambition would propel him into her
arms. He had never considered the possibilities she might lay
before him. She had already made him the most respected
man in Thebes, slave or free, but she had much more to offer.
In one deft movement, she stood and slid her fingers to the
catch of the concealing robe on her shoulders. The heavy gar-
ment slipped to the floor like a pool of blood at Paneah’s feet,
and she stood before him as exposed and vulnerable as a
newborn baby. He gasped and closed his eyes, confusion and
torment warring on his lovely face.
Playing the game with purpose, she ran a finger over his
chest, then hooked it beneath his kilt’s waistband. She could
feel the warmth of his nearness as he shifted in an effort to
escape. “Why should you pretend to resist me now?” she
said, running her lips over the smooth skin of his cheek. “I
am your mistress, my love, and I command you to kiss me.”
His pace of his breathing increased, but whether from
passion or pride she could not tell.
“Sagira,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, but this was not
the time for talking.
“Lie with me, Paneah.” Her hand tightened around the
fabric of his kilt. “Give me a son. The day is ours alone, and
the night as well.”
Desire, primitive and potent, poured through her veins,
the fires within her shooting upward and outward as she
pressed him toward her bed.
“No!” Yosef lunged forward, unceremoniously dumping
his mistress onto the floor. He moved to the wall and pressed
his hands to his head, struggling to regain his perspective. His
senses throbbed with the feel and scent and textures of her,
but what she was suggesting, no, demanding, was wrong. He
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was man enough to admit that his common sense skittered into
the shadows every time she touched him in that tantalizing
way, and she had no business wearing that dress before any-
one but her husband.
For an instant he had believed her, had almost followed her
into the lunatic fantasy of ambition that extended to the throne
of Egypt. When she mentioned the sun and moon bowing
before him, he had wondered if God had sent her as the ful-
fillment of his old dream.
But this devilish swirling heat inside his veins could not
be part of God’s plan. She was another man’s wife, and some-
thing dark shadowed her moves and motives. Even though her
touch could make him forget who and what he was—
She had not given up, but rose from the floor like a
determined tigress, eyeing him with a look of scorching
intent. “I can fulfill your dreams. You cannot escape me,
Paneah, the house is empty. I know some silly shred of
honor makes you regard your duty to Potiphar, but he has
never been a husband to me. He cannot be. He was
wounded in a battle long ago—”
He put out a hand to ward her off. “Don’t.”
She shivered and kept coming, as if his prohibition had
excited her. He slid along the wall, moving toward the door-
way, yet still she came, slowly, seductively, because she knew
he was watching. “I hate to assume the man’s role and pursue
you,” she said, her voice low and promising, “but there can
be no other way, my dear love. Lie with me, Paneah, and be
the real master of the mistress.”
He wanted to look away, but she might pounce. “I won’t
do this thing, Sagira,” he said, injecting a note of authority into
his voice. “It would be a sin against God and against Potiphar.
You cannot command me—I would suffer a whipping first.”
“I wouldn’t mar this golden skin with a whip,” she said,
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Dreamers
reaching for him. The touch of her hand burned his flesh, and
he gasped as she grappled with the fabric of his kilt.
“Sagira—”
“Don’t struggle, beloved.”
“God, help me!”
She laughed and Yosef pulled away, but she clung to his
garment with all her strength. A ripping sound rent the air,
fresh air slammed against bare skin, and then he was out of
her chamber. Reaching the corridor, he turned to run for his
room, then he realized she’d go there first, seeking him. She
would hunt him down until she found him, for he had never
seen such determination in the eyes of any living person. She
would look for him everywhere, searching the garden and
even the kitchen, but she was too fastidious to accost him in
the stockyard.
Without thinking further, Yosef turned and sprinted for the
cattle pens.
“Paneah!” Sagira called, mimicking the singsong way
mothers call their young children. She held up his kilt in case
he happened to be watching. “I have something that belongs
to you! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
She moved through the bedchambers and the great hall, but
no sign of him could she see. He was being coy, merely
playing a game. Men liked to be the hunters, not the hunted,
and perhaps she had surprised him with her sudden declara-
tion. But the day was yet early, and if she let him find her…
She walked through the kitchens, idly running her hand
over the bowls and pottery, hoping he would step out of the
shadows and claim her. She walked more briskly through the
servants’ quarters, wondering if he had found the courage to
replace his kilt, but he did not appear. He was not in the
garden, on the porch or in her women’s quarters.
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He had run away.
She fell onto her couch, exhausted and humiliated. With
each passing hour of the water clock she waited, anxious that
he appear, and several times she rang her bell to summon him.
He did not answer.
Angry beyond words, furious at her vulnerability before a
slave, she tore her dress and ripped handfuls of hair from her
wig. She threw cushions, broke vases and upset the furniture