God would rescue him.
For several days he waited for news of Sagira’s confession,
but apparently that hard-hearted woman would not recant her
story. The second week he expected Potiphar to appear and
announce that he had experienced a change of heart and
needed Paneah to resume control of the foundering household.
But Potiphar did not come. As Yosef paced in his cell,
straining to hear sounds of normal life from Potiphar’s house-
hold, days melted into one another, periods of suffocating heat
followed by cool darkness that chilled his bones and brought
fever to his body.
Yosef lay on the sand in his cell and shivered like a dog even
in the heat of the day. His mind wandered in the twilight world
of illness and conjured up the faces of people God had taken
from his life: Tuya, his father, his mother, eleven brothers.
He had been in a pit once before. This darkness was like
that one, this pain akin to the other, these prayers like the
petitions he had lifted to heaven after his brothers had turned
against him. How could his brothers and his mistress profess
to love him in one hour and devise to take his life in the next?
What harm had he done? What quality in his personality com-
pelled them to despise him?
After a string of days, the fever broke, but unanswered
questions haunted Yosef’s sleep and his waking hours. He had
only done what he ought to do. He had overseen his brothers’
activities because he was a capable manager; he had told his
father about their mistakes because correction would benefit
the entire family. He had managed Potiphar’s affairs because
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he wanted Potiphar to succeed; he had humored Sagira be-
cause she was his mistress and could not be scorned.
Why, then, had his brothers risen against him? Why had
Sagira betrayed him after calling him her best and only friend?
Why had Potiphar ignored years of faithful service and chosen
to believe a lie?
At home he had been the favored son. In Potiphar’s house
he had been the trusted steward, the de facto ruler of the
mightiest estate in Thebes. Now he sat in a prison cell, alone
but for the occasional sag-bellied rat that tumbled into the pit
while searching for scraps of food.
Why, God?
He lifted his face to the sliver of heaven he could
see through the thatched cover over the mouth of his cell.
Was
I blinded by my dreams of power and authority? But you sent
me those dreams; I have sought only your will for my life.
Sagira offered to fulfill his dreams and Yosef chose to
honor God, the one who had left him to rot in a pit. Where
was he in this hour? Why didn’t he answer? Yosef’s pit lay
only a few paces from the chamber where he once lived as
master of Potiphar’s house, yet a world of distance separated
those two places.
No one will hear my cries, God, unless you listen. Sagira
will not come, nor Potiphar, nor Tuya, nor my father, nor my
brothers. All I have is you, and yet you are silent…
His thoughts rambled in an incoherent jumble. Two years
before, he recalled, Tuya had seen Sagira’s intentions and
warned him, but he had not listened. Many years before that,
his father had admonished him against boasting and he had
not listened. Pride blinded him to his brothers’ intentions,
just as it led him to deny Sagira’s lust-laced infatuation.
You knew how she felt,
an inner voice chided him.
Tuya
warned you, Sagira herself demonstrated her feelings. But you
found secret satisfaction in her attentions. You avoided her
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presence, yet took pleasure each time she demanded that you
appear. You pulled away from her touch, yet you hurried to
her chambers each time she called you to work on another of
her projects. She made you the greatest steward in Thebes,
and you allowed her to do it. You were proud of being her pet.
Pride.
The word stung like the bite of a scorpion, for pride
was the seismic fault of his life. He had craved the rich posses-
sions of Egypt, furnishing Potiphar’s house with every treasure
that struck his fancy. He had looked on Sagira and wondered
“what if?” He had listened to the vain flattery of visiting nobles.
Yosef huddled over the ashes of his dreams and bowed his
head to his knees. He had been proud to wear his many-
colored coat before his brothers, flaunting his position as the
most-beloved son among twelve. He had been proud of
Potiphar’s trust in him, placing his position even before Tuya’s
unselfish love. He had been proud of Sagira’s inappropriate
interest and confident of his ability to keep the tigress at bay.
Pride had enticed him into her den; only prayer got him out.
And haughty eyes and a proud heart were loathsome to the
Almighty God.
The endless monotony of confinement forced him to look
at himself, and for the first time he saw Potiphar’s Paneah
through eyes blessed with humility. God had gifted him with
Rahel’s beauty, Yaakov’s keen intellect, his brothers’ strength
and the Hebrews’ divine covenant of blessing. But Yosef had
accepted these qualities as his own, not recognizing that the
gifts of God had been channeled to him through others.
“Would that I had been born ugly, dull and weak,” he
murmured. “Then I would not have cause to lift up my heart
against God.”
Still bent into a position of submission, he extended his
hands and curled the palms toward heaven in supplication.
“Speak to me, God, as you have spoken before,” he whispered,
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his face resting on the ground. “Speak to me though I have not
spoken to you in many months. Do not forget me as I have
forgotten you.”
An hour passed. Yosef’s eyes felt sandy and his bones
ached. Grief throbbed in his soul. God had not spoken. Per-
haps God would not forgive. Certainly the dreams would
never be fulfilled, for he would remain in this pit forever, a
victim of his own pride and foolishness.
He wanted to die, to lie under the desiccating orb the Egyp-
tians called Re until nothing remained but a hollow shell of
the promise he used to be.
Woe unto those who go down to Egypt.
He had not heard the voice in years, but he recognized it
instantly. His eyes flew open as the hairs on his arms lifted.
Woe unto those who go down to Egypt and do not look to
the Holy One of Yisrael. When pride comes, then comes
dishonor, but with the humble is wisdom. Return to him from
whom you have defected, O son of Yisrael, and like a hovering
bird the Lord of hosts will protect you. He will protect and
deliver you; He will pass over and rescue you.
El Shaddai had not forsaken him. Yosef covered his face
with his hands. Tears of relief came in a rush so strong they
shook his body.
“Potiphar!”
Khamat, warden of Potiphar’s prison, waved from the gate.
Reluctantly, Potiphar slowed his step. Since Paneah’s im-
prisonment he had avoided the jail, not wanting to remember
his steward’s disloyalty. The memory of Paneah’s stricken
face still troubled his sleep.
“What is it?” He turned to face Khamat. “I have business
inside the house.” Indeed he did, for problems had erupted like
troublesome weeds ever since Paneah’s departure.
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227
“Surely you would like to visit the prison, master. It has been
nearly a month since your last inspection and I wondered—”
“I trust you, Khamat. Things cannot have changed so much.”
He turned to leave, but the warden’s next words made him
halt in mid-step. “If the steward troubles you, you do not have
to look at him. He remains in his cell, far from the others.”
Potiphar set his jaw and bit down an urge to slap the man
for making such a presumptuous remark. But everyone knew
he felt guilty about Paneah. The entire household still buzzed
with gossip about the steward’s arrest, and the once-unified
team of slaves had divided into quarreling factions. Most of
the men thought Paneah guilty, for they understood the urges
of a virile youth and had often remarked on the friendship
between the steward and his mistress.
Potiphar had noticed the situation, too. He had encouraged
the relationship because he knew Sagira was lonely, but he
believed his wife regarded Paneah with a feeling akin to the
paternal affection he felt toward the young man.
The female slaves, including Sagira’s handmaids, took
Paneah’s part in the debate. He was too beautiful, they in-
sisted, to take by force what any woman on the estate, includ-
ing the mistress, would have willingly given him. Sagira, the
rumors said, had yearned for the steward like a child longs for
a dangerous toy, pursuing him with an odd mixture of con-
tempt and desire.
But the rumors would not change Paneah’s fate. A noble-
woman’s word was sufficient to convict a slave of anything.
Even if Potiphar had found cause to doubt his wife, the tear-
stained kilt in her hand had sealed the slave’s sentence.
What was he thinking?
Potiphar clenched his teeth as he
considered Paneah’s blunder for the thousandth time.
Sagira
is charming, she is lovely in her way, she has a way of making
a man feel important—
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But Paneah should have known better than to fall into her
trap. And now Potiphar must support his wife, for to do other-
wise would be tantamount to admitting that he had driven her
to seek pleasure in the arms of a slave.
Khamat discreetly cleared his throat, bringing Potiphar
back to reality. “The prison, my lord?”
“The steward does not disturb me,” Potiphar answered,
tossing the words over his shoulder. “He is no longer my
property, but the king’s prisoner. If anyone must worry about
him, let it be Amenhotep.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Take your turn, my wife.”
When eleven-year-old Prince Abayomi shifted impatiently
on his chair, Tuya forced her attention back to the game board.
Her small hound figurines stood in imminent danger of being
devoured by her husband’s ivory jackals, so she rolled the
painted wands on the wooden board. “Three squares, my hus-
band,” she said, moving one hound out of the pack and around
the circular path. “In a moment my hound will be chasing you.”
The royal mouth frowned, but the boy picked up the wands
and rattled them enthusiastically. The young prince had inher-
ited his father’s long and straight limbs, but his mother’s pale
beauty had softened the dark eyes that glared from Pharaoh’s
visage. Abayomi’s quick smile was set in the midst of a du-
rably boyish face that either twinkled with mischievousness
or glowed in the mystic contemplation of a daydreamer. Like
his elder brother, his head had been shaved but for a princely
lock of long hair growing from his right temple.
That lock quivered like a snake as he rattled the wands. “By
the powers of Osiris and Amon-Re, I command double sixes!”
he cried, throwing the wooden sticks. One of the carved wands
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skittered across the board and landed in Tuya’s lap. Amused,
she tossed it back. “A five,” she said. “You may catch one or
two of my hounds, but I shall escape you yet.”
Abayomi frowned and fingered his game pieces, trying to
decide how best to move his jackals, and Tuya smiled at him
with tolerant affection. The all-consuming grief that had cov-
ered her like a mantle in the first year of her marriage had eased
somewhat. Though a weight of sadness lay on her thin face,
few things now touched the secret pool of sorrow within her.
For two years the boy-prince had been her husband. Shortly
after their marriage Tuya realized Abayomi had asked for her
because he considered her a pretty possession, a beautiful
companion to sit by his side, listen to his dreams and play his
board games. He was yet too simple and immature to realize
that dashed dreams and disillusionment had left her heart a
shell, but he was kind and good-natured. He might have
sensed her sorrow, for he took great pains to make her smile.
At first his frantic efforts to please left her bewildered; in time
the mere sight of him gaping up at her was enough to make
her laugh. He fancied himself a good husband, often bringing
gifts: a golden necklace, a kitten, a bowl of candied dates.
As the wife of a royal son, Tuya had her own apartment in
the palace, a bevy of handmaids to do her bidding, the use of
a chariot whenever she wished and a wardrobe box filled with
the most lovely garments she could have ever imagined. Her
husband filled his days with training and games, and called