for him. Perhaps prison had proved to be a place of refuge for
Yosef, a way out of Sagira’s reach. Tuya did not know whether
this god could be trusted, but she had believed in his existence
from the first time she heard Yosef speak of the Almighty One.
He was real, for Yosef would not lie, and El Shaddai had
manifested his power by saving Yosef’s life. Because this god
was so different from the gods of Egypt, omnipresent and yet
invisible, perhaps he worked in unexpected ways.
She turned from the statue of Montu and stared instead at
the painted images of Pharaoh on the chamber walls. Dis-
tracted, she closed her eyes. “If you are there, Almighty One,”
she whispered, “hear the words of Tuya, friend to your servant
Yosef. Protect my unborn child, and protect your servant
Yosef. If you do not do these things—”
She paused. Most Egyptians threatened the gods with the
desecration of their temples or the withholding of offerings
if petitions were not answered, but would threats offend an
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all-powerful god? And how did one punish a god who had no
temple and no priests?
“Please do these things,” she whispered. “Please hear me,
Almighty One. For today I have petitioned only you.”
Potiphar strode into Pharaoh’s chamber in the quiet of the
afternoon, a time when the king usually rested or enjoyed the
entertainment provided by his dancing girls. Today, though,
Amenhotep sat pensive and quiet in his chair.
Potiphar cleared his throat, hoping the sound would spare
him the agony of bending his arthritic knees to the floor. For-
tunately, Pharaoh heard and gestured in Potiphar’s direction.
The captain of the guard strode into the royal presence. “O
Pharaoh, live forever! I have important news, my king. We
have investigated and determined that the shame of yester-
day’s attempt on your life was made with the help of either
the palace butler or the chief baker. The surgeons were unable
to tell if the poison was ingested as drink or food, so we have
arrested both men. They await your divine judgment.”
“I will give it—later,” Pharaoh said, inclining his head on
his palm. His thoughts seemed far away.
Potiphar shifted uncomfortably. “Is there anything else,
mighty Pharaoh?”
The king’s gaze shifted to Potiphar’s face. “Have you
thought much about my reign, my captain? You knew my
father well—how would you compare my leadership to his?”
Potiphar hesitated, wavering between truth and diplomacy.
“You are much the same, and yet different,” he said, his hand
tightening around the hilt of his sword. “Your father, Tuthmo-
sis, was a warrior and you have the same fierce heart. Your
father fought until he died. But you, my king, have thought
much of other things.”
“The other world,” Pharaoh murmured, his gaze drifting
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again. “Do you know, Potiphar, that I can boast that no man
has gone hungry during my reign? The Nile has brought forth
her abundance every year. Therefore I know the gods are
pleased with me. No priest has dared to think of bringing
death to my door.”
Aghast that the king would speak of the age-old rite by
which a pharaoh gave his life for his country, Potiphar blinked
in silence. In past dynasties, whenever the Nile did not flood
sufficiently, famine smote the land so harshly that the people
cried out in grief. Because Pharaoh was the giver of fertility
and the preserver of all, he was also the Divine Son who
might be put to death to ensure the fertility of the land. In the
ancient pyramid texts the sages wrote that if the people had
not eaten bread, or “the eye of Horus,” both the people and
the gods should demand the king’s death so the fields might
be fertilized with his blood. Since the kings were immortal
gods, this sacrificial death was never declined…at least
Potiphar had never heard of any king who refused his role in
the ritual.
In a time of famine, when the priests decided that the
kingdom had suffered enough, the high priest of Anubis
would present himself to Pharaoh wearing the jackal mask of
his god. In his arms he would carry the means of Pharaoh’s
death: a basket containing a cobra. Knowing that the time had
come, the king would raise the lid from the basket and lift the
cobra to his breast.
Death by cobra poison came swiftly. After the king’s death,
his internal organs were removed during the mummification
process and his heart and lungs ceremonially buried in the
soil, bringing breath and life to the earth. A new king, the heir,
would confirm his right to succession by installing his prede-
cessor in the tomb, thus insuring the dead king’s place in the
other world.
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Dreamers
The kings of Egypt’s eighteenth dynasty had died in various
ways, but Potiphar could not name one who had sacrificed
himself for the land. Did Amenhotep’s new apprehension
spring from some secret fear? Did he suppose the jackal-
headed priest of Anubis to be lurking outside in a corridor?
“Do you anticipate a famine, my king?” Potiphar asked,
his voice a subtle whisper in the room.
The king’s head jerked toward Potiphar. “Surely, Potiphar,
you know I fear nothing in this world or the next, and yet
sometimes…I wonder. As God, I give everything to my peo-
ple. I worship myself as God in living form, for I am the
physical son of Re.” Amenhotep pulled back his shoulders and
lifted his granite jaw. At that moment, his dark, worried face
seemed never to have known a smile. “And yet I am as mortal
as other men. If I eat poison, I will die. Sometimes I do not
feel like a god, and I am sobered by the possibility that I may
not be.” He threw Potiphar a look of half-startled wariness.
“A life is a great treasure to risk on a lie, don’t you think?”
For some shapeless reason Potiphar thought of Paneah.
“My king, I cannot say. I am not a priest.” He bowed, eager
to leave the conversation. “If you will excuse me, sire, the
royal baker and cupbearer await me. We will take great pains
to stall your journey to the next world for as long as possible.”
The hot wind of the sirocco blew sand into Abayomi’s
eyes, and his servants sighed in relief when Pharaoh’s second
son signaled for the company to halt. “We will pause from our
hunt, for the sun is nearly overhead,” the prince called, deep-
ening his awkward voice to command the authority due a
royal son. He stepped from his chariot and felt the heat of the
desert sand through his sandals. “Lead the horses to shelter
here, behind the Great Sphinx of Harmakhis, and prepare a
resting place.”
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249
His servants scurried to do his bidding, removing the royal
chariot to a place of shelter from the desert winds. Their dark
bare feet skimmed over the blistering sand as they hastened
to prepare a tent, but Abayomi placed his hands on his narrow
hips and ignored them, choosing to study the Sphinx half
buried in the sand. Khafra, a king long before his father, had
modeled this monument after his own likeness in honor of the
sun-god who ruled these vast deserts.
A smile twisted the corner of the prince’s mouth. Where
was the sun-god now, and did he care that the lion’s body of
his Great Sphinx lay buried beneath the desert? Only the
wind-scarred head of Khafra was now visible, his chin resting
on the sand like a creature resigned to inevitable suffocation.
“Prepare my tent here, before the Sphinx,” the prince com-
manded the servants who fluttered nearby in anticipation of
his wishes. “We will rest, then continue our hunt.”
A canopy appeared as if from nowhere, four poles held its
striped linen high above the earth. Another piece of linen,
tightly woven to keep out irritating grains of sand, was spread
on the ground, and on this the prince reclined.
The sun threw the shadow of his distinctive profile onto the
ground. He knew he was handsome, and though his face still
retained the softness of youth, his concentrated stare never
failed to make a maiden blush or a servant grow pale. Taller
than his mother, nearly as tall as his elder brother, he pos-
sessed strong limbs and a broad chest, set off by a fine linen
kilt and the wide golden collar about his neck. One magnifi-
cent lock of black hair grew like an exclamation from his right
temple, the seat of deep thought and wisdom.
The Great Sphinx sheltered him from the hot winds of the
sirocco and his eyes closed in the heavy heat of the afternoon.
Sleep, when it came, was welcome.
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* * *
son Abayomi,” the creature said, the wide eyes of stone un-
blinking and yet, seeing all. “For I, your father Harmakhis-
Khopri-Tumu, grant you sovereignty over the Two Lands, in
the South and the North, and you shall wear both the white
and the red crowns of the throne of Sibu, the sovereign pos-
sessing the earth in its length and breadth.”
The prince blinked and sat upright, but nothing else moved
in the hot afternoon. Was this a dream? Or had he dared
disturb the mighty sun-god with his irreverent thoughts?
“These are words of blessing, my son,” the Sphinx contin-
ued, his voice a roar that reverberated through the desert.
“You shall be called Tuthmosis, and the flashing eye of the
lord of all shall cause to rain on you the possessions of Egypt.
Vast tribute from all foreign countries, and a long life for
many years as one chosen by the Sun, for my countenance is
yours, my heart is yours, no other than you is mine.”
“I am yours,” the prince whispered, falling to his knees
before the solid stone image. He lowered his head to the earth
and felt the heat of the desert burn his forehead. “But I am
only a second son. How can these things be?”
The massive stone head turned, the grating of stone on
stone quivered the canopy poles. The prince slowly lifted his
gaze. Beyond the Sphinx, sand dunes rippled and flowed like
water toward the monument, and the mouth of the half-buried
stone creature opened in an inhuman cry. “The first born of
Egypt shall die,” the monstrous voice shrieked. “You shall
become King, my son Tuthmosis.”
The prince moistened his lips as the horrible prophecy
rang in his ears. “What would you have me do?”
As if by command, the sand stopped flowing, the wind
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251
ceased. The Sphinx’s mighty head returned to its resting place
and the powerful mouth closed.
But still the voice reverberated in the prince’s head. “Now
I am covered by the sand of the mountain on which I rest, and
have given you this prize that you may do for me what my heart
desires. For I know you are my son, my defender. Draw nigh.
I am with you, I am your well-beloved father. Release me from
this mountain, and I shall give you what your heart desires.”
“I will release you from the sand, I swear it,” the prince
answered, the scent of scorched linen filling his nostrils.
“Then this and more will I give to you, Tuthmosis, if you
release me!” The mighty voice echoed through the desert
stillness, growing louder and stronger until the boy’s hands
covered his ears and he screamed, too, his cry lost in the
buried god’s terrifying wail.
The prince jerked into wakefulness as an anxious servant
touched his shoulder. Behind the servant, the sirocco blew past
the Sphinx in a miserable, commanding howl. “May the gods
grant you life, my prince,” the servant said, bowing on the hot
sand. “You have slept a long time. We feared you were not well.”
“I am well,” the prince answered, rising on his elbow. He
moved slowly, half-afraid any sudden sound or action would
tear the fabric of sanctity around the half-buried Sphinx. The
fearsome sounds and images lingered in his brain, as vivid as
the servant on the sand. His father would insist he had imag-
ined the episode, for Amenhotep believed the gods spoke
only to him. But the prince recalled the devastating power of
the Sphinx’s voice, and shivered despite the heat.
He stood and stepped from beneath the sheltering
canopy. “Mark this well, all who hear,” he called in his most
authoritative tone. “If the gods will that I be King, on that day
the sand of this mountain is to be cleared from the form of
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Harmakhis-Khopri-Tumu, the sun-god, that he may reign in
beauty over the Two Lands, in the South and the North. It shall
be recorded that I have done this, in covenant between the god
my father, and I.”
The company bowed in honor of the royal proclamation.
Abayomi nodded, satisfied, then climbed back into his
chariot and led the procession back to Thebes, too shaken to