“If you do not do this thing,” Yosef warned, “and Pharaoh
dies, the queen who ascends will not allow Tuthmosis’s
son to live. He will have an accident, or a mysterious
illness.” He leaned forward, his eyes beseeching hers. “I
will explain matters to Yosef. He will understand that you
do this for his sake.”
Tuya shook her head, unwilling to consider the possibility.
Tuthmosis was not about to die! He was twenty-three, young
and healthy, strong and sure…
Yosef stood and crossed the room in three long strides, then
gripped her arms. She flinched, resenting his familiarity.
“Tuya, you must trust the Almighty. He has warned me and
I have warned you. Do not be afraid.”
“I can’t do this,” she cried, her voice breaking.
“You must.”
The sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence. The vizier
pulled away and slipped from the chamber as Tuya’s maids
entered from another doorway. “Mistress! What’s wrong?”
She threw herself on the couch and sobbed, too broken for
words.
For a week she spent her days debating Yosef’s words and
her nights praying by the small stone altar in her bedcham-
ber. She had trusted the unseen god to aid Yosef and Taharka.
She had seen his hand of blessing on both Potiphar’s and
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Pharaoh’s houses. But she had never asked El Shaddai to
help her.
It was one thing to support a god with offerings and peti-
tions, another to place one’s son in his hands. She had surren-
dered Yosef to Pharaoh, she had given her claim on his heart
to Asenath, and all she had left was her son. And yet the
vizier’s god would have her place even her son in the hands
of the woman who might be her enemy.
She paced until she was blind with fatigue, then fell onto her
bed and slept. In slumber she drifted through clouds and
temples and over mountaintops until she stood on a place of
stone. A pile of timber had been gathered there, and a dagger
lay in her hand. On the wood, curled up like a puppy,Yosef slept.
The hard fist of fear clutched at her stomach as sharp stones
cut her bare feet. She knew where she was—Avraham’s altar.
But she could not offer what God asked of her.
A stentorian voice rumbled from a mass of clouds and
echoed around the mountain:
I called for a famine on the land,
I broke the whole staff of bread.
I sent a man before Yisrael,
Yosef, who was sold as a slave.
They afflicted his feet with fetters,
He himself was laid in irons;
Until the time his word came to pass,
The word of the Lord refined him.
The king sent and released him,
The rulers of peoples, and set him free.
He made him lord of his house,
And ruler over all his possessions,
To imprison his princes at will,
That he might teach his elders wisdom.
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Odd wind-borne sounds came to her, then the voice
spoke again:
Tremble, and do not sin;
Meditate in your heart and be still.
Offer the sacrifices of righteousness,
And trust in the Lord.
Tuya stepped forward, clutching the dagger in her hand,
and the form on the altar shifted. “I will trust Yosef to you,”
she cried, her voice mingling with the wind and the crack of
the weathered wood on the altar. “I have no other choice.” She
lifted the blade and felt her heart break, then thrust it down
into the blanket that had covered her son.
She felt no resistance. She pressed her hands to the scrap
of wool and discovered that Yosef had vanished. Had he been
spared…or carried to the other world?
Tuya spread her hands on the empty blanket and wept.
Tuya slipped into her best dress and wig, adorned herself
in Pharaoh’s favorite jewelry, and set out for the throne room.
Tuthmosis had not come to see her in days. It would be dif-
ficult to offer her suggestion before a formal audience, and
perhaps dangerous when she had no way to gauge the royal
temperament. If the king was in a bad mood…
But El Shaddai would know these things, and her son’s fate
rested in his hands.
She found Pharaoh sitting on his throne, an assortment of
maps and scrolls spread before him. Queen Mutemwiya sat
beside him, a bored expression on her face. Beside her, the
captain of the king’s guard studied the open maps with a
critical eye. Several military generals stood before Tuthmo-
sis; perhaps they were planning a military expedition.
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Tuya squared her shoulders as she approached the throne.
Today she would go into battle, too.
Tuthmosis saw her coming and held out a hand in greeting.
“My lovely Tuya,” he said, giving her a disarming smile.
“What brings you out of your bower?”
Tuya fell to her knees. “Only one thing, my husband and
king. I have a boon to ask of you.”
“What is it?” Honest pleasure shone from his eyes, and he
leaned forward. “You shall have it, even if it requires that I
sell half the equipment in my tomb.”
“It is this.” Mindful of Mutemwiya’s cold glare, she lifted
her gaze to meet his. “Take our son, husband, and declare him
to be the crown prince and your heir. I surrender him to you this
day.”
Tuthmosis’s eyes flickered in surprise. “You would sur-
render your son?”
“So there will be no doubt of his right to reign, I surrender
him to be betrothed to Queen Mutemwiya,” Tuya said, look-
ing at the older woman. The queen’s eyes were shrewd little
chips of bright quartz in a dark face, impossible to read.
For a moment Pharaoh seemed speechless, then he lowered
his voice. “In truth, I had thought to do this thing later,” he
said, his words for her ears alone. “I wanted our son to remain
by your side for as long as possible.”
“He is ten, and nearly grown,” she answered, careful not to
reveal Yosef’s warning. “It is time he began his princely train-
ing. Take him, my husband, with my love…and my unfaltering
trust.”
Pharaoh gave her a frankly admiring smile and declared it
would be done immediately. Tuya bowed in gratitude.
As she turned to leave, however, she caught a glimpse of
Mutemwiya’s face. The queen’s sharp and surly features re-
minded Tuya of a watchful, hungry vulture.
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* * *
and Queen Mutemwiya walked through the tall pillars of the
temple with the young prince between them. As the child
knelt before the altar, a temple priest proclaimed that the boy
was the rightful heir of Pharaoh and the future husband of the
Great Wife, Queen Mutemwiya.
“From this day forward,” the priest intoned, “let him be
called Amenhotep, the third of that name, in the tradition of
the pharaohs of the Two Kingdoms.”
From her place in the crowd, Sagira covered her lips with
her hand and hiccupped, the sour taste of beer filling her
mouth. Tuya’s child, the crown prince? Impossible to believe.
Tuya was nothing but a slave whom the gods had indifferently
blessed with beauty, and that beauty alone had put her in
Pharaoh’s bed and begot her a child.
Sagira snickered. Pharaoh was doubly a fool. Not only
had he embraced a slave, but he’d been foolish enough to
marry an aging queen who could never give him a lawful son.
“By the crust between Seth’s toenails,” Sagira snorted, not
caring who heard, “that’s no prince. There’s more royal blood
in my big toe than in that child.”
Several people retreated as if she were dispensing poison,
but Sagira only shrugged. “Can’t bear the truth, can you?” she
called, staggering. “I could tell you more, but you won’t get
a word out of me!”
Bystanders rippled away and pretended to ignore her, but one
man stepped forward and bowed. “Lady Sagira, isn’t it?” he
asked, a smile on his darkly handsome face. “You may remem-
ber me. I helped arrange your marriage when your parents
were alive. I am Narmer, the captain of the king’s guard.”
Sagira tipped her head back. The man did look familiar,
and he was handsome, with a strong, dauntless air. “I am
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pleased to see you.” She nodded with what she hoped was
regal grace. “And because you’ve been so gracious, I’ll forgive
you for marrying me to Potiphar.”
He laughed, then glanced up at the temple altar as if he did
not approve of the ceremony. “Foolishness, isn’t it?” he asked,
lowering his voice. “I heard your comment. I was surprised
to see that many people disagreed with you.”
“They ought to agree, for I know about these things,” she
answered, arching a brow. “The one they call Queen Tuya was
my slave, you know, both in Potiphar’s house and in the house
of my father. And my mother was Amenhotep’s sister.”
“Ah.” Narmer bowed again. “I am more honored than ever,
my lady. Mistress of a queen and Pharaoh’s cousin! Now if
you only knew our king’s vizier—”
“Bah, I know him.” She spat the words. “Of course, you
know he attacked me.”
“How could I have forgotten? My sympathies are with
you, dear lady.”
“They are?” She blinked at him, her heart warming.
“Yes.” He gave her a suggestive smile. “And I would love
to hear the entire story about this vizier and how he came
to harm you.”
Sagira felt her heart skip. It had been so long since a sober
man noticed her. Fuddled by longing, she allowed Narmer to
take her arm and lead her from the temple.
“Well,” she said, feeling herself flow toward him as they
walked, “Paneah was difficult from the beginning. In fact,
Potiphar returned Tuya to Pharaoh’s harem because she and
the steward were lovers. Many’s the night I found them in
each other’s arms….”
Tuthmosis allowed the priests and singers to finish their
ceremonial hymns as they sent him off to bed, but when they
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had gone, he sat up and stared at the wall. His mind was too
full for sleep, the day had been too eventful.
What wisdom had inspired Tuya to surrender their son? He
had seen her grief-stricken face peering from behind a portal
of the temple, and his heart swelled with such tender love for
her that he nearly paused in his walk down the aisle. But she
hadn’t looked his way; she had eyes only for their son…
She had been right, as always. He should have begun to train
his son months ago, for a prince had much to learn. If he hadn’t
been so caught up in his work with Zaphenath-paneah, he might
have found time for the boy, but sometimes he still thought of
himself as a prince. Twenty-three was not so young an age, yet
he often felt like a schoolboy pretending to play at king.
He lay down and folded his arms beneath his head. He
could send for one of the harem girls, but he wanted to talk
to Tuya. But she would be upset, for tonight Yosef slept for
the first time in his own chambers. Tuthmosis couldn’t find
the courage or the heart to face her red-rimmed eyes.
How he loved his first wife! He loved the loose wisps of
hair that made half-moons on her slender neck and the sleepy-
cat smile with which she greeted the morning. With every
passing day she grew more precious and unique, and yet
before her he often felt as awkward as an adolescent. She had
mothered him, befriended him and borne him a son; now he
yearned to make her love him.
None of the others loved him, and he didn’t particularly
care. They were his wives for political or pleasurable reasons,
and they understood their roles. Spoiled and selfish, they had
been born and bred to be pampered. Mutemwiya would never
have surrendered a child to another wife. The harem girls
would have demanded to be made queens themselves before
they’d have given up a soul that had sprung from their womb.
But though the sacrifice had caused her pain, Tuya had
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given her child into his care. She was always giving, never
asking for anything, even when he begged her to name a gift
he might find for her. He wanted to give her everything, yet
all she had ever wanted was the son she surrendered today.
Filled with remembering, Tuthmosis stared at the ceiling.
You have given me a child, the greatest gift a man can give a
woman,
she had told him on the day of Yosef’s birth.
I ask for
nothing more.
And yet he yearned for her to ask for more, to ask for him.
She liked him, she petted him, she showed him affection. But
she never spoke to him in the adoring tone she used with their
son, and she never looked at him in the dreamy way she
watched Zaphenath-paneah from across the room.
Lonely in the darkness, the divine pharaoh of the Two
Kingdoms curled into a ball, protecting the place in his heart