the weeks that followed, he proved to be a will-
ing pupil as Tuya schooled him in the basics of the Egyptian
tongue. He had a sharp and clear mind; rarely did she have to
explain anything more than once.
“Who is that you pray to?” he asked one morning when she
had finished bowing to the statue in the sunlight.
Tuya rose and reverently put the statue away. Montu had
met all her requests; he deserved to be handled with respect.
“Only the king has access to the gods. Only he can pray. I
was chanting before Montu, an ancient war god. He has
healed your arm.”
Horror flashed in the young man’s eyes. “Please don’t
think such a thing! It is an abomination for my people to bow
before any stone object. We worship the invisible god, the one
and only creator of heaven and earth.”
Tuya sank to a papyrus mat on the floor. Only one god!
Despite his quick intellect, this youth was utterly unsophisti-
cated. She tilted her head and looked at him. “Does your god
have a name?”
“The god of Avraham, Yitzhak and my father Yaakov spoke
62
Dreamers
to my forefathers as El Shaddai,” he answered, lifting his
chin. “He is God Almighty, the unseen god.”
Tuya shook her head. “Amon is the invisible god,” she ex-
plained in the voice she would have used to teach an ignorant
child. “He is Amon-Re, king of the gods, the chief god of our
king’s empire. He is the creator, the one who rose from chaos
and created maat, the principle that guides our actions. He
created all things that move in the waters and on the dry land,
then he took a form like ours, becoming the first pharaoh.
After a long life, he ascended to the heavens and left the other
gods in charge of the earth.” She couldn’t resist smiling.
“There are many gods, Paneah. Our land grows gods as freely
as it grows grain.”
The young man gave her a quick, denying glance. “My god
is not Amon-Re. And my name is not Paneah. It is Yosef.”
Tuya lowered her voice. “Our master gave you a new name
in the hope that you would survive. The name is a gift, for
Paneah means ‘he lives.’ This Yosef is foreign to our ears, and
the master will not like it.”
The young man did not answer, but regarded her silently
for a moment. Then a shy smile tweaked the corner of his
mouth. “If my master will not call me Yosef, then you must.
I give my true name to you and you alone, for you are the only
one in this land who has shown kindness to me.”
His eyes touched her with warmth, and Tuya struggled
with the inner confusion his smile always elicited. “All right,
Yosef,” she said finally, managing the foreign pronunciation
as best she could. “But I will not speak that name in front of
the master. I will do nothing to offend him, for a slave who
offends will be sold.”
His heavy eyelids closed. Outside the small chamber, dark-
ness approached with the silken slowness of a languid tide.
Shadows lengthened in the room, and Tuya shifted uncom-
Angela Hunt
63
fortably as she looked out at the fading light. Sunset had been
her favorite time of day in Donkor’s house, the time when she
and Sagira relaxed and settled down to sleep. Now darkness
brought nothing but phantoms of the past.
She swallowed hard, over a throat that ached with sorrow.
“Was it so terrible?” Yosef asked, his voice quiet and low
in the darkening room.
Tuya started; she had assumed he slept. “What?”
“Whatever it is that fills your face with sadness.”
His gaze held her tight, and Tuya had an odd feeling that
he had forgotten himself and cared only for her. No one had
ever made her feel that way before. She shivered, recalling her
overwhelming feeling of helplessness, her fear of facing
Pharaoh as a concubine, her still uncertain future. “Why does
the past matter?” she finally answered, whispering in the
gloom. “You have faced terrible things, too. Your hands tell
a story, Yosef, and they say you were not born a
ing pupil as Tuya schooled him in the basics of the Egyptian
tongue. He had a sharp and clear mind; rarely did she have to
explain anything more than once.
“Who is that you pray to?” he asked one morning when she
had finished bowing to the statue in the sunlight.
Tuya rose and reverently put the statue away. Montu had
met all her requests; he deserved to be handled with respect.
“Only the king has access to the gods. Only he can pray. I
was chanting before Montu, an ancient war god. He has
healed your arm.”
Horror flashed in the young man’s eyes. “Please don’t
think such a thing! It is an abomination for my people to bow
before any stone object. We worship the invisible god, the one
and only creator of heaven and earth.”
Tuya sank to a papyrus mat on the floor. Only one god!
Despite his quick intellect, this youth was utterly unsophisti-
cated. She tilted her head and looked at him. “Does your god
have a name?”
“The god of Avraham, Yitzhak and my father Yaakov spoke
62
Dreamers
to my forefathers as El Shaddai,” he answered, lifting his
chin. “He is God Almighty, the unseen god.”
Tuya shook her head. “Amon is the invisible god,” she ex-
plained in the voice she would have used to teach an ignorant
child. “He is Amon-Re, king of the gods, the chief god of our
king’s empire. He is the creator, the one who rose from chaos
and created maat, the principle that guides our actions. He
created all things that move in the waters and on the dry land,
then he took a form like ours, becoming the first pharaoh.
After a long life, he ascended to the heavens and left the other
gods in charge of the earth.” She couldn’t resist smiling.
“There are many gods, Paneah. Our land grows gods as freely
as it grows grain.”
The young man gave her a quick, denying glance. “My god
is not Amon-Re. And my name is not Paneah. It is Yosef.”
Tuya lowered her voice. “Our master gave you a new name
in the hope that you would survive. The name is a gift, for
Paneah means ‘he lives.’ This Yosef is foreign to our ears, and
the master will not like it.”
The young man did not answer, but regarded her silently
for a moment. Then a shy smile tweaked the corner of his
mouth. “If my master will not call me Yosef, then you must.
I give my true name to you and you alone, for you are the only
one in this land who has shown kindness to me.”
His eyes touched her with warmth, and Tuya struggled
with the inner confusion his smile always elicited. “All right,
Yosef,” she said finally, managing the foreign pronunciation
as best she could. “But I will not speak that name in front of
the master. I will do nothing to offend him, for a slave who
offends will be sold.”
His heavy eyelids closed. Outside the small chamber, dark-
ness approached with the silken slowness of a languid tide.
Shadows lengthened in the room, and Tuya shifted uncom-
Angela Hunt
63
fortably as she looked out at the fading light. Sunset had been
her favorite time of day in Donkor’s house, the time when she
and Sagira relaxed and settled down to sleep. Now darkness
brought nothing but phantoms of the past.
She swallowed hard, over a throat that ached with sorrow.
“Was it so terrible?” Yosef asked, his voice quiet and low
in the darkening room.
Tuya started; she had assumed he slept. “What?”
“Whatever it is that fills your face with sadness.”
His gaze held her tight, and Tuya had an odd feeling that
he had forgotten himself and cared only for her. No one had
ever made her feel that way before. She shivered, recalling her
overwhelming feeling of helplessness, her fear of facing
Pharaoh as a concubine, her still uncertain future. “Why does
the past matter?” she finally answered, whispering in the
gloom. “You have faced terrible things, too. Your hands tell
a story, Yosef, and they say you were not born a
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