union between Upper
and Lower Egypt. At the front of the headdress gleamed a
Angela Hunt
53
golden model of the cobra goddess Wadjet, who could deal
out instant death by spitting flames at any enemy who dared
threaten the king. A long white robe disguised the king’s wiry,
athletic body, and the wide pectoral at his breast covered the
battle scars he had won while fighting with Potiphar against
the Asiatic city-states. Over everything, beating against Pha-
raoh’s heart, hung the heavy necklace known as the Gold of
Praise. Pharaoh wore it because he was King. A select few
men wore it because they had earned Pharaoh’s admiration.
Potiphar allowed his eyes to dart toward the battle paint-
ings to remind Pharaoh that they had been through much
together. I remember, my king. Do you?
Amenhotep’s dark gaze met and held Potiphar’s as he
extended the crook and flail. “Come forward, Potiphar,”
Pharaoh called, the tip of his false beard wagging like the
finger of a scolding tutor.
Potiphar’s feet obeyed.
“I am the embodiment of the god Horus,” Amenhotep con-
tinued, speaking slowly for the scribes who transcribed every
word. “I am Golden Horus, the king of Upper and Lower
Egypt. I am the son of the sun-god Re. I am your father,
Potiphar, and I wish to honor you this day.”
Potiphar closed his eyes, afraid he gazed too hungrily on
the heavy chain of gold around Pharaoh’s neck. By the king’s
favor he had a house and cattle and sheep and goats and
slaves. He had more than he knew how to manage, but the
Gold of Praise had always eluded him.
“What can I give you, my son Potiphar, that you do not
already have? I have long pondered this question. I and my
fellow gods have already blessed you with life and health.”
“It is enough, O Pharaoh,” Potiphar answered. He fell to
his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground. “It is enough
that you, a god, have consented to rule over us. I am honored
54
Dreamers
beyond any man because you allow me to serve as the captain
of your guard.”
“And yet I think it is not enough,” the king answered.
Potiphar rose from the floor, in grave danger of losing his
self-control as he stared at his king. The royal hand was fin-
gering the Gold of Praise…
“My wife, mother of all Egypt, has given me the answer,”
Pharaoh said, his paint-lengthened eyes narrowing in some
secret amusement. “What you need, noble Potiphar, is a
woman’s touch to steady the lion’s heart that roars in your
breast. You need a wife.”
Potiphar stared at Amenhotep in the paralysis of astonish-
ment. Gold and favor he had expected, but a wife? He had no
interest in women, no need for one, and his independent spirit
rebelled at the thought of an equal to share his house and wealth.
“I—I have not thought of taking a wife,” Potiphar stam-
mered, finding his tongue. An idea leapt into his mind and he
ran with it, pouring forth golden words to soothe Pharaoh’s
prideful ear. “A wife, my king, might impede my service to
you. You are a god, you can divide your limitless time and
power between your duties and your pleasures, but I am a man
of restricted capacities. I would rather surrender my life than
one iota of my devotion to you.”
“Well spoken,” Pharaoh said, nodding. He raised the
ancient crook, the symbol of the shepherd’s staff by which
Pharaoh guided his people. “But you will not deny me this gift,
Potiphar. I will give you a woman, and you may marry her or
not, as you please. As the sun-god embarked this morning, the
keeper of the royal harem reported that an exquisite maiden
has been brought to the palace for my pleasure. I give her to
you, noble Potiphar, as a token of my divine approval.”
“A thousand thanks, my king,” Potiphar said, not daring to
protest again. “I will honor and cherish this beneficent tribute.”
Angela Hunt
55
“I know you will.” Pharaoh placed the crook across
and Lower Egypt. At the front of the headdress gleamed a
Angela Hunt
53
golden model of the cobra goddess Wadjet, who could deal
out instant death by spitting flames at any enemy who dared
threaten the king. A long white robe disguised the king’s wiry,
athletic body, and the wide pectoral at his breast covered the
battle scars he had won while fighting with Potiphar against
the Asiatic city-states. Over everything, beating against Pha-
raoh’s heart, hung the heavy necklace known as the Gold of
Praise. Pharaoh wore it because he was King. A select few
men wore it because they had earned Pharaoh’s admiration.
Potiphar allowed his eyes to dart toward the battle paint-
ings to remind Pharaoh that they had been through much
together. I remember, my king. Do you?
Amenhotep’s dark gaze met and held Potiphar’s as he
extended the crook and flail. “Come forward, Potiphar,”
Pharaoh called, the tip of his false beard wagging like the
finger of a scolding tutor.
Potiphar’s feet obeyed.
“I am the embodiment of the god Horus,” Amenhotep con-
tinued, speaking slowly for the scribes who transcribed every
word. “I am Golden Horus, the king of Upper and Lower
Egypt. I am the son of the sun-god Re. I am your father,
Potiphar, and I wish to honor you this day.”
Potiphar closed his eyes, afraid he gazed too hungrily on
the heavy chain of gold around Pharaoh’s neck. By the king’s
favor he had a house and cattle and sheep and goats and
slaves. He had more than he knew how to manage, but the
Gold of Praise had always eluded him.
“What can I give you, my son Potiphar, that you do not
already have? I have long pondered this question. I and my
fellow gods have already blessed you with life and health.”
“It is enough, O Pharaoh,” Potiphar answered. He fell to
his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground. “It is enough
that you, a god, have consented to rule over us. I am honored
54
Dreamers
beyond any man because you allow me to serve as the captain
of your guard.”
“And yet I think it is not enough,” the king answered.
Potiphar rose from the floor, in grave danger of losing his
self-control as he stared at his king. The royal hand was fin-
gering the Gold of Praise…
“My wife, mother of all Egypt, has given me the answer,”
Pharaoh said, his paint-lengthened eyes narrowing in some
secret amusement. “What you need, noble Potiphar, is a
woman’s touch to steady the lion’s heart that roars in your
breast. You need a wife.”
Potiphar stared at Amenhotep in the paralysis of astonish-
ment. Gold and favor he had expected, but a wife? He had no
interest in women, no need for one, and his independent spirit
rebelled at the thought of an equal to share his house and wealth.
“I—I have not thought of taking a wife,” Potiphar stam-
mered, finding his tongue. An idea leapt into his mind and he
ran with it, pouring forth golden words to soothe Pharaoh’s
prideful ear. “A wife, my king, might impede my service to
you. You are a god, you can divide your limitless time and
power between your duties and your pleasures, but I am a man
of restricted capacities. I would rather surrender my life than
one iota of my devotion to you.”
“Well spoken,” Pharaoh said, nodding. He raised the
ancient crook, the symbol of the shepherd’s staff by which
Pharaoh guided his people. “But you will not deny me this gift,
Potiphar. I will give you a woman, and you may marry her or
not, as you please. As the sun-god embarked this morning, the
keeper of the royal harem reported that an exquisite maiden
has been brought to the palace for my pleasure. I give her to
you, noble Potiphar, as a token of my divine approval.”
“A thousand thanks, my king,” Potiphar said, not daring to
protest again. “I will honor and cherish this beneficent tribute.”
Angela Hunt
55
“I know you will.” Pharaoh placed the crook across
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