The Seduction
With lips that drip honey, Potiphar's wife seeks to lead Joseph to slaughter. Part 3 of the Joseph story.
The scratchy flax rope bloodied Joseph's waist. With each tug of the camel, Midianites dragged him from everything he'd ever known, into the world of strange men babbling strange words. When his brothers were out of sight, his stomach sank with the realization: I may never see Dinah or Benjamin or Reuben or father again.
That sunk stomach quickly turned sour when he thought about Simeon.
He tripped on a stump and sprawled into the dirt. Within seconds, Midianite boots hovered near his ribs, ready to pull back and kick. But he didn’t move. Didn't curl up to protect himself. Let ‘em kick me. Let ‘em kill me for all I care.
The road from Canaan to Egypt was called, “The Way of the Sea.” It paralleled the Great Sea (Mediterranean) for a hundred miles before cutting across a short stretch of desert and emptying into the Nile Delta. That was where the great Nile River fanned out like octopus legs and transformed 10,000 square miles of barren desert into swaying green fields of grain, noisy markets, vibrant cities, royal palaces, and gigantic stone pyramids that housed dead Pharaohs in the afterlife.
The caravan threaded its way through a massive wood-and-iron gate into the first city Joseph had ever seen. His eyes widened at the mudbrick houses, the acrid stench of human sweat, and the earthy smell of sheep dung. They entered a market where hundreds of orange and black shade cloths fluttered over vendors hawking bronze curved knives, flint-tipped spears, ruby red pomegranates, deep purple figs, rust colored spices, and cute baby camels.
In the center of the market was a large open space. The orange-turbaned man ordered Joseph onto a waist-high table, "Tunic off. Only loincloth. Look strong.”
Keen-eyed men circled the table as if inspecting a prized ram. They admired Joseph’s muscular legs and broad chest. A commotion rippled through the market tents as a man shoved his way through the crowd, people scurrying away from him like cockroaches from light. His head and face were completely shaven—another startling sight to Joseph—and a heavy gold chain beat on his chest with each commanding step he took.
He locked eyes with Joseph’s even though Joseph had been instructed, “No eye contact!” After the exchange of a few words and forty silver coins, the shaven man signaled Joseph to follow him. As Joseph drafted in his wake he felt a sudden surge of power. Who was this man?
The man’s name was Potiphar, and his mansion towered so high that Joseph pulled a neck muscle craning to see the top. Potiphar ordered him scrubbed clean, dressed for service, and seated for dinner. When Joseph entered the dining room, he gawked at the dark wooden table that glowed under the soft light of a hundred flickering candles.
Potiphar strode into the dining room with his wife, Zuli, who flittered behind him like a silk curtain in the breeze. He sat at the head of the table and she by his side.
Potiphar raised his arm and snapped twice. Servants glided in carrying platters of crispy lamb, creamy hummus, and honey-glazed carrots, their rich scent swirling in the air.
If Potiphar commanded the room, Zuli owned it. Servants obeyed him but hovered around her. If she smiled, they smiled. If she signaled a need, they swarmed.
But it was her look that nearly owned Joseph. Her uncovered head alone made his gut clench—no woman in Canaan would dare. Her thick dark hair cascaded to her shoulders, a jeweled band encircled her head, and gold hair-trinkets sparkled in the candlelight. Her eyes were rimmed with dark paint the Egyptians called kohl, making them seemed half shrouded in shadow—mysterious, maybe dangerous, pulling him like a tide in the Great Sea. Is she looking at me? His chest tightened and he turned away. Don’t look. Don’t look Focus on something else. But he had to. He had to gaze into those dark mysteries once more.
Joseph’s first assignment was garden and grounds duty—a task as foreign to him as the country around him. He prayed to God for wisdom and soon discovered an ingredient that plants loved: The black, rich, fertile silt from the bottom of the Nile. He developed a technique to mine it efficiently and transformed the grounds into a lush sanctuary.
His next assignment was kitchen duty, a domain he’d only known as women’s work back in Canaan. Again, he prayed, and burnt bread gave way to pink-in-the-middle charred lamb, grilled tomatoes, and tart tabbouleh seasoned with Great Sea salt.
But even as he enjoyed God’s blessing in this strange new land, his thoughts often drifted to Dinah. He prayed, “Lord, help Dinah not despise the brothers too much, even though they deserve it. Help her not be destroyed by what they’ve done—to her, to me, or to the family.”
Over time, the raw anger he felt toward his brothers began to fade—not completely—just dulled by the rhythm of busyness.
Potiphar and Zuli noticed his golden touch and Zuli announced, “Joseph, our house has never run better and we’d like you to be the headmaster over our entire household.”
What? Headmaster? In charge of everything?
Potiphar was also promoted. In his new position of Captain of the Guard for Pharaoh, Potiphar was pulled away from home for weeks at a time.
As Zuli saw less of Potiphar, she saw more of Joseph. And over time, a new atmosphere developed between them. One afternoon, while discussing a project, she placed her warm soft hand on his forearm, her fingers lingering, maybe even caressed, their heat radiating a shiver up his arm, feeling like fire on his skin, tempting him to lean into her.
But he resisted.
Another time she playfully teased a master weaver, "How did we get such a well-built and handsome headmaster? We better not let Pharaoh’s house know about him or he'll be gone overnight.”
Things escalated late one afternoon when Joseph searched for lost clothing under Zuli's bed. When he stood, she was so close her hot breath brushed his neck. Startled, he fell back onto the bed.
She chuckled. "Ha! I didn't think a big, strong man like you would startle so easily."
Her flowing linen dress clung to her curves in the breeze and he could see right through it. Her shadowed eyes trapped his gaze and for a moment he forgot who he was—or who she was. A tangle of desire tightened in his stomach before he wrenched his eyes away and propped himself onto his elbows. “No, no, I just didn't know you were there."
She placed a hand on her hip, lowered her eyelids, and purred, “I guess you like it down there, don’t you?”
Joseph quickly scooched to the far edge of the bed.
She sat and patted the area next to her. “Come here Joseph, join me.”
He tumbled off the side and sprang up in one fluid motion. “Uh, uh, I don’t … uh, I can’t…”
“Oh, you good boy, you. Come to bed with me.”
His voice deepened, “No, I can’t, I’m sorry. With me in charge, Potiphar doesn’t concern himself with anything in the house; he’s withheld nothing from me. Except you, of course, because you’re his wife.”
“Joseph," she said with an edge of irritation. "Potiphar's gone—he's always gone. We both know that. Now please, come here."
“I'm sorry. I don’t mean any disrespect, but I can't. It would also be a sin against God."
"Oh, come on! First it’s a sin against my husband. Then it’s a sin against God.” She rolled her eyes. "Most men would give their right arm to sleep with me and all you can think about is sin!" She stormed out of the room.
From then on Joseph made himself scarce. If she was upstairs, he was down. If she was outside, he was in.
One afternoon, Joseph went to her bedroom to fix a wobbly desk leg, thinking she’d gone to the market. As he peered under the desk, he heard a throaty whisper, "Come here, you headmaster, you."
He feigned deafness.
"Come here, you beautiful, young, virile man. I just want to get to know my headmaster better."
Joseph sat up. A flushed Zuli inched closer to him on the bed, her gown falling open at the shoulders. His heart clenched. He surveyed the situation. Sin against Potiphar or sin against God wouldn’t sway this woman now. She had conquest in her eyes.
He schemed an way out—a dash to the corner of the bed, a spin, and a dash for the door.
Her voice held just a hint of desperation. “Don’t do it. Don’t do what you’re thinking, Joseph. You’ve work so hard. You’re so diligent. You deserve a … well … a reward, Joseph. Let’s just enjoy what we’ve both been dreaming about."
He lurched to the corner, spun to his left, felt her fingers grab the right sleeve of his cloak, and it slipped off as he completed his spin. The rest of his escape was a blur until he found himself face-first on the grass outside. He propped himself onto his elbows and heard a haunting wail, “Help! Help! Joseph made sport of me. He came in here to sleep with me, but I screamed. Here’s the cloak he left when he ran out of the house.”
Potiphar was due home in an hour.