by Angela Hunt
By reading her dress and jewels, the temple priests and priestesses allowed her to pass, correctly intuiting that the offering in the bag at her waist would permit entry into the holiest of holies.
The floor rose at a gentle angle under Kahent’s feet as the roof gradually lowered, and soon her steps brought her to the innermost sanctuary. The goddess sat on a platform behind the altar; her priestesses hovered near with towels and basins of water to wash and dress Bastet for the day. A pile of discarded nightclothes lay in a heap on the floor, while another slave stood nearby with a platter of fruit and meat for the goddess’s breakfast.
Kahent fell to her knees and bent her head to the floor three times. She was as devout in her practice of religion as Donkor was indifferent in his, yet still the goddess had blessed them. Kahent and her husband and daughter were strong and not afflicted with any of the diseases that struck less wealthy people.
In gratitude and reverence, Kahent remained on the floor. She would wait until after the goddess had breakfasted, then present her petition.
The priestesses adorned the goddess with robes and jewels, then placed the food on the altar. Her attendants waited in silence as the tall statue stared down on the platter, her emerald eyes twinkling in the shafting rays of sunlight from the high clerestory windows. After several moments, at a signal from a shaven-headed priestess, one slave whisked the food away, another clothed the goddess in a fresh collar, and a priest solemnly announced that Bastet was ready to receive visitors and deliver oracles.
Kahent was the only petitioner in the sanctuary. She took a deep breath and clasped her hands to her breast. “Oh, most divine Bastet,” she began, rising to her knees before the imposing statue, “behold your servant, who came into being from your goodness! I have a daughter of marriageable age who needs a worthy husband.”
Her words echoed in the stillness of the chamber, yet nothing moved. Kahent waited, breathing in the bittersweet aromas of the burning incense, the tiled floor hard under her knees. The few priests who moved in the shadows beyond the goddess paid her no heed.
No answer came to her, nothing at all. She shifted uneasily, not sure how to proceed, then a flat, inflectionless voice cut through the silence. “Bastet will hear you.”
A young, thin woman stepped out of the shadows, the pale skin of her shaved head gleaming in the torchlight. “The majesty of Bastet says to you, ‘Listen to this my servant Ramla, who will work my magic. Tell her what you will, and she will relay my divine message.’”
Kahent studied the girl. Tall and slender, she wore the simple white robe of a priestess and a golden collar about her neck, a symbol of the goddess’s ownership. The girl could have been anywhere from fifteen to thirty, so unlined was her sculpted face. Kahent made a mental note of approval, but as her eyes traveled downward, one sight gave her pause: the girl’s right hand was malformed—only three fingers grew where five should have been. How could this be? Most malformed children were thrown to the crocodiles of the Nile.
“Do not let the sight of my servant disturb you.” The priestess’s eyes hardened, and Kahent knew the girl had seen the revulsion in her glance. “She has been given graces and power to atone for her physical losses. Ramla will serve you well.”
With these words, the slender girl bent at the waist and bowed before Kahent.
“So be it,” Kahent said, frowning. She paused, then dropped the bag of silver at the girl’s feet. “My petition is a matter of the heart. My daughter, who must marry well, has spent nearly every day of her life with a slave who surpasses her in beauty. I want to rid my daughter of this girl, but do not know how to proceed without arousing her to anger or breaking her heart.”
Straightening into the ramrod posture of a royal guard, the priestess closed her eyes and tilted her head as if she were listening to a far-off voice. After a moment her face cracked into a smile and she nodded drowsily. “Yes, Bastet,” she murmured, opening her eyes.
She shared the smile with Kahent. “Love cannot easily be killed, but it can be distracted.” Casually, she tossed the bag of silver onto the altar, then walked to Kahent’s side and took the lady’s arm, lifting her to her feet. “Take me to your home, lady, and give me a day with your daughter. Bastet has directed me to make the proper spells and incantations. I can divine the future, and will not leave your daughter’s side until all be well.”
Stunned by the magnanimous gesture, Kahent allowed Ramla to lead her from the sanctuary.
“You sent for me, mother?” Sagira called, rushing into the reception room. She was about to complain about the interruption of her playtime, but the sight of the stranger with her mother left her speechless. The young woman who sat in one of the gilded chairs wore the shaved head and golden collar of a priestess from one of the temples.
“Sagira, this is Ramla.” Her mother gestured to the visitor with a graceful hand. “She is a priestess at the temple of Bastet.”
Feeling awkward and gauche, Sagira barely managed to nod.
Ramla gave Sagira a warm smile. “I do not live at the temple all the time—only one month out of four. Tomorrow I begin my time of absence, and your gracious mother has said I may spend three months as part of your household.”
“We need the blessings of the goddess,” Sagira’s mother said, studying Sagira with careful eyes. “Don’t you agree, my daughter?”
“Yes.” Sagira managed a crooked smile. For what reason did they need the special favor of the gods?
“I am especially looking forward to getting to know you,” Ramla said, rising from her chair. In that moment Sagira saw the woman’s misshapen hand, and knew from her mother’s disapproving gasp that she had not managed to disguise her horror.
But Ramla did not seem to care. “Pay no attention to things that can be observed with the eyes,” she said, reaching for Sagira’s hand with her whole one. “I can teach you how to discern with your heart. The gods have compensated for my missing fingers with other gifts, and I can teach you secrets you have never known. I can read the future for you, child.”
“Truly?” Fear fell from Sagira like a discarded cloak, and wonder slipped into its place.
“Yes.” Ramla’s voice was low and soothing, and her hand slipped up to stroke Sagira’s hair. “Kneel before me while I work a spell of divination.”
Sagira caught her breath as she fell to her knees. Her mother had often participated in such religious rituals, but until now Sagira had been considered too much a child to have a priestess divine her future. That her mother would now allow such a practice spoke more of Sagira’s maturity than the flowering of her red moon…
As Sagira’s mother stood to fetch the family’s divining bowl, Sagira smoothed her face and tried to copy the look of earnest interest her mother wore. A moment later Lady Kahent returned with the bowl of blackened silver. The bottom of the inner bowl had been engraved with the figure of the jackal-headed Anubis, the opener of roads for the dead.
Ramla accepted the bowl and placed it on a stand, then filled it with water from a pitcher. Murmuring prayers and incantations, she poured a small amount of fine oil into the bowl from a clay vial. As the oil swirled and eddied over the surface of the water, Ramla closed her eyes and lifted her hands.
,!Hail to you, O Re-Harakhte, Father of the Gods!
Hail to you, O ye seven Hathors,
Who are adorned with strings of red thread!
Hail to you, Anubis, Lord of heaven and earth!
Cause Bastet to appear before me,
Like an ox after grass,
Like a mother after her children,
Send her to me so I may ask the future of Sagira, born of Donkor and Kahent!
The sweet incense in the room seemed overpowering, and a cold lump grew in Sagira’s stomach as she studied the priestess. Beads of perspiration appeared at the woman’s temple; her features twisted into a maddening grimace. Tendrils of apprehension wound through Sagira’s body as the priestess opened her black eyes and seemed to stare s
traight through flesh. Strange words flew from the seer’s mouth, and her gaze darted to the bowl where oil swirled on the waters.
“I see, Sagira, that you are surrounded by people who love you,” Ramla said in an awed, husky whisper. A slight smile twisted one corner of her face. “You are much loved. You will marry a man of great importance according to your parents’ wishes, and Pharaoh will pronounce his blessing on the union.”
“Children?” Lady Kahent called from a corner of the room. “Will she have children?”
Pearls of perspiration shone on the young woman’s forehead. “You will be remembered through all time,” the priestess droned, her eyes as dark as a cavern. “As long as men walk on the earth, they will speak of you. Your memory will be immortal—”
Sagira couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Me?”
Ramla trembled, then her hands flew to the sides of the bowl as she steadied herself. “Not your name,” she whispered hoarsely. “Your…role. You will leave an imprint on the sands of time that cannot be erased.”
At these words, the seer’s eyes rolled up into her head and she slumped to the floor, her limbs thrashing in a seizure. Sagira scrambled backward and shrieked, but Kahent flew to Ramla’s side and held the woman’s flailing arms. “For you she has borne this,” she said, looking at her daughter with something like awe in her eyes. “You will be remembered, daughter, longer than Pharaoh, for more years than those who built the ancient pyramids.”
Sagira placed her hand over her mouth and tried to stop crying. The body of the priestess stilled, but the young woman did not move. Kahent left Ramla on the floor and reached for her daughter.
“My little one,” she crooned, enfolding Sagira in an embrace. “How often did I dream that you would bring glory to this house! And now I find that your glory will eclipse that of all other women!”
“She didn’t say that,” Sagira mumbled, her mind whirling with confusion. “She said I would be remembered. And not my name, but my role.” She raised her head to look at her mother. “What can that mean?”
Kahent pressed her lips together and helped Sagira rise from the floor. She said nothing as she led her daughter to the couch, then she motioned for Sagira to sit beside her.
“It can only mean one thing,” she whispered, a smile dimpling her cheek. “And you must never speak of this to anyone, for to do so would be treason.”
Sagira felt a shiver pass down her spine. “Treason?”
“Yes.” Kahent pressed her finger to her lips as she thoughtfully weighed her words. “As you know, daughter, the royal blood of the two kingdoms passes down from woman to woman. Amenhotep, my brother, is Pharaoh because he married the heiress Merit-Amon, the daughter of Tuthmosis.”
“But you are also a daughter of Tuthmosis,” Sagira pointed out.
“My mother was a lesser wife.”
“So what does this have to do with me?”
“I am also a daughter of Tuthmosis,” Kahent answered, her voice a thin whisper in the room. “If the gods will that Pharaoh’s house, all his sons and daughters, should be destroyed, I will be the heiress. And when I die, you will be the heiress. Whomever you marry will be Pharaoh, and your sons and daughters will continue the dynasty.”
As the words swirled around Sagira, she clutched the arm of her chair, stunned by the revelation. “Your role,” Kahent whispered, the breath from her lips stirring the hair at Sagira’s ear, “is obvious. You will be the mother of pharaohs. The mother of a new dynasty, the greatest in all Egypt. You and your children will leave an imprint on the sands of time that cannot be erased.”
Kahent’s head fell on her daughter’s shoulder in a bout of joyous weeping, but Sagira sat still, thinking. She had been relieved enough to hear that she would marry well. This prophecy of immortal influence was too much to comprehend.
Tuya noticed a difference in her mistress almost immediately. In the days following Sagira’s introduction to the strange priestess of Bastet, she seemed withdrawn and tense, but she would not give an explanation for her altered mood. In the mornings as Tuya arranged her mistress’s toilet, Sagira was snappish and irritable, quick to complain about Tuya’s heavy hand or chattering tongue. The long hours of play in the courtyard disappeared as Sagira spent time alone with Ramla. Once when Tuya casually asked what Ramla and Sagira talked about, her young mistress turned on her and said that if Tuya didn’t mind her manners she’d have Tanutamon administer yet another whipping.
Two weeks after Ramla had come to live in the household, Tuya made her way to the kitchen. Taharka, the chief butler, had always been a friend and used to give both girls sweet treats from his lunch box whenever they managed to sneak into his workroom. On this day he was tasting a new wine especially selected for a party Donkor intended to give for several noble guests, and he had little time to spare for a lonely slave girl abandoned by her mistress.
“Taharka, can I speak with you?”
“Not now, my pretty one,” Taharka said, frowning as he looked at her sad face. “The master has invited guests to eat, drink and be merry through the night. Spiced wine and beer, the wine jars and even the alabaster vases have to be made ready.”
“Can I help?”
Taharka smiled as though out of pity for her. “You are bored, aren’t you?”
“I’d love to help. Surely there is something I can do.”
“All right. You can see to the perfumed cones. The animal fat must be set out into the sun to liquefy, then mixed with the precious oils of perfume. When they are mixed, bring them into the coolness of the house and pour the liquid into the molds.”
“I can do that,” Tuya replied, moving toward the large copper pots of animal fat. The cones of perfumed fat were a treat enjoyed only by the nobility, for perfume was precious. As each guest arrived, a perfumed cone would be placed on his head. As the afternoon and party wore on, the cones would melt and run down the heavy wigs and sweltering skin of the overheated guests.
Tuya lifted one of the pots and staggered toward the doorway, but halted when Taharka let out an earsplitting scream. She dropped the pot, startled, and whirled to see him standing at a table, his hand purpling before her eyes. A scorpion scuttled across the table.
“I am bit!” the butler screamed, his eyes wide in fright and pain. “Oh, daughter of Seth, why am I bit tonight?”
Obeying a primitive instinct, Tuya scooped up a handful of ashes from the firepit, mixed them with animal fat, and placed the mixture over the rapidly swelling spot on Taharka’s hand. Stunned by the pain, the butler leaned against the wall, still holding his wounded hand out in front of him.
As if in response to his call, Ramla and Sagira appeared in the doorway.
“What happened to Taharka?” Sagira snapped, her eyes drilling into Tuya as if she were somehow to blame.
Tuya lowered her gaze. “A scorpion.”
Ramla stepped into the room and dramatically lifted her hands. “I am a priestess of Bastet, and have come to lay bare the poison that is in the limbs of Taharka, Donkor’s servant. As Bastet lives, so shall live Taharka!”
Taharka clenched his jaw against the pain as Ramla swayed in front of him. “You, poison, shall not take your stand in his forehead; Hekayit, Lady of the Forehead, is against you! You shall not take your stand in his eyes; Horus Mekhenty-irty, Lord of the Eyes, is against you! You shall not take your stand in his ears; Geb, Lord of the Ear, is against you!”
Tuya watched Sagira’s face as Ramla continued the roll call of the various gods. Her mistress’s eyes shone toward the interloper with devotion and admiration.
“You shall not take your stand in his nose; Khenem-tchau of Hesret, Lady of the Nose, is against you! You shall not take your stand in his lips; Anubis, Lord of the Lips, is against you! You shall not take your stand in his tongue; Sefekh-aahui, Lady of the Tongue, is against you! You shall not take your stand in his neck; Wadjety, Lady of the Neck, is against you!”
Taharka groaned as Ramla called out for the gods
of the arm, back, side, liver, lung, spleen, intestines, ribs and flesh to stand against the scorpion bite. A crowd of servants gathered as the priestess continued to chant, calling on the gods of the buttocks, perineum, thighs, knee, shins, soles and toenails.
Finally, as sweat dripped from her brows, Ramla raised her voice in a terrible shriek. “You, poison, shall not take your stand anywhere in him! You shall not find refreshment there! Go down to the ground! I have incanted against you, I have spat on you, I have drunk you! As Horus lives, so does Taharka. Go down to the ground! I know you, I know your name! Come from the right hand, poison, come from the left hand! Come in saliva, come in vomit, come in urine! Come hither at my utterance according as I say! Grant a path to Taharka! As the sun shall rise and as the Nile shall flow, so shall Taharka be better than he was!”
She ended in a hoarse shout and flung her arms toward the heavens. As if on cue, Taharka leaned sideways and vomited onto the packed earthen floor. Tuya lifted the poultice she had used to cover the scorpion bite. The wound was still red and slightly swollen, but seemed less violent than it had before.
The assembled crowd cheered Ramla, and Sagira slipped her arm around the priestess’s waist and helped the exhausted woman from the room. Two slaves from the kitchen helped Taharka to his feet, and after a moment Tuya found herself in the workroom with only a handful of servants while guests were arriving at the entryway.
“Hurry,” she commanded, gesturing toward the pots of animal fat and the trays of fruit. “The party begins, and our master will not care that Taharka has met with a scorpion. This food must be ready, so help me!”
Knowing that Tanutamon’s lash awaited anyone who displeased Donkor, the slaves did as she commanded.
Kahent sighed in satisfaction as her slave poured a pitcher of cool water over her tired back. She lay on a slab of polished granite in the bathroom of the house and her maid had just massaged the worries of a hectic week into oblivion.
