The Amarnan Kings, Book 2: Scarab - Smenkhkare

by Overton, Max

  Khu, together with the mule train drivers, looked Kemetu, but Scarab's features, and in particular her reddish hair, caught the attention of those they passed. Word spread faster than the pace of the mules and the crowds grew, looking and chattering in a language that the Kemetu could not understand. They kept a hand on their daggers and picked up the pace. Scarab on the other hand, could understand a lot of what was said and soon her face was nearly as red as her hair.

  "Who is she?"

  "Scandalous, has she no shame?"

  "She is Kemetu, what do you expect?

  "She is no Kemetu. Look at her hair."

  "Khabiru?"

  "Illegitimate, no doubt. Fathered by a wild youth on some river whore."

  "Dressed like that too. See how she shamelessly exposes her breasts."

  "A whore herself then."

  Scarab's face coloured and she hurried on, clutching the thin linen of her gown about her shoulders. Always at ease with nudity, the pointed comments drew an unaccustomed flush of shame to her cheeks. She glanced at the women she passed, swathed in gaily coloured robes from head to foot, thin lips pursed in disapproving lines. Harried by cutting comments and hard looks, she found herself almost running by the time the mules entered the mud brick city beneath the palace walls.

  "What's wrong?" Khu asked. "I couldn't understand what they were saying."

  Scarab shook her head, thankful that in this street she once more blended into Kemetu society. She shivered and shook her gown out, folding her arms as she walked, suddenly self-conscious of her own breasts.

  The military barracks proved to be little challenge to enter. The guards at the gate cast a bored look over the men and women that streamed in and out, laden with wares, carrying baskets of food or firewood, pitchers of water, wine and beer. Small herds of cattle and goats, rush cages full of squawking fowl and strings of fish, still glistening from the canal, all the bounty of land, water and air found its way into the domain of Kemet's protectors.

  Scarab and Khu entered on the heels of a flock of goats and looked around in the spacious courtyard for the administrative building. Seeing several soldiers standing guard outside a closed door, Scarab pointed. "There. That'll be it, I'm sure."

  It was the armory however, and the leader of the guard detail saw them off at spear point, soundly abusing them. As they moved away, however, he relented and shouted out to them, pointing at another building.

  The door of the administration building stood open and inside the airy entrance hall sat a scribe busy tabulating a series of what looked like accounts. He looked up as they walked in.

  "Yes? Can I help you?" His tone was mild though his expression conveyed an abstracted annoyance as if his mind was still in his figures.

  "I'm...we are looking for General Horemheb," Scarab explained.

  The scribe shook his head. "Nobody just sees the General. What is it about? Who are you?"

  "I'm Bek...we are messengers from...from the Tjaty in Waset. We bear important messages for the General. Please tell us where we can find him."

  The scribe looked them up and down slowly and sniffed loudly. "You are very young to be on government business and I have seen better dressed beggars."

  Khu stepped forward and leaned toward the scribe, staring into his face. "I am Lord Mena of Akhet-Re and this is my sister Neferkhepre. We are not accustomed to being treated like this. You will direct us to General Horemheb immediately, and while we are with him you will find us fresh clothes and food. We were waylaid a day's journey south of here by bandits. That is something else we must report to the General."

  The scribe lifted both eyebrows and reflexively leaned back out of Khu's reach and started to rise to his feet. "My apologies, Lord Mena, I shall..." He hesitated and he frowned. "How is it that you come from Waset to see the General? He is in Waset. How did you not know this?"

  "He was there, we know," Scarab explained. "We came down from our estates at Akhet-Re for the young king's coronation. We saw Horemheb there. Later he left and the Tjaty asked us to go after him with a message..."

  "Why you?" The scribe's voice hardened, suspicion blossoming again. "You I could believe were raised in a noble household, a ladies maid perhaps, but him?" He glanced at Khu. "He has a common voice. You cannot disguise it." The man got to his feet and walked to the door. He glanced out at the guards across the courtyard. "Why would the Tjaty send a message by the likes of you? Quickly, before I call the guards to arrest you."

  Scarab smiled and looked down shyly before meeting the scribes stare again, flushing daintily under his scrutiny. "You are very perceptive, sir," she said softly. "I am indeed a daughter of a noble family--indeed my father was a son of the great Amenhotep himself, by a concubine of course. This young man..." She waved a hand vaguely at Khu. "He is one of my servants. I should have known we could not fool the General's scribe. However, some aspects of our story are true."

  "Indeed?" The scribe's eyes moved appreciatively over the young girl's body, the interest showing in his voice. "What was true then?"

  "We were robbed," Scarab said. She lifted her arms to display her ragged and stained gown, well aware of the effect the movement had on the man in front of her. "This is not the garb I am accustomed to. And we do have a message for Horemheb, though not from Tjaty Ay."

  "The General is not here."

  Khu groaned. "Gods. Then where is he?"

  The scribe glanced at Khu, then back at the young girl and shrugged. "Still in Waset as far as any of us know. We expected him back a month past."

  Scarab sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I...I had not thought past finding him, and now he is not here."

  "You could talk to his lieutenant...no, for he is sick and may not recover. You could wait for the next legion commander back on leave. I believe Djedhor is due."

  Scarab looked up at the scribe, her eyes widening. "Who is the lieutenant and why is he sick? Is...is it Paramessu?"

  "You know him? Will he speak for you?"

  "Yes. And yes." Scarab got up quickly. "Take us to him."

  The scribe frowned. "He is with the physician. It is doubtful he will live."

  "What has happened?" Scarab lunged at the scribe and gripped his biceps tightly. "What has happened to him? Tell me." She stared in his eyes, her own already moistening.

  The scribe struggled to free himself and did so with difficulty, only to find himself penned in by Khu as he moved up beside Scarab. "It w...was a wound," he stammered. "In the big battle. He thought it nothing at first but it went bad and now his leg is as red and hot as the desert. The army doctors do not expect him to live."

  "Nor would he if it were left to them," said a voice behind them. They turned quickly, Khu's jaw dropping, and Scarab's face breaking into a smile of joy.

  "Nebhotep. What are you doing here? How? When?" Scarab laughed and ran to the physician, throwing her arms about him.

  "A long story and one I am willing to tell you, my lady, but first I must wash and break my fast. Will you and Khu join me?"

  "My lady? She really is a lady?" The scribe's face flushed with embarrassment.

  "Oh, yes," Nebhotep said softly. "Very much a lady."

  "Nebhotep," Scarab murmured. "Enough. The world does not need to know."

  "What of the lad? He said his name was Mena, not Khu."

  "Friend Hay," Nebhotep said, addressing the scribe. "Let it suffice that this is as great a lady as you should hope to meet, and this young lad here, while not of the nobility, has a trusted position in our government. He often uses the name Mena when traveling on business. Treat them with respect."

  "Yes, honoured physician." Hay bent almost double as he bowed first to Nebhotep and then to Scarab, even sparing a bow of lesser proportion for Khu. "I shall, with your permission, fetch fresh clothes and food for your guests."

  "Thank you Hay. We shall be in my rooms. Only disturb us when you have the clothing and food, or if the lieutenant's condition changes."

  "Paramessu. Is he all
right? What has happened? Can I see him?"

  "Soon. Come with me now." Nebhotep turned and led the way deeper into the barracks' administration building. They walked down a long corridor before turning and entering a spacious room almost devoid of furniture. A cot bed lay along one mud wall and a table and three chairs occupied a position on another wall. The dirt floor in between boasted only rush matting and a few scattered pots and plates. "Not much is it?" Nebhotep said with a laugh, "But I call it home for now." He crossed to the table and lifted a cloth that lay over a clay dish, revealing bread, cheese and a handful of dates. "You are welcome to what I have, though I daresay Hay will bring you better soon." He gestured to the chairs. "Sit."

  Khu sat and picked up a date, chewing on it carefully, but Scarab stood where she was, staring at the physician. "What has happened to Paramessu? Why can't I see him?"

  Nebhotep stifled a yawn. "Forgive me, lady, I have been up all night." He poured water into the solitary cup on the table and offered it to Scarab. "No?" He drank deeply, his throat working convulsively. Wiping his mouth with one hand he put the cup down and faced the young woman again. "You can see him when he wakes. I gave him strong poppy not an hour ago. He will sleep the rest of the day."

  "Thank you, Nebhotep. What is wrong with him?"

  "Nothing that some elementary cleanliness would not have prevented. He took an arrow in the leg during the battle with the Amorites, pulled it out almost without knowing, and then carried on as if nothing had happened. He may be good to his men but they need a live general, not a dead hero."

  "The wound went bad?" Khu asked, breaking open the loaf of bread. He stuck a slab of cheese on it and bit down, grimacing at the gritty texture. "Why do wounds go bad, anyway?"

  Nebhotep snorted. "The army physicians say the gods dole out sickness and health, but I have never seen a rotten wound that wasn't dirty."

  "So his wound became rotten?" Scarab asked. Her hands clenched and unclenched by her sides and her eyes stared at the physician, bright and glittering. "Tell me."

  Nebhotep's eyes widened. "Easy girl, you'll do him no good by upsetting yourself. Sit down and take some food and I'll tell you everything."

  Scarab opened her mouth to protest but the door opened and the scribe Hay entered with several servants. One laid fresh clothes on the bed, together with a small basket of pots which by the odors escaping into the room were filled with unguents and perfumes. Another spread a linen cloth on the table, while a third deposited several plates of food and a fourth a pitcher of wine and a jug of beer, along with some beautiful blue faience cups.

  "From the General's rooms," Hay explained with a smile. He ushered the servants out and close the door behind him.

  Scarab sat heavily on one of the chairs and poured herself a cup of wine. She drank it down in several long swallows and poured another one, raising an admonishing hand as Khu frowned. "Go on, Nebhotep. Tell me everything."

  "Very well, my lady." The physician yawned again, putting a hand to his mouth. "The wound became badly inflamed, so much so that by the time the army doctors thought to bring him back to Zarw, he was close to death. A great fever took hold of him and his leg swelled so much the skin started to split."

  "Did the army doctors not treat him?"

  "Indeed. They dosed him with foul-tasting potions and covered him with the usual herbal poultices, reciting prayers over him until they became hoarse, but it had no effect. Then they tried fox urine and when that didn't work, the urine and saliva of a lion, though the gods only know where they found that."

  "It didn't work?" Khu asked.

  "Of course not. Then they tried honey, which I would have tried first, but by then it was too late. The poison had bitten deep into his leg."

  "Poison? I thought you said it was a wound."

  "It was an arrow wound but his body showed signs of a strong poison at work, either from something on the arrow or a poison introduced afterward. The other commanders had the servants put to the question but none would reveal who had introduced the poison. Luckily, they decided to bring him back here and the gods saw fit to bring me here within an hour of his arrival." Nebhotep grinned tiredly. "The gods smiled on our Paramessu, for I believe I have saved his life."

  Scarab looked up from her wine cup. "Truly? You are not just saying that to ease my pain?"

  "Nobody can cheat the gods, my lady," Nebhotep said in a gentle voice. "But he has recovered remarkably in the last two days. I believe he will live."

  "And his...his leg?"

  "He will keep it."

  "I shall offer up a sacrifice to the Nine of Iunu," Scarab breathed. "Take me to him, Nebhotep. I must see with my own eyes that he still lives."

  "He is asleep, my lady. Let me take you to him later." Nebhotep yawned again and glanced longingly at the bed.

  "Now. I will see him now."

  The physician sighed. "Learn from this Khu. Nobles are ever importunate, as are women. Put the two together and they are unstoppable. Come then lady; let us visit the sleeping man."

  Scarab blushed. "I am sorry, Nebhotep. I know you are tired but I must see him."

  "Tired?" Nebhotep shook his head as he opened the door. "Yesterday I was tired, last night I was exhausted. Today?" He shrugged. "Today I think I am dead already but do not know it." The physician led the way back along the corridor then up a flight of stairs to the upper floor where a servant sat cross-legged on the floor outside, the interior of the room visible from where he sat. The man scrambled to his feet as they approached.

  "How is he, Nef?"

  "Well enough, physician Nebhotep," replied the man, bowing deferentially. "I sponge him down and moisten his lips as instructed."

  In a small room on the shaded north side of the building, a wasted man lay on a narrow cot. Covered only in a sheen of sweat, Paramessu lay in a troubled sleep, his ribs visible through his ashen skin. His eyelids trembled and his mouth muttered and mumbled, his limbs jerking uncontrollably at intervals.

  "Oh, gods save him." Scarab ran to the cot and dropped to her knees beside the man, her hand reaching out to stroke his hot forehead. "I thought you said he was better, Nebhotep."

  "He is. You should have seen him yesterday before I started cleaning out his wound."

  Khu stared down at the Paramessu's left leg, at the gaping red wound in the upper thigh, and... "What...what is that? His leg is...is flyblown."

  Scarab looked round, then down at the leg. Her eyes widened and rolled in her head and she clutched at the bed for support. Nebhotep looked puzzled for a moment then leapt to support her, dashing some water in her face. She spluttered and wiped her face off, before sitting back on her heels and staring in fascination and disgust at the wound. "Are those maggots?" she whispered. "I thought you said you cleaned the wound."

  "That is exactly what they are doing, my lady." Nebhotep's voice, despite the exhaustion evident in it, also displayed a measure of pride. "Fly maggots will only eat dead flesh and the filth that is in wounds. I put them there myself and as you can see they have consumed almost all the rotten meat, leaving only healthy muscle behind. In a few hours I shall wash the maggots from the wound, apply a poultice of my specially prepared mould mixed with honey and bandage him up. Paramessu is strong. He will, with the gods' help, live many years yet. Who knows, he may even recover full use of his leg."

  "This has worked before?"

  "On occasion, I am told, though this is the first time I have tried it." Nebhotep leaned over and poked the flesh gently. "What the maggots are doing is cleaning the wound thoroughly, which should have been done immediately. Water would have sufficed then, and the scar would have been almost unnoticeable. Now, he will have a massive scar, and one that will be obvious to everyone." He allowed himself a small smile. "As he is a soldier, no-one will remark on it." Nebhotep straightened and yawned, loudly and at length. "Now I must insist, my lady. Leave Paramessu to his healing sleep. Nef will call me if there is any need." He ushered everybody from the room, nodding to h
is assistant who sat cross-legged again outside the room.

  They helped the now staggering physician back to his room and onto his bed, where he sat, paying no attention as they quickly slipped into their new clothes. They sat at the table and folded some of the food into a cloth.

  "Nebhotep," Khu asked casually. "How is it you are here? We left you in Waset three months or more ago."

  The physician looked up blearily. "In the name of all the gods," he slurred. "Let me go to sleep." He shook his head wearily. "Ay tried to kill us all. Aanen and I escaped and I came looking for you."

  "How did you know where to find us?"

  "Who is there who could help you? I thought my lady might seek...seek assistance from her brother Akhenaten. Then where...? Not back south again...Men-nefer maybe? I found a young lad... 'menhot'...with a boat...he remembered...you... brought me to Zarw...up...canal..." Nebhotep collapsed backward onto the bed, unconscious within seconds.

  Scarab straightened the physician's body on the cot bed with a smile. "May the gods bless you, Nebhotep, and the lad Amenhotep," she murmured. "I shall find a temple of the Nine and pray for both of you, and my Paramessu." She and Khu left the room with their cloth of food, closing the door quietly behind them.

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  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The palace gardens of the western palace at Waset were relatively new, despite dating to the time of the present king's father, Nebmaetre Amenhotep. The palms stood proud and tall but in the nearly two decades since the palace had been abandoned, the shrubbery and formal gardens had grown into an untended riot of vegetation. This tangle had been removed some six months past on the accession of the new king and the gardens still struggled to grow. Teams of slaves brought in water, soil from the fertile fields and loads of animal dung. Skilled gardeners tended the young plants and trees transplanted with care from other gardens, or scoured the countryside looking for flowering and scented shrubs to please the king's eyes and nostrils. But despite the efforts of hundreds of slaves, the grounds of the western palace still looked raw and new--except in one place.