The Women and the Boatman

by Mark Gajewski

  We proceeded to the boatyard. It presented a different picture than the evening before. The shore beside the boat was piled high with the goods we’d brought back from Maadi. The rest of the boats were being loaded with the day’s deliveries. Strings of donkeys were tied close by the mooring posts. Men were taking large sealed jars from the nets draped over their backs and lugging them up gangplanks and arranging them on decks. The entire shoreline looked like an anthill, with constant movement in every direction. Much like Maadi’s harbor. Though far more organized.

  “Most of the jars are full of beer,” Nykara said. “There’s a brewery in the lower settlement half a mile or so away. The rest hold milk and blood. Salitis keeps cattle penned in a side wadi perhaps a mile from here. These boats make deliveries north and south, to hamlets and farms beholden to Ma–ee. Donkeys make deliveries to the farms directly serving Nekhen. They’re all close by.”

  “You deliver this much every day?”

  “Yes. These boats will return in a few hours loaded with freshly harvested vegetables. The donkeys will reappear to haul the produce to the upper and lower settlements. Quite a few different crops are ripening right now. At harvest time we’ll fully utilize the fleet from sunup to sundown to carry emmer and barley to Nekhen. None of us will get much sleep then. Although, the quantity of grain this year will be significantly less than usual, because of the poor inundation.”

  The first boats drifted into the current and herdsmen began driving the strings of unburdened donkeys back towards Nekhen. I walked with Nykara to the northern end of the boatyard. Men were unloading four–foot long acacia logs from more donkeys and neatly stacking them. A handful of men were in the vicinity of the stack, using copper saws to cut planks from logs. Others were using copper drills to make holes along the edges of cut planks for the ropes that would bind them together. I knew that, because Nykara had told me in detail about how he constructed his boats on our way to Nekhen. Hundreds of already prepared pieces of wood, destined to be part of his next vessel, were laid out in orderly rows nearby.

  “Looks like my workmen cut and shaped about half the components I’ll need while I was gone. Another couple of weeks and we’ll be able to start assembly.”

  “Already thinking about a sea–going craft?” I asked.

  “Actually, yes. On my next trip to Maadi I’ll bring back a few of those really long cedar logs from the North. I suspect a long spine will stand up to the stresses of the sea better than a lot of smaller planks lashed together.”

  One of the workmen tossed a copper axe onto a pile of copper tools with a metallic clink. Nykara led me to the pile.

  “Ready for the smithy?” he asked the workman.

  He nodded.

  “I’ll take them.”

  Nykara quickly stuffed a leather pouch with the tools and hefted it onto his shoulder. I marveled at the ease and grace with which he lifted the heavy burden.

  “Acacia wears copper out very quickly,” he explained. “Heth’s metal workers spend about half their time resmelting and resharpening tools when I’m building a new boat.”

  I could have made my way to the smithy with my eyes closed thanks to the musical sound of metal pounding metal, familiar to me from Haran’s workshop in Maadi. Heth spotted us and came to meet us. Even from a distance I could feel the heat from his furnaces, where three columns of smoke spiraled skyward. He was sweating profusely and wiped his forehead with his forearm. “How do you like Nekhen so far?” he asked me.

  “The boatyard’s fascinating. And you’ve set up your smithy just like Haran’s.”

  Heth nodded. “Furnaces together, copper ingots and charcoal and acacia wood neatly piled, plenty of river water close by, a shaded pavilion for the men to put the final touches on the tools once we’ve created them in molds.”

  “I see you’ve already moved the ingots from the boat,” Nykara said.

  “Worked most of the night. We’ll start melting them down next week and begin making the tools the elites have ordered.”

  “And the items I’ll need on my next trade expedition.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “Where to next?” I asked as we left the smithy.

  “The workshops near the oval court. After Dedi died and Ma–ee – Rawer at the time – took over the enterprise he got rid of half of Dedi’s craftsmen because the flow of raw materials from the North slowed to a trickle and he couldn’t keep them occupied. That was thanks to his useless trader friends in Tjeni and Nubt – and competition from Dagi and Pabasa, who started working for me. So I set up workshops for those craftsmen here, near my smithy. They made items tailored to the specific needs of Nubt and Tjeni and Maadi and Hiw and Inerty, and those commissioned by the common people to offer during festivals. I moved our workshops back to the oval court after I regained Dedi’s enterprise, combined them once again with the old ones Ma–ee had been using to keep himself and the elites supplied with luxuries.”

  “Our workshops? Do you really think of them that way already, Nykara?”

  He kissed me. “I do. I want you involved with them, too, Bakist. You know as well as I what the people we trade with find valuable.”

  We spent half the day roaming our workshops. Nykara introduced me to each of his craftsmen and women, from masters to apprentices, and they showed me the items they were making. I was in my element after helping Papa trade for more than half my life. Everyone patiently answered my questions, and I had no end of them. Maadi was primarily a distribution emporium that produced a handful of items; I was astounded at the scope and variety of objects created in Nekhen and the sheer number of talented workers Nykara had assembled. I’d worried unnecessarily about being bored.

  “This is the day of the week I usually coordinate boats and donkeys with Ranefer, the overseer Ma–ee appointed when he locked Abar away,” Nykara told me as we left the workshops. “They’re penned in a wadi not far from here.”

  “Itu and I did that for Papa. Oversaw his herds,” I said.

  “I remember.”

  After a short walk we approached the wadi. I smelled the familiar scents associated with donkeys long before we reached them. A pavilion stood just outside the wood fence stretching across the wadi’s mouth. Dust rose from behind that fence. Milling beasts, no doubt. Two women were seated beneath the pavilion. Two boys were playing at their feet.

  “Abar and her sons and Tentopet, Dagi’s sister,” Nykara told me in a surprised voice. “I had no idea Abar would be here today. Ma–ee never lets her roam Nekhen. If you’d rather not meet her…”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “It has to happen sometime. Now’s as good a time as any.”

  We stepped into the shade of the pavilion. The two boys stopped playing and looked up; I guessed them to be about five and three. Tentopet – it was easy to tell which woman was servant and which mistress – rose and smiled and greeted Nykara warmly. She regarded me with curiosity. I studied Abar. She was finely dressed and bejeweled, sitting on a leather–bottomed chair. She looked like a ruler’s woman, though I’d never actually seen a ruler’s woman, much less a ruler. She rose gracefully and regally as Nykara bowed to her. She was surprisingly petite. Not the kind of woman I’d associate with power. A woman men would underestimate based on appearance alone. If Abar was surprised I was with Nykara she didn’t show it.

  “Bakist, this is Abar,” Nykara said. “Abar, this is Bakist. My woman.”

  It had to feel strange for him to use that expression in front of Abar to refer to someone other than Amenia.

  “I know,” Abar said, scanning me from head to toe, though in a friendly manner. “News travels fast in Nekhen. Welcome, Bakist.”

  “Nykara has told me absolutely everything about you,” I said meaningfully.

  Nykara nodded. “Everything.”

  “I look forward to getting to know you,” I said.

  “I’d like that too,” Abar replied.

  “This is Tentopet,” Nykara said.


  She was in her mid–twenties, a very pretty woman. Her clothes were quite fine, no doubt thanks to Abar.

  “I met your brother Dagi and his family a few weeks ago,” I told her. “We stopped in Tjeni on the way here.”

  “They’re well?”

  I nodded.

  “What are you doing here, Abar?” Nykara asked. “It’s been years since Ma–ee let you out of his house.”

  “He had no choice,” Abar replied. “Ranefer died yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Nykara said sincerely. “He was a good man. Still young.”

  “Not a single one of Ma–ee’s minions is capable of coordinating donkeys. He called on me to bail him out today. Senebi agreed. They think this is temporary. I guarantee you it isn’t.”

  The look in her eyes convinced me.

  “I’m happy for you,” Nykara said. “Almost like the old days.”

  “As close as we’ll ever get,” Abar sighed.

  The two boys were looking up at me shyly.

  “Are these your sons?” I asked Abar.

  “They are.”

  I dropped to my knees, so I’d be at their level. “I’m Bakist. Who are you?”

  “Shery.”

  “Shepseska.”

  “Are you helping your mother today?”

  Shery nodded. “We know all about the donkeys. They’ll be ours someday.”

  “I know about donkeys too,” I said. “My Papa has fifty and I used to take care of them and send them on trips across the desert.”

  “You did?” asked Shepseska, wide–eyed.

  “Ever since I was a little older than you.”

  “We use our donkeys to make deliveries in Nekhen and close by, and to travel to the oases,” Shery told me grandly. “We have more than fifty.” Uncertainty flashed across his face. “Don’t we, Mama?”

  “Indeed we do,” Abar laughed. “Many more than fifty.”

  “Nykara is teaching us about boats,” Shery said. “Our father lets him.”

  “Tentopet takes us to the river. Nykara gives us rides,” Shepseska added.

  “He lets me steer,” Shery announced. “Shepseska can’t. He’s not strong enough to hold the oar.”

  “That’s just because you’re older,” Shepseska sniffed. “I’ll be strong enough soon.”

  “Will you take me on a ride then?” I asked him.

  “Yes!” he exclaimed brightly.

  I rose. “They’re darling,” I told Abar.

  “Never too soon to teach them the family business,” she said.

  “I started helping my father trade when I was about their age. Someday, I hope I’m able to teach my own children in the same way.” My eyes met Nykara’s and I smiled. “Until then, I’m going to help Nykara however I can.”

  “We’ve been inspecting my operation since sunup,” he said. “Our operation,” he corrected himself.

  “I have an awful lot to learn,” I admitted.

  “Then we should get started. If I’m not back soon Ma–ee will send Senebi’s thugs to fetch me.” Abar sounded almost as if she welcomed the prospect. Clearly, she was a woman who wouldn’t back down from a fight. She ordered a serving girl to bring refreshments. After that she and Nykara got down to business. It didn’t take them long to arrange the schedule; they explained nothing out of the ordinary was taking place in the next week. Still, I was amazed at the size and complexity of the transportation network and the interdependence of donkeys and boats. That Nykara and Abar arranged everything so easily spoke to their mutual intelligence and abilities. After the schedule was complete Abar gave us a tour of the donkey pen.

  “Nykara told me you send your animals on expeditions into the desert,” I said as we looked over her animals.

  “Usually once or twice a year. Aside from that, the stone carvers use my donkeys when they go into the eastern desert for stone, or to haul back the gold they’ve mined. The rest of the time they’re used to make the local deliveries you saw us schedule – water and wood and foodstuffs, mostly.”

  “As I told your sons, Papa has a donkey herd – two, actually. One in Maadi, that I managed, and one in Farkha my brother takes care of. My brother carries wine and olive oil from the lands along the seacoast. The trail skirts the coast. My donkeys hauled copper and stone from the desert. Maybe someday you can tell me about the different routes your donkeys travel, how you get them to their destination and back in good health, how you care for them between times. It’s always good to compare methods, I think.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Abar said. “Especially since Ma–ee’s kept me away from the herd for a couple of years now. I’d appreciate you looking the donkeys over with me to make sure they’re still in good shape later this week.”

  “Gladly.”

  “Speaking of Ma–ee,” Nykara interjected, “did he do anything particularly stupid while I was away?”

  “No. The usual. He’s as greedy as ever. You must have had an excellent trip to Maadi – his men were filling his storage hut with his so–called share of your goods most of the morning.”

  “A greater share with each trip,” Nykara said ruefully. He lowered his voice, looked around to make sure no one was watching. “I’ve heard rumors several of the elites have about had it with the way Ma–ee’s treating them. Fewer fine objects than in Aboo’s day, Ma–ee’s adherents treated better than the rest… Add to that two bad inundations in the past four years. But the elites complain in private, and only to each other, because Ma–ee’s taken their children hostage. No one’s sure who Ma–ee and Senebi have spying for them. The only person who’s somewhat public in his complaints is Hemaka, Amenia’s uncle. He’s claimed on a few occasions when he was drunk that Ma–ee promised him the position Senebi holds when he… you know.”

  “Gave Amenia to Sanakht?” I asked.

  Abar didn’t hide her surprise.

  “Bakist knows everything about me and Amenia too,” Nykara said. “We have no secrets. I didn’t hold anything back.”

  Abar nodded. “Keep your ears open,” she told Nykara. “Let me know anything you hear. I don’t care if the elites rise up and do something to Ma–ee. But I won’t have one of them push Shery aside.” She glanced at her son. “I’m counting on him to carry on in our footsteps to link Nekhen and Tjeni and Nubt.”

  “Your grandfather’s quest is still embraced by Dagi and his assistants,” I assured Abar. “He told me so directly.”

  “And Pabasa,” Nykara said.

  “Speaking of Amenia, Nykara told me she’s disappeared without a trace,” I said.

  “When Ma–ee dismembered and burned Sanakht in the oval court he told her she was done representing the falcon god in Nekhen,” Abar said. “She hasn’t been seen since. I have no idea if she’s nearby or if she’s gone north or south or east or west. Amenia was my friend, Bakist. She saved my life when Shepseska was born. Saved him too. I miss her every day.”

  “I wish I’d known her,” I said, and I meant it. “She was such an important part of Nykara’s life. And her pottery was exquisite.”

  Nykara and I left for the boatyard soon after. I overheard Abar whisper to Nykara a few steps behind me – “I really like Bakist, Nykara. Bring her back to me often.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Her acceptance meant everything to me.

  We finished our tour among the huts where Nykara’s boatmen and craftsmen and metal workers and their families lived. There were dozens of structures of various shapes and sizes, all scattered along a couple of winding lanes within sight of the boatyard. They were more primitive than at Maadi and more disorganized than at Farkha. Pigs were penned beside some of them and cats watched us with half–closed eyes from the shade. Smoke from cookfires curled into the sky where women bustled, making preparations for the evening meal with the help of their daughters. Others were grinding grain into flour or working together on various crafts beneath sunscreens or returning from the river with dripping water jars. Children noi
sily dashed everywhere, kicking up dust, raising a ruckus.

  We didn’t reach our own hut until well after dark, after spending what remained of the day with Nykara’s dependents. I insisted on being introduced to and speaking with every woman we encountered as we passed through the workers’ neighborhood, as well as their children. I lost count of the number of huts we entered. Every time I left I promised I’d return to visit regularly, and announced if anyone had need of any kind they were to call on me immediately. We ate dinner with a couple of related families whose members had worked in the boatyard for more than a century, a loud boisterous affair full of much conversation and laughter. At first everyone was hesitant; none of the men and women knew what to expect from me. I assumed they were afraid I’d lord it over them, try to make them feel inferior because of my position as Nykara’s woman. That was how most of the elite women acted, according to Nykara. So I went out of my way to put everyone at ease. As we ate I told the men and women about Maadi and Farkha and my travels in the North and about Papa’s donkeys and the traders I’d dealt with. In turn they related many ancient family stories. Later, Nykara spent an hour or so talking with the men alone while I went with the women to bathe in the river. Nykara’s ears must have been burning from the stories they told me about him. Many of those women had known him since the day of his birth.

  “Put me in charge of your workmen’s welfare,” I told Nykara as we walked home, my hand locked in his. “That’s where I can do you the most good for now.”

  “I only hope you make them half as happy as you’ve already made me,” Nykara replied.

  3438 BC

  Abar

  “Look, Mama! I’m steering all by myself!” Shepseska shouted happily.

  “Wonderful!” I called.

  “Do you see, Auntie Bakist?”

  “I do! Just like you promised!” Bakist cried encouragingly. “He is so cute,” she said to me. “Shery too. You’re a lucky woman, Abar. Two fine boys.”