by Overton, Max
The fabric of the tent parted silently and Scarab slipped inside. It was dark inside the tent, the only light coming from the faint glow of the perimeter torches filtering through the fabric of the tent. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she could make out the basic furniture--a low bed, a table and chairs, an open wooden chest with articles of clothing strewn about. Paramessu lay on his back on the bed, his mouth open, and snoring. She watched him for a few moments, trying to sort out her feelings for him. I still love him, I think, but he is married. How could he do that ? Her nose twitched, catching the scent of food, and her stomach growled an answer. Moving to the table, she found the remains of a meal--bread, radishes and a few scraps of meat. She realised how hungry she was, having had only a handful of dates in the last two days, and quickly cleaned up the scraps. There was a little sour wine in a jug so she finished that too. She sat on a chair and sipped at the last dregs of the wine, the complete silence of the tent soothing her. A plate still held streaks of grease so she ran her finger across it and put it in her mouth.
"If you are still hungry, I can send for food."
Scarab swung round so fast she nearly fell off the chair. The cup clattered and rolled off the table unnoticed.
Paramessu swung his feet off the bed and stood, naked in the dim light, a small smile on his face. Unhurriedly, he reached for his kilt and fastened it around his waist. "I should have known I could not keep you out." His eyes narrowed and he frowned. "Which of my officers or men let you in?"
Scarab took a few deep breaths, waiting for her heart to stop thundering. "Nobody let me in. Your men are too much in fear of you to risk your displeasure."
"Then how?"
Scarab smiled. "I am no longer the girl you once knew. A lot has happened and I have added to my skills."
"Considerably, if you can sneak past my guards." Paramessu walked over to the tent flap and held it open. "Puyemra, report to me at daybreak. In the meantime, send a man for food and wine." The man answered him indistinctly. "Yes, I know. Wake him up then. Gods, man, think for yourself or I'll find myself another Captain of the Guard." Paramessu let the flap fall and walked back into the tent, yawning and scratching his chest. "I am surrounded by incompetents. If Puyemra cannot give some good explanation for your presence in my tent I'll break him to the ranks."
"Don't be too hard on him. No man can fight against the gods."
Paramessu stared. "What is that supposed to mean?" He yawned again and picked up the oil lamp on the table, checking the level of oil in it. He carried it over to the fire pot and lit it from an ember, the glow pushing back the shadows in the tent. "There. That's better." He put the lamp back on the table and regarded the hooded woman sitting opposite him. "Why so shy? At least let me see your face while we talk."
"A lot has happened since you last saw me."
"You're older. I realise that, but you're still a young woman."
"Not that. Ay tried to kill me."
"And obviously failed." Paramessu looked at her quizzically. "He hurt you? Scarred you?"
Scarab stood and pulled her hood back, shaking her hair out. She kept her right eye closed.
"What happened to your eye?" he asked softly.
"I lost it. Ay's torturer was quite efficient."
"Dear gods. He may be king but that is too much. He is your uncle." A voice called discreetly from outside the tent. "Enter." A soldier came in bearing a tray of food and a jug of wine. He gaped at the figure of a woman in his general's tent but said nothing, just putting the food and drink down and backing out, fist to his forelock.
Paramessu poured two cups of wine and passed one to Scarab. He peered at her closed eye. "Your doctor did a good job. Who was it? Nebhotep?"
"No, I have not seen Nebhotep or Khu since Waset many months ago. They could be dead for all I know. Certainly Aanen is dead. Ay killed him."
"I grieve for them for your sake, Scarab. I know how much they meant to you." Paramessu sipped at his wine and broke off a piece of barley bread. He chewed and grimaced, pulling out a flake of stone from his mouth. "The army is supplied with poor quality flour. It includes stone chips off the mortars." He flicked the piece onto the floor. "But you did not come here to discuss them, I know. What do you want?"
"I want my son, Set," Scarab said simply.
"To what purpose?"
"What do you think? I want to be a mother to him."
Paramessu sat down opposite Scarab and helped himself to a slice of cold beef. "Don't you think you've left it a little late to decide you want to be a mother?"
"I've always wanted to be a mother to him. You know why I had to leave."
"I know why you said you had to leave. You decided to leave me and our infant son to go rushing off in pursuit of a rebel..."
"That rebel, as you put it, was my brother Smenkhkare and your rightful king. Every loyal Kemetu owed him their allegiance. Would you have had me desert my brother and my king?"
"You were gone over six years, Scarab. You said you'd be six months at most."
"You know why. I had to follow Smenkhkare into Nubia. Besides, what does that matter now? I'm back and I want my son."
Paramessu finished his beef and licked his fingers. "You know where he is. Why come here?"
"Because you father denied me access. He threw me out of his house and forbade me from returning, on pain of arrest."
"He is a Judge. He knows the law."
"What about natural law? A child needs its mother."
"He has a mother."
"Ah yes, the Lady Tia. Your father told me you had married. What does she think about raising another woman's child?"
"She has grown to love Seti for my sake. I might add that Seti thinks of her as his mother and loves her dearly."
Scarab paled and set her wine cup down with a faint clatter. "His name is Set, not Seti. I named him for the god, not for that spiteful old man in Zarw."
Paramessu's fingers tightened on his own cup but he kept a firm control of his voice. "I named him Seti and that is how he is registered with the temples--Seti, son of Paramessu, son of Seti."
"Do I mean nothing to you now?" Scarab whispered.
"What do you want me to say? That I love you now as I always did? That I want to go back to the way we were? Scarab, you deserted our son and me because you were too wrapped up in the great adventure that was your life. You put your bloodthirsty rebel brother ahead of your lover and your infant son. Very well, but you made the choice, not I. Do not think you can snap your pretty little royal fingers and everything will be as it was. I got on with my life and neither I nor Seti have room for you in it."
"I'm his mother. You can't deny me."
"I can, and I have." Paramessu put down his cup and rose to his feet, standing over her. "You have nothing here, Lady Beketaten. Find a man, settle down and raise a family if you can curb your wandering spirit. Forget about my son and me. Don't ever try to see him--or me--again." He turned and strode to the tent flap and flung it open, calling to the Captain of the Guard.
"Puyemra, detail a Five to escort this woman back to the coast road. Leave her there in good health, with water and provisions. If she attempts to escape, or if, after you leave her, she tries to follow you and re-enter the camp, you may kill her. I do not want to see her ever again."
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Chapter Eighteen
For two years, a small army of masons, sculptors, architects and artists had swarmed out along the length of the Great River Iteru. Temple after temple had been laid out, the foundations marked and stone quarried from sandstone cliffs across Kemet brought to each site where it was fashioned into building blocks by skilled artisans. As the walls and pillars rose, sculptors followed, chiselling out the forms of gods and adding inscriptions to bare surfaces. Artists dipped their cords in henna, stretched them across the walls and snapped them so that a faint red line crossed the pristine stone. Other lines followed, forming a grid work that the artists cou
ld use to create their paintings.
The builders and decorators of the temples were only a small part of the immense effort. Scribes made tallies of the men employed in each facet of the work, reckoning the many things that they needed. Each town was required to provide so many loaves of barley bread daily, so many baskets of fresh vegetables, beef and fish, bundles of herbs, milk and many heben of thin beer. The food was the least of it, for each town provided all this for the temple being built in its midst, as well as labourers to do the heavy work. The king's treasury paid for the rest--tallow for candles, oil and salt for the lamps, baskets of reeds to provide brushes, copper and tin to make bronze chisels, the skilled artisans' wages and physicians to care for the injured. Scribes counted everything and recorded it meticulously. Every bronze chisel handed out each morning had to be returned in the evening, every pot of paint supplied to an artist was tallied against the area he covered that day. Physicians were paid by the number of injuries they treated and every bandage and poultice had to be accounted for. Each man got his ration and no more. The king was going to build temples, but he would not pay a copper piece more for them than he had to.
Ay's parsimony continued when it came time to dedicate each temple. Instead of taking a huge entourage with him, providing a feast at every dedication, he limited the royal party to the barest minimum. He left Queen Ankhesenamen back in Waset, pleading illness for her non-appearance. She was seldom seen in public since her coronation as her grandfather's bride, and always the reason given was illness. The stillbirth of her third daughter had taken its toll on her health and now when she made a fleeting appearance, it was always at a distance. No one except her closest maids and body servants had seen her up close since just after the coronation, and they were not saying anything. The king handpicked them and they valued their jobs and lives too much to be indiscreet. Rumour even had it that the Queen was dead, but the king still referred to her as his wife, so nobody could say anything openly.
The itinerary was long and exhausting, especially for a man of Ay's age, but he followed a schedule carefully drawn up by Tjaty Nakhtmin that enabled the king's party to travel by barge for the most part, only crossing farmland and desert by chariot when it was necessary to attain some remote rock-cut shrine or temple. The ceremonies themselves were often arduous as the king was himself a god and had to lead the local priests in the complex rhythms of the dedication.
The temples were completed in no particular order, so Ay found himself constantly travelling up and down the river. Ten days before, he had dedicated some decorations of the king and queen adorning a small rock shrine to the fertility god Min in the desert northeast of the town of Ipy. The god is ithyphallic and Ay had to endure the silent taunts of the carved representations of the god, the huge erect divine penis reminding him of his own sexual inadequacies. His mood was foul for days and the barge trip north conducted in silence, none of the royal entourage daring to engage the king in conversation. Luckily, Tjaty Nakhtmin joined the barge at Men-nefer for the short trip north to the next dedication.
"You should not let it concern you, father," Nakhtmin said on learning the reason for the king's displeasure. "You are the king. You don't have to prove anything."
"I am supposed to be the royal bull and I can't even tup the meanest concubine in the harem. I'm sure everyone here knows." He glared around at the few members of the court accompanying them on the trip. "They are probably laughing at me."
"They would not dare, and anyway, they don't know. I have made sure that nothing that happens in the women's quarters leaves that place."
Ay looked across at his son. "What do you mean? How can you contain gossip?"
Nakhtmin smiled pleasantly and examined his fingernails. "Let us just say that those with the loosest tongues lost them altogether. They have been disposed of and new virgins brought in to replace them."
Ay grunted. "And what is the use of bringing in others?"
"Solely for the sake of appearances. Now, how are the dedications going? Another three in the north and we can take a break for a few months."
"Thank the gods for that." Ay thought for a moment before barking with laughter. "Listen to me. I've been dedicating temples so long I'm starting to believe in the gods."
"That's no bad thing, father. I am determined to bring you safely to the afterlife. By the time I have finished, every god and all the people will love you and praise your name for eternity."
"You're a good son, Nakhtmin, and you'll make a fine king after me."
"May that day be long delayed, father."
Ay smiled and stroked his son's muscular arm. "Where is the next dedication?"
"In a town called Int-Abt. There is a small temple to Heru just about completed."
"I thought that one wasn't going to be ready until next year."
"We were able to draw on the population on Men-nefer. They were...shall we say...persuaded to contribute despite the presence of a large temple of Heru within the city."
The town of Int-Abt was on the eastern bank of the western arm of the Great River, just above where it first divided on reaching the wide, flat lands of Ta Mehu. The mayor had turned out the populace to greet the king, and together with the priests of Heru, organised a celebration that gladdened the heart of Ay.
"I think you're right, my son. The people do love me."
The ceremonies in the newly built temple took some time as the prayers and ritual were quite complex. The king, as god and priest, had to lead some sections of the ritual, while the Hem-Netjer of Heru in Men-nefer performed the intimate approach to the hawk god. The prayers continued for several hours, but while the body grew weary, the spirit did not for who could tire of the presence of the gods. Not only was Heru, as the owner of the temple, invoked, but also were many other gods, any of whom might have become jealous of such a fine edifice dedicated to another.
After the dedication, Ay inspected some of the walls and examined the artisanship used in the construction of the artwork that covered the plaster. A short while before his arrival, part of the scaffolding used to paint the upper reaches had collapsed. Five men had fallen, two to their deaths and the rest to face terrible injuries. As the king and Nakhtmin exited the temple, they passed close by the injured men being treated by a physician and his assistant, brought in from nearby Men-nefer. Ay, as befitted a man of his exalted station, paid the physician no attention. He was used to the presence of servants, even on the most intimate occasions, and thought nothing of it. The physician and his apprentice on the other hand, though they turned politely away, stayed close.
"Where were you during the dedication, Nakhtmin?" asked the king. "I looked for you."
"What? Oh...my apologies, father." The Tjaty frowned and chewed his lip, obviously distracted.
"The builders have done a good job on the temple, haven't they? I particularly liked the graceful pillars in the hypostyle. Did you see...what is it? Are you even listening to me, Nakhtmin?"
"I'm sorry sir. One of my agents brought me some news during the ceremony that brought a number of pieces of puzzling information together."
"Important information?" The king looked casually at the injured men on the sand and at the nearby jumble of broken scaffolding. The physicians bent over their patients, backs to the king, but there was something familiar about them.
"Yes, very. I think we should discuss this in private."
"Just tell me." Why should I think these physicians are familiar? Could they have treated me ? Why can't I remember ?
"Your niece is alive."
Ay stared at his son, his forehead wrinkling. "My niece? I have no niece."
"The Lady Beketaten, known as Scarab."
"What? That's impossible."
"I'm afraid not. If it were a single sighting, an isolated report, I would dismiss it. However, as I said, this piece ties everything together. There is no doubt."
The king swung away, consternation written all over his face. If he noticed that the physician
s were no longer working but remained hunched over their patients, apparently listening, it did not impinge on Ay's conscious thoughts. How? I saw her when Mentopher finished with her. She was all but dead then and the desert would surely finish her. How ? He closed his eyes tightly and breathed slowly, willing calm into his mind. What can she do anyway? She is one woman against the might of Kemet . He turned back to face his son, his Tjaty.
"What do you know?"
"Your majesty, we should discuss this in private."
"We shall--at length. But tell me now, I must know."
Nakhtmin nodded, though he lowered his voice. "There have been many reports over the last two years. Most of these can be easily dismissed, particularly the ones of a more fabulous nature. There are tales of a red-headed scion of Nebmaetre bringing forth water from a desert rock, of a woman invincible in battle, and of a priestess of Auset raising the dead."
Ay laughed a trifle nervously. "And you believe these tales? Have you taken leave of your senses?"
"Of themselves they mean nothing. You hear stories like that at any campfire. But with the other snippets of information, they start to make some sort of sense."
"Such as?"
"My lord, I really think we should talk in private."
"None would dare listen to us. Continue."
Nakhtmin gathered his thoughts. "The intelligence I have gathered has come to me over the last two years and not in chronological order. For instance, the fact that Scarab visited Paramessu in a field camp in southern Kenaan nearly two years ago was only related to me last month. My lord, somehow she survived the desert and made her way to Zarw."
