“Feed us. Nourish us,” pleaded the soldiers lining the waterway.
Meti ripped the left side of her gown exposing her breast, now full of milk. She would forever be remembered. She Who is the Nurturer of Per Aat Ti-Yee and Pharaoh Amunhotep, and most of all, the Sesh. They loved her. Amunites and Atenists alike. The sight of an ample breast made the men swoon. They pledged their eternal love. She had earned it. She would be the next Per Aat, chosen by the people. And what the Sesh demanded, I hoped the Hanuti had no choice but to give to them.
Her feathered Vulture ceremonial robes weighed her down. This embroidered imported material did not suit Khemit’s heat. Sit-Amun was soaked with perspiration. Lifting that damn snake all day in the hot sun made her arms and shoulders ache. The sunburn made her face swell and lips chap.
Sit-Amun yanked open her wine cabinet back at the Malkata Palace. With a shaky hand she poured a full goblet. In the privacy of her chambers she ripped off her blue tripartite wig, thankful to be free of the silver tipped tubes that clinked against her ears. She broke a nail and swore.
Why, these costumes alone cost her two times the monthly stipend she received for playing the part of the Royal Consort. And what good did it do? If she had another poor season of grapes like last year, she’d be ruined. At last year’s harvest when the grapes turned from green to purple, her crop was besieged by birds. Then right before picking, an unexpected rain mildewed the remaining harvest. It meant no wine last winter. Not that it mattered. At this rate she wouldn’t see another harvest if she couldn’t afford to pay the workers. Or her gambling debts.
As she fumbled through her ebony desk drawer for a nail file, Sit- Amun pushed aside a stack of papyri. A flash of red caught her eye, so she plucked that one out. A drawing of her prized steer with its neck slit sent shivers up her spine. Underneath the picture was a warning that her herd of cattle had trampled the fences of her neighbor’s fields and eaten all the new sprouts of alfalfa. Her coffers were depleted. She could neither afford the burden of the grand demesne in the country, nor the upkeep of land and livestock gifted by Pharaoh Amunhotep.
This ceremony had meant everything to her. Finally, she received the acknowledgement and respect she deserved. The Hanuti favored her over those Semites to become the next Per Aat and for Mery-Ptah to be the Pharaoh. This was her way out of her financial mess. Except that whore, Nefertiti, outdid her. All that money and time for nothing. Now how could she pay off her debts?
That familiar throb in her head made her dizzy. Just for a moment, on board the barge, she had felt beautiful and loved. She’d never before felt a crowd worshiping her, overflowing with their adoration. As if gazing upon her face could fill their bellies, or heal their broken bodies bent from labor in the fields. Now it was gone.
For a flick of a mongoose tail, she too had believed it. She stared at her elaborately decorated chamber with the furniture dipped in gold leaf, rich imported fabrics upon her lounge, and thick alabaster vases full of fresh cut papyrus and daisies. It was all a lie.
She punched her fist through the whitewashed stucco adorned with vibrant images of ancient Deities. The plaster fell to the ground, revealing the mudbrick beneath. The Nile River could wash all this away tomorrow. Forgotten. Tears stung her eyes. She too would be a minuscule dot upon Pharonic history. Being forgotten terrified her. She never stood a chance, really. Her much older brother, the Pharaoh, determined her destiny when he claimed that she chose him as her consort.
“Pfft. I was still in swaddling clothes,” she said and gritted her teeth. That pulsing in her head made her suck in her breath. “And those Royals are going to do the same thing to Nefertiti’s first born as was done to me. That cow Ti-Yee will determine that child’s path the same way she determined mine. They will parade her out for these meaningless pompous rituals to entertain the masses.” That thought made her headache worse.
Sit-Amun dreaded being out of control just as much as she hated being controlled. She would do anything to stop herself—if only they hadn’t done this to me. But she always gave in to her own little ritual because she needed that sense of power over another, especially after someone had just usurped hers.
Sit-Amun slid out the false panel in her desk. Her eager gaze fell on the set of beautiful bronze knives sharpened until they gleamed—nestled in their handcrafted leather pouches, as she removed her favorite. She pressed the slender one with upturned blade against her thigh and almost swooned with the first cut. The rush of excitement made the tiny hairs stand up on her arms. Strangely, this act gave her peace and security. Finally, she could feel something other than fear.
She strode to the hidden closet. With great composure, she pressed against it and released the lock. Just one more time, and then she’d swear she’d never do this again.
“Come to me, my darling. Let me take away your pain.”
She pulled the whimpering child out by the leather collar and leash she had placed around his neck. The boy’s eyes appeared rheumy; chewing his lip, shivering in fear, hunching his back, he looked like a wild animal. Sit-Amun patted the linen draped table and pulled the child up by his collar where she secured it. “Drink this, darling. It tastes delicious.” She handed him the wine cup.
The boy did as told, thankful she gave him something to quench his thirst. The boy felt the effects of the mandragora and looked woozy. Sit-Amun ran her hands up his smooth brown leg and gently undid his piss-soaked loin cloth. Her breathing became labored and she couldn’t contain the headiness she felt. When her hand found the soft ball sack, she moaned in expectant ecstasy.
“I want to enjoy your pain. You will endure it,” she said. As she lifted her knife, she caught her reflection in the polished metal and smiled. In a few moments, the shame of this horrific act would be unbearable. I swear this is the last time.
“I cannot stand another day of the stench of urine-stained streets mixed with stale beer,” bemoaned Hep-Mut. I nodded in agreement. “Whiskers of Bastet, this Opet Festival has dragged on over a fortnight. One would think the jugs of beer would have grown dry.”
The Chef cut vegetables, the knife in her hand a blur. “Even my helpers have grown lazy and fat.”
“Thanks to Hapi for this year’s inundation,” said Hep-Mut. “Let the Sesh take pleasure now in the gushing of the Nile. Soon they will be hard at work tilling and irrigating the rich silt fields in preparation for the harvest.”
We gobbled our favorite honey cakes, which Hep-Mut earned for us with her dribbles of gossip.
The Chef stopped mid-slice. “Did you hear about The Bath Mistress’s daughter? Her donkey broke loose a few days past and raided the grain bin. They found the bloated animal tipped over in the road.”
Hep-Mut chomped on an onion. “That is a shame. I know she needed that stupid ass for her harvest. What will she do? The Bath Mistress is counting on her daughter to take care of her when she grows old.”
“A miracle occurred,” said the Chef as she waved that knife. “The next-door neighbor had a talisman blessed by the Amun priests that he paid for in fine silver. I heard he made a secret potion and crushed up that sacred token. Then he mixed it with olive oil and who knows what else. By the will of Amun, that donkey passed a foul smelling waft, got up and brayed all night, thankful to be alive.”
“Beak of Thoth!” said Hep-Mut throwing her hands up. “Atenists do not believe in superstitions, but I will not go anywhere without my Bes.” My nursemaid pulled out her statue of the Dwarf Deity. “The barge of Amun, Mut and Khonsu returned last night.”
“Glad tidings that Hathor and Amun consummated their union. I hope it put a smile on her face, because she is having more adventure than I am.” The Chef wiggled her hips. “My consort claims that too much Opet beer has made his pillar soggy.”
The name Khonsu renewed my desire to awaken the golden boy. I could make a secret potion too. Meti had plenty of oils for her cosmetics.
* * *
Later that night, Father retired to his chambe
r to work on the new changes to the architectural plans for the temple. Hep-Mut tended to Meket-Aten and Ankh-es-en-pa-Aten. I snuck out to Meti’s dressing room, where I took a delicate lotus-shaped bowl. I dribbled some rare blue lotus oil into it, then added frankincense and myrrh. After mixing the ingredients with Meti’s toothpick, I sprinkled golden powder from a vial. My potion became a gooey paste.
Now, it was too thick. I had to melt it. Igniting the long wooden stick, I held the flame beneath the precious bowl as my mind drifted. When the alabaster bowl grew molten hot, I scorched my fingers. My concoction and its bowl fell to the granite floor, and shattered into a thousand pieces. I wailed until Hep-Mut and the attendants rushed to my aid. Upon seeing the broken cosmetic bowl—a gift from some foreign official—and the mess I made, Hep-Mut scolded me.
“Teeth of Sobek,” she wailed, referring to the crocodile deity. “Child, you could have burned down the palace, or worse, you could have hurt yourself. Get down on your knees and clean it up!” The heat from my burned fingers rose to my face as deep humiliation turned to rage.
“How dare you?” I yelled. The ire of all my five years welled up. “You cannot tell me what to do. You are not my Meti.”
Hep-Mut stiffened and her eyes widened in outrage. She slapped me across the face. The pain of my words must have seared her heart more than the fire did to my fingers. No one had ever hit me. The shock overwhelmed me. I clenched my fists. “I hate you.”
Her face twisted in agony; she turned away. In her heart, I knew Hep-Mut cherished me as a daughter. My evil words did not remedy the humiliation of her striking me in front of the servants. She broke the law.
One attendant rushed to pour aloe juice upon my fingers. Another swept up the pieces of the broken bowl. A third washed clean all evidence of my magic potion. I ran back to my chambers, where I sucked my own thumb, to take my mind off the constant thrum.
Father pored over his plans of Amunhotep’s Funerary Temple, but he heard the call of my heart. When he rushed to my chamber, and bent to kiss my burnt fingers. I sobbed. “How can we dry those tears, my little love?” He wiped away my crocodile tears. “Here, here, you will fill up the Nile.” He rushed me over to the balcony. “Tilt your head toward the river so that Khemit may benefit from your water.” I laughed.
He knelt down and embraced me. “What can I get you to brighten your mood?”
“A white cat,” I exclaimed, then I thought of the ghost. “Oh, Father, may I have one of her kittens?”
“What white cat?”
“She lives at Karnak. I really want the white cat’s kittens.”
He shook his head. “I am not sure your Meti would approve. We can ask her in the morning.”
“You asked me what I wanted. I want a kitten.” Those tears began again.
“It is late. There might be crowds at the Opet Festival wandering about acting like drunken fools. We cannot go out dressed in royal garb even with guards. Your Meti would not approve.”
I looked up at him with watery eyes, my upper lip quivering, and whispered, “Then we should dress like commoners and no one will know.” That made him pause. I knew it would.
His dream was to roam the country free as a peasant and not always be confined to the palace.
“We could borrow clothes. The bakers hang them in the kitchen. The same ones we used when we fed the soldiers. The donkeys and the loaded carts are outside the door.”
“I suppose they would not miss one,” he said, and tickled me. My wounded heart felt assuaged.
Like two thieves in the night, we made our way to the bakery and found the dark robes hung upon the wooden poles. My father pulled the hood about his face and draped a smaller one over me. “Hop in,” he ordered with a laugh as he lifted me up. The donkey headed toward the entry gate.
“Netri, I know a shortcut out the service gate. Only the merchants use that one.”
He steered the donkey toward it. “Fine idea,” he said, and with great ease, we flew right by the inattentive Nubian guard who rolled the dice and cursed when he lost. A little lantern grew brighter as we edged our way closer to the ferry.
“Boat master, we need passage. Will you take us?” asked Father, disguising himself by using a higher voice. I stifled a laugh.
“I will row you but it will cost you.”
“How do I pay for this, fine fellow?” said Father, unsure of protocol.
“Humph,” replied the thin old man. “I will not wait for you unless you pay me. The tavern is calling.” He ran a sleeve over his parched lips.
I pointed to a jug in the wagon bed. “Offer him the beer.”
“A jug is yours if you take us over and then wait until we return.” The wizened elder sniffed. “No other barges available tonight. Two clay jugs of brew and you have a deal.”
And off we went, across the silent, black water. I felt giddy on this midnight adventure alone with my father.
A little while later the old man cried, “Shore ahead.”
In the stillness of Karnak, the gargantuan entryway pylons cast eerie shadows across the courtyard. The wooden wheels of our cart rolled over the uneven electrum paved way, making enough noise to alarm any cat clever enough to hide from danger. The Opet Festival had enticed far too many Sesh into a drunken slumber. With luck, tonight might be the best night to lure her out of the shadows.
“My cat prefers the butcher’s mart for scraps,” I said.
Father studied me. “How do you know? Is that where you found her?”
“No, she told me.”
He steered the cart into the merchant’s entrance of the grand Temple.
“Told you? Does she talk Khemitian?”
“No, Father. She thought it and I understood. Do animals talk to you?”
“No, Beloved. You have a rare and precious gift. What did this cat say?”
“She claims to be free, and that I live in a cage. She would not give up her feral life, not even for a pampered one. I named her Asgat because her Nile blue eyes.”
“She has strong opinions, this cat. Let us try the butcher’s stands.” He jerked the reins, drawing the donkey to the right. Raucous laughter and music pealed from somewhere afar. “May I help you locate Asgat?”
Nodding my head, I walked as he opened his palm, and held his hand aloft as if it contained a secret eye that could see into places others couldn’t. That hand moved as if it had a mind of its own, forward and back, up and down, searching, searching. When his hand stopped, Father opened his eyes.
He patted my hand. “She waits for you just beyond.”
Again, wild applause and the laughter of a hundred hyenas broke the courtyard silence. Just another Opet celebration. The noise drew nigh, but we didn’t see any bright lights aglow from the windows.
Stopping the cart behind the curve of a lotus column, Father said, “It would not be wise to draw attention to ourselves. Let us find this cat and her kittens and make a hasty departure, for it grows late. Your cat hides near the Temple of Amun.”
A group of men argued in a huddle. We tried to steer clear.
A man lumbered toward us. “Who goes there?”
“Just a poor beer merchant and his servant,” replied Father in a high voice.
“I see no beer.” The imposing man stepped away from his cronies staring. “Lord Akhenaten, is that you? And without guards?”
“General Ra-Mesu, in the name of the Aten, what brings you here?” The General towered over me. “My men and I protect the city during this festival. Beer has a way of making men forget the laws. Let us guide you back to the safety of the Malkata Palace.”
“My daughter yearns for a kitten.”
Shadow of the Sun (The Shadow Saga) Page 12
