Cheftu frowned. “What is, my lord?”
“Every other people shake their head negatively and nod in agreement. The reverse is true in Aztlan.”
“They nod in disagreement?”
“Aye.” Imhotep rubbed his bulbous nose. “It is disagreeable.”
Cheftu smiled politely.
“So why do you seek to abandon Egypt?”
“It is not abandonment, my lord, I merely seek to aid Egypt.”
“Why?”
Cheftu took a deep breath, sending a prayer to le bon Dieu for assistance. “My lords, I tell you a grave secret. For reasons I do not understand, I am a tool, or was a tool, for the most high God.” Imhotep blanched, but Ipiankhu watched him knowingly. “The woman found dead at my side was my wife.” He swallowed his tears. “We married four hundred years hence. Let me tell you of the chamber we knew….”
The lords’ faces took on the smooth facades of those who are dealing with a madman, yet they nodded politely, not quite meeting his eyes. “You found us in the Apis bull run, but in the time we left, it was a secret chamber with painted walls portraying the story.”
“What story?” Imhotep asked.
“How we came to be there, what our destiny was while we were there.” Cheftu focused on Imhotep. “A man, an old man named Imhotep, found us in the desert, four hundred years hence, and saved our lives. He had a scroll with our tale, a prediction of the exact day we would be rescued. You must have written it, passed it down to him. The family resemblance is unmistakable. He was your blood.”
Their attention was piqued. Cheftu laid his hand, with the Aztlantu ring, on the table between the two cups of beer. “Send me to Aztlan. Let me serve Egypt this way.”
“Senwosret has welcomed you to court,” Ipiankhu said.
“My skill as a physician would make me a better marker with which to barter, haii?”
Reluctantly both men nodded. “We must seek approval from Pharaoh, living forever! but I think My Majesty will embrace this solution.”
Would the Aztlantu bring him back? Cheftu wondered. He crossed his chest and made his way back to his apartments. He was doing as destiny bade, following the sparse clues he’d been given. Aii, Chloe, if you are watching, if you can see me, tell me what to do.
SENWOSRET TURNED IN THE ROOM. He stood in a painted alcove, a sandstone lintel above him, a tale painted on the back wall in brilliant colors. Amid finely rendered hieroglyphs was the figure of a woman, surely a goddess or priestess from the size of the picture. He saw her long, turned fingers and straight-nosed profile, her skintight sheath and ankle bracelets—and her green eyes.
Her green eyes seemed to burn with an unearthly fire. Senwosret’s gaze dropped to the words “a priestess of an unknown god, sent to be a scribe to his wonder and then returned to the Otherworld.”
Pharaoh’s skin prickled and he turned away. To his right the wall was black, carefully covered with stars in an uneven pattern. To his left he saw a phrase, the hieroglyphs seemingly formed of fire.
Then the wall melted and he saw destruction, the terror of which he’d never known existed: blood-filled lakes; fire falling from the sky; a cloying darkness that seemed to have fangs and reach into his throat; then a specter so fierce, he screamed, and screamed…
He awoke, shaking, sweating, and gasping for breath. Slaves stood in an anxious semicircle around his couch. “Water,” he croaked, and put the cup to his lips, feeling it soothe his throat, dribble down his chin and chest. He was panting as though he’d run through the marshes. “Ipiankhu,” he said. “And Imhotep!” The slaves stared, their black eyes full of fear. “At once!”
Both men stood before him in a matter of moments. Ipiankhu’s chin glinted ruddy in the light of the torches, and Imhotep winced when one of the slaves dropped a flagon. They listened as Senwosret related his dream. He noticed them exchanging glances and finally burst out, “What? What have I said that makes you look at each other with understanding?”
Ipiankhu spoke, his voice trembling. “My Majesty, living forever! You have just told the same tale the mage Necht-mer, aii, Cheftu did.” He looked at Imhotep. “This green-eyed woman was his wife. She died in the Apis bull run. Cheftu told us of these plagues that you saw.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means the words the man spoke, for all their incomprehensibility, are the truth.”
Senwosret smiled wistfully. “What is truth?”
Assuming the question was rhetorical, the vizier and the mage were silent. Senwosret twisted his earlobe with his fingers. “Where is this room supposed to be?”
“In the bowels of the Apis chambers.”
“Move the bulls.”
“What?”
“Are you deaf? Remove the bulls to another area, make a new temple for Apis. Then build this chamber, exactly.”
“My Majesty,” Imhotep sputtered, “that means transporting thousands of bulls to a yet unknown location and rebuilding the temple, the priests’ rooms. Egypt cannot afford this extravagance.”
Senwosret stood, his large, bony body covered only by a flimsy kilt. “Egypt can afford to thank this physician for restoring my sight, and Egypt can afford to make this small room as a thanks to this unknown god. What Egypt cannot afford are disobedient, questioning courtiers.” He turned to Ipiankhu. “What say you?”
The vizier looked away. “I am still seeking wisdom, My Majesty.”
“Let me know when you find it. Begone.”
TAKING HIS NEWFOUND PLACE OF HONOR at the right of Pharaoh, Cheftu stared blankly at the court. Blazing white shifts and kilts clothed the women and men standing about. The audience chamber was wide and long, with Senwosret on a raised dais at the end. Pharaoh’s enormous ears stuck out from the red-and-white crown of upper and lower Egypt, and loose skin sagged over his golden sash. But his eyes were kind.
More important, he could see.
Nestor, the Aztlantu envoy, stood next to the nobles. Today he wore a purple kilt that wrapped tightly around his body and fell below his knees in front. Feathers stuck out of the knot of blond hair twisted atop his head, and gold—pendants, armbands, and anklets—made him blinding. He looked like a peacock among swallows.
The envoy’s blue gaze met Cheftu’s, and he inclined his head slightly, then focused on the doors at the end of the chamber.
The chamberlain admitted a group of men. Judging from their clothing, a variety of kilts and collars, Cheftu guessed they were merchants. The formal Egyptian dialect was difficult to follow, but Cheftu was intrigued.
“My Majesty,” one of the men said, “we, the elders of Gebtu, have come to ask for your mercy.”
Cheftu watched Ipiankhu’s eyes narrow.
“My Majesty is all that is merciful,” Senwosret answered.
“Aye, and for this we are grateful to Amun-Ra.” The man twisted his hands before him. “However, we cannot pay our taxes this year. The Inundation flooded us, and in our whole village we have barely enough to feed our children, much less to pay thy noble self.”
Senwosret pulled at one of his large ears. “How am I to feed the priesthood without the people’s support?”
The elder drew up. “Amun-Ra will take care of his own. As men, we must provide for our families. It is the way of Ma’at.”
Ipiankhu leaned forward and whispered to Pharaoh. The royal brows rose, then Senwosret looked meditatively over the group of men. Pharaoh narrowed his eyes and crossed his chest with the crook and flail. “The way of Ma’at is to do as Pharaoh, living forever! commands.”
The elder stepped back and swallowed. “Aye, My Majesty.”
“Pharaoh is merciful, however. I offer you this penalty in exchange for not paying your taxes. The lands you own will become the property of the double crown. You will live there, till the land, and bring it to fruition once the gods see fit to send us a healthy Inundation. For the remainder of the famine, you will pay no taxes. However, once the river returns to normal, forty percent of all your har
vest shall come to me. In perpetuity.”
Cheftu watched the carefully painted faces of the elders. Confusion warred with anger. “My Majesty,” another man said, “we are of the land. What is there for our children to inherit if not our property?”
“You will be of the land, you and your children and your children’s children. You may work and live on the land, but forty percent of everything harvested will come into my coffers. In this way you thank Pharaoh for rescuing you in a time when you surely would have died.”
They were caught. The penalty for evading taxes was slavery. Families could be broken apart and sold. Ipiankhu leaned forward again, whispering to Senwosret.
“Additionally,” Pharaoh said, “I will grant one from your village a special accord to visit in my palace and to serve as a representative of your village here in Avaris.”
Cheftu’s lips twitched. Wily old man! Divide and conquer. Make each man so determined to win this new place that he fails to notice he has sold himself for all time. Was this the beginning of Pharaoh’s economic power? Cheftu wondered. This man? If Senwosret offered this assistance agreement to just half of the nobles, that would account for the size of Pharaoh’s estates in generations to come. Cheftu remained expressionless.
“What say you?”
The elders glanced at each other. “My Majesty, whom will you choose?”
“No one, until I know we have a bargain.”
They huddled, arguing silently. You have no choice, Cheftu thought.
“Aye, we accept, My Majesty,” an older man said. “And I nominate—”
“Tell it to the scribe,” Pharoah cut him off. “One of you will sit at my table tonight. Life, health, and prosperity to you and your beloved ones.”
They backed toward another door as the chamberlain announced the next request.
Cheftu watched with glazed eyes as petitioners came before Pharaoh. Men, women, everyone from the highest priest to the lowest beer maid had the right to seek an audience with Amun-Ra incarnate in Pharaoh.
The courtroom finally cleared of petitioners and the scribe rose, for Pharaoh was going to review the paltry troops immediately afterward. The courtiers shifted, weary from the ritual. “Is there something My Majesty has forgotten?” said Nestor, the envoy.
Cheftu watched Imhotep and Ipiankhu exchange glances. He felt his throat tighten. His thumb brushed over the Aztlantu ring, turned on his finger.
“Have you a petition, foreigner?” the chamberlain asked.
Nestor smiled, a predatory smile, Cheftu thought. “Greetings from Hreesos Zelos,” he said, walking forward, the feathers in his hair trembling with momentum. At the snap of his fingers, the chamber doors opened. The courtiers exclaimed at the parade of gifts.
“Embroidered linens from Arachne, Clan of the Muse!” Nestor cried as vibrant bolts of cloth were unrolled at Pharaoh’s feet.
“Supple furs from Kouvari, Clan of the Horn!” Leopard, zebra, and lion skins were draped on the steps to the dais.
“Secrets of the sea, from Ariadne, Clan of the Wave!” A conch shell the size of a large cat, overflowing with pearls, was laid at Pharaoh’s feet.
“Jewels from the catacombs of Pluto, Clan of the Stone!” A wooden box was handed to Pharaoh. Ipiankhu opened it cautiously, and Cheftu almost whistled. Precious stones of tourmaline, turquoise, sapphire, citrine, and onyx filled the box.
“Delicacies from the Clan of the Vine!” Slaves carrying pointed flasks of alabaster and shell placed them in gold stands around Pharaoh. Baskets of dried fruit were set at his feet.
Nestor paused, smiling. “Now, My Majesty, I present the empire’s most precious mystery, most luscious export.” He chuckled, a hint of the ribald in his tone. “From the Cult of the Snake I gift you with Pythia, a Coil Dancer!”
Flutes began to play, and a woman glided in. Her body was completely covered … in sheer veiling. Hair the color of ripe berries fell to her knees, and Cheftu saw courtiers recoil and touch their amulets.
Not only was she redheaded, her eyes were deep blue. Nestor had erred greatly, Cheftu thought. Though there was no doubting the seduction of her movements, the Egyptians believed that redheads were synonymous with Set, the destroyer god. Set had murdered his brother Osiris, and only through the diligence of Osiris’ wife was the king reassembled and resurrected. In Egyptian eyes, this red-haired dancing woman was kin to a demon. She was a kheft -maiden.
Having blue eyes made her even more alien and demonic.
She whirled, gyrated, spun, and finally flung herself panting onto the furs. Her hair brushed Pharaoh’s foot, and Ipiankhu quickly moved it away. It was customary at the end of gift giving for the receiver to reciprocate. This was how the bulls and Cheftu himself would be transferred. However, Pharaoh was greatly displeased. Would he flout tradition?
“Remove this woman,” Pharaoh commanded tersely. The court tensed visibly, and Nestor’s eyes glittered.
“She is a nymph, a maid, as you say,” he explained.
“Her appearance offends me!”
Nestor snapped his fingers, and the Aztlantu slaves led her away. The envoy stood stiffly, an offended peacock. “In honor of our Becoming Golden ceremony this year, we offer the bounty of our land.”
Ipiankhu leaned forward, whispering in Senwosret’s ear. Cheftu saw Pharaoh’s fingers tighten on his emblems of office. “We gift Hreesos with Apis bulls.”
Nestor turned around, as though looking for them.
“They will be delivered at dawn, before you catch the morning tide,” Senwosret said. His meaning was lost on no one, and the envoy’s face reddened.
“My gratitude,” he said shortly.
“My Majesty also shares with Hreesos our most valuable asset. Our people.”
“We shall endeavor to be gracious hosts.”
Ipiankhu clapped, and the people walked in. Cheftu forced himself to stare straight ahead. He needed to be one of them! A lord and lady, to judge from their clothing, twin boys of ten Inundations, a girl just entering puberty, and an older man, a merchant judging by his un-Egyptian beard. All were thin, fragile. Products of the famine, Cheftu thought. Senwosret spoke. “They too will arrive at your ships at dawn tomorrow.”
Nestor was furious. He stepped closer, and the guards around Pharaoh drew to attention, shifting their weapons slightly. “You shame Egypt and Aztlan,” he hissed. Though the room strained to hear, only the five on the dais did. “These people are sick! They are of no worth to Aztlan.”
Senwosret spoke, his mouth barely moving. “We are in a famine, my lord envoy. Perhaps next time your mighty empire chooses to rape and pillage, you will choose another land?”
Nestor blanched, apparently realizing what he’d said. “Nay, My Majesty, of course not. Egypt has been, and always will be, our sister, raised alongside and loved by the same gods.” Nestor’s left hand played nervously with the edge of his kilt. “If, in a show of good favor, I could have just one guest with a …”
“Title?” Ipiankhu suggested.
The envoy smiled. “A title would be graciousness itself. I am sure My Majesty, in his … wisdom … understands the folly of my returning with such paltry specimens of Egypt. I fear the Council would … wish to speak to you on these shores.”
The threat was clear: hand over someone else or Aztlan would invade.
“Take me, my lord,” Cheftu said.
Nestor turned to him abruptly. “Who are you?”
“He is the foremost mage of our court,” Imhotep said. “My father, your Spiralmaster, would be pleased with his wisdom.”
“Your name?”
“He is Cheftu Necht-mer, first physician of the Eye, beloved of Thoth, chosen of Nephthys, and hearer of the god,” Ipiankhu answered. Cheftu crossed his chest with his arm, a sketchy bow, listening to the vizier craft his tale.
“Why would you give him up, My Majesty?” Nestor asked Senwosret.
“Horus-on-the-Throne has yet to speak.”
The court gasped at Pharaoh
’s words. Cheftu dared not look at the two lords; they carried his fate in their hands. Senwosret clapped, summoning wine, and the clenched group at the dais unbent enough to sip from alabaster cups.
“Step away, my lord envoy,” Senwosret said over his cup. The envoy moved away, and Senwosret turned to Cheftu. “You are Egyptian, a friend to this court. I would know why you choose to be with foreigners.”
“It is my destiny, My Majesty. Written for me by the hands of Thoth and HatHor.”
“I forbid it,” Senwosret said.
“My Majesty’s oath means so little?” Cheftu knew by Imhotep’s hiss that he had gone too far, but by the horns of HatHor, he must get to Aztlan!
Senwosret’s gaze was cutting. “I am Pharaoh, my word is Ma’at. I vowed you any boon.” He gestured with his chin, and the scribe hurried to Nestor’s side. Senwosret spoke to the envoy. “My lord is your gift. Leave the others here. They are ill and need the red and black lands of Kemt to heal them.” Pharaoh’s tone brooked no argument.
Nestor glared at Cheftu. “By dawn, Egyptian lord.”
Senwosret rose, and the group on the dais left in his wake. Surprised that his legs even worked, Cheftu walked down the stone steps.
Dawn stained the sky as Cheftu watched the sails unfurl. The wind snapped the huge purple woven sheets, finely embroidered with a crab, triton, and shell. The ship dwarfed the Egyptian boats. On the other Aztlantu ship men took their places at the oars.
Each of the three ships carried forty bulls; in the event a mishap befell any one ship, the sacred Aztlantu ritual could still be consummated. Though Egypt had promised only one hundred bulls, Ipiankhu had apparently decided it worthwhile to add the other twenty.
The first ship began to move away from the docks. The bow was the same height as the back of the ship, so the rowers sat facing the opposite direction. There was no need to back out of the harbor or turn the massive ship. Sunlight warmed their straining muscles as the rowers pulled, in rhythm to the low beat Cheftu heard from across the waters.
“My lord?” Ipiankhu stood by the rail. He smiled and bowed. “I wanted to wish you a good journey. Are you certain this is what you want?”
Shadows on the Aegean Page 14
