by Jerry Dubs
Pentu glanced at the sandal and then looked at me.
“I found this sandal in Yehem,” I said, turning the sandal’s toes toward Pentu and, pointing to the worn toe box. “The sandal has this wide strap to cover the toes. But, if I slide a finger beneath the strap, I find that the sole of the sandal is not worn. I believe that the man had lost his toes.”
Pentu, who had stood to examine the sandal, gasped and sank back onto his chair.
“Whose foot fits it?” I asked, for he clearly recognized it.
Pentu drew a deep breath and slowly released it. But he did not speak
“Lord Pentu?” I repeated, raising my free hand and clutching his arm.
“Suti,” Pentu said, putting a warm hand on mine, “let this go. Return to Pharaoh Thutmose and tell him that Kebu did not find Imhotep and Queen Menwi. That is the truth. Remind him that Imhotep is a god. Give him something that he can believe. This,” he reached out to touch the leather sandal, “might lead you to truth, but it will disturb ma’at.”
“The truth will disturb ma’at?” I asked.
“Suti, when I examine patients I am careful to keep my face a confident mask. I impose my will on them, and on their illness. Through words and gestures I align the patients’ beliefs with mine. They ask, will my arm heal? I do not know, Suti. I am not a seer, but I do not tell them that. No, I tell them that they will heal.”
“Forgive me, Lord Pentu, but the healing of an injury, while important to the owner of the arm, is a small thing. It is no more than a pebble dropped into the huge ocean that is ma’at,” I said.
(I was so very young.)
Pentu smiled.
“When Pharaoh Thutmose led his army against the King of Kadesh, did he speak with assurance? Did he tell them that the gods favored them? Did he tell them to have no fear because they would be victorious?”
“Of course,” I said. “But he is a god. He has knowledge of the future.”
“And the King of Kadesh, do you suppose that he said the same things to his men? No, wait,” Pentu held up a hand, stopping my explanation that the King of Kadesh followed a weak god. “When the Asiatics conquered northern Kemet, they defeated our armies. I am sure that the ruler of the Two Lands assured his soldiers that Horus and Amun would lead them to victory.
“All rulers tell their followers what the rulers want them to believe, whether it is the truth or not. That is ma’at, Suti. When the common man and the priests and the merchants and the aristocrats and the generals can all tell each other the same, calming story … that is ma’at.
“The story does not need to be true, it simply needs to be believed.”
“No,” I said, recoiling. “Ma’at is truth, ma’at is honesty.”
“Let the sandal rest, Suti. Give Pharaoh Thutmose a tale that will leave him comfortable in his beliefs. I tell you, Suti, that Pharaoh Thutmose’s beliefs are more dear to him than any truth that you might unearth. Give him a tale that will not disturb the ma’at of Kemet.”
***
I walked in anger and confusion from the house of Pentu. Eventually, I paused in the wide, splashing shadow that fell from the curving fronds of palm trees along the dirt road that led to the barracks.
I would have held tears in my eyes, angered and dismayed by Lord Pentu’s words, but I was too discouraged. Ma’at could not be nothing more than a collection of tales.
I was a disciple of Thoth.
I recorded the truth.
I was sure that truth was the strength of ma’at.
(I was so very young.)
As I stood in the shadow, a naked man passed by leading a donkey, its back hidden beneath bundles of linen. The man raised his head and nodded to me and then resumed his languorous walk. I watched the man and the donkey, their dusky forms outlined by the bright afternoon sun.
I thought: They are real. They are truth. They are part of the weave of ma’at. I see them. I could run over and touch them. It does not matter if I believe in them or not. It does not matter if Pharaoh Thutmose acknowledges them. They are there and they are real.
I understood that different people saw the world differently. And I knew that one’s point of view changed one’s understanding, but I was sure that ma’at reflected a single underlying reality. And ma’at must rest on truth: A common belief in a flying crocodile would not make it real.
Even if Pharaoh Thutmose believed in a flying crocodile, it would not bring one into existence.
Then, I wondered: If Pharaoh Thutmose ordered temple walls painted with flying crocodiles, if he demanded a statue carved as a flying crocodile, would people come to believe that they do exist, or that they had existed, or that they existed in Khert-Neter?
No!
There must be one truth. A rock is a rock whether I believe in it or not.
Rousing myself, I resumed my walk from the wealthy suburb of Waset toward the eastern desert where the army barracks sat along the fading green fringe of the city.
I was determined to remain rooted in the realty of dust and heat and dry air that was the Two Lands. I watched the scuffling stones beneath my feet. I listened to the light creak and groan of the swaying trees, and I smiled at a pair of birds as they chased each other. I paid attention to the feel of the ground beneath my feet and the warmth of Re’s touch on my shoulders. I took deep breaths of invisible air and felt it moving through my nostrils and filling my chest.
This was real. I would dwell here, in the solid reality of the Two Lands.
And then, despite my intentions, my mind took leave of my body.
My thoughts returned to Yehem. I reconsidered the abandoned chariots, and I retraced the tracks in the desert. My thoughts sniffed at the smoky darkness of Seth’s Cave and saw the heavy flesh draped over Ahset’s lost ka. They marveled at the easy transformation of First Priest Puimre into the god Ipy and at Lord Useramen’s occasional conversion into an owl. With guilty eagerness, my memory recreated the garden in Men-Nefer and the soft breath of Queen Merti as she confided in me. Reluctantly, my thoughts took to the river and listened once more to Nakht describing his discovery of the approaching darkness of day.
When my thoughts returned to my body, I discovered that I had walked past the barracks.
I stopped and looked at the expanse of desert that stretched out in front of me. Recognizing that my body had wandered without direction at the very time I was insistent on directing my every action, I tilted my head back and laughed.
I thought: I cannot control even my own thoughts or my feet.
Turning to retrace my steps to the barracks, I saw an acacia tree, its green limbs spread upward, arms in prayer. I stared at the tree for a moment, assuring myself of its reality.
The acacia is the tree of life, possessed by Iusaaset, grandmother of all the gods.
I thought: She will bless me with her wisdom.
Head bowed, I crossed the road and settled myself beneath the holy tree.
Crossing my legs, I rested my hands on my knees, and, satisfied that my body did not require my attention, I closed my eyes.
I told myself: I will sit here until I understand.
***
Iusaaset took my thoughts in hand and led me to a high plateau where I could look down on the vastness of the Two Lands.
I saw a herd of wild horses moving chaotically across the valley below me. A rider approached, then another and another. The riders were the gods, and the wild horses were the people of the Two Lands. The gods rode among them, directing them toward calm water and green pastures.
And the order the gods imposed was ma’at.
But from this distance, I saw that ma’at could take a different form. The gods could nudge the people of the Two Lands to an orchard instead of a pasture, or to the rushing waters of the river Iteru instead of a placid lake. And still it would have been ma’at because the horses would have shared the new direction. Because they would not have seen the other destinations, they would have believed that this was their one true destiny.
It would have been ma’at, but a different ma’at.
Pentu’s words that ma’at was nothing more than a story shared by all were less threatening now. I saw that ma’at could be the story of calm water and pastures and it would be true. Or ma’at could describe orchards and rushing water and it would still be true.
And that truth was imposed not by the river or the pastures but by…
“Scribe, are you alive?”
Iusaaset took her leave, the plateau faded from my imagination, and I opened my eyes in frustration.
***
(Hear me! I had been on the verge of understanding something vast and amorphous. As if looking into a bowl of water, I had seen both my own insubstantial reflection and, magnified by the transparent liquid, each pore of the clay that formed the vessel. I understood for that moment that reality is a reflection of my own thoughts, shaped and tempered by the jostling of the million competing kas of the Two Lands. But, alas! — the voice of my charioteer dragged me back to the desert at the edge of Waset. The understanding that had danced at the fringe of my mind turned to smoke as ephemeral as the mist that rises from the morning river.)
***
“Pairy, Turo,” I said looking up at the charioteers who stood before me.
“Your legs are numb, aren’t they?” Pairy said, offering his arms to help me stand.
“We found him,” Turo said, his weight moving from leg to leg.
“Sometimes when I sleep on my side, when I wake my arm feels like it is dead,” Pairy said, tugging on my arms and bringing me to me feet.
“The man with the missing toes,” Turo continued.
I shook my legs in turn, glancing at my own feet and the ten toes that dwelt there.
“You found him?” I said, turning to Turo as the words penetrated the fading fog of my dream. “The assassin? But he is dead.”
“We learned his name,” Turo said.
“And where he was,” Pairy added.
“Who was he?” I asked.
“His name was Thanuny,” Turo said.
“His toes were crushed by Lord Imhotep,” Pairy said. “At least that’s the story he told.”
“It happened seven years ago,” Turo said.
“Pharaoh Hatshepsut was still alive,” Pairy said. “Thanuny was a charioteer, like us.”
“They threw him out when he was injured,” Turo said.
“Well, he was re-assigned,” Pairy said.
“Lord Imhotep took his toes?” I said, trying to organize the rush of information.
The charioteers nodded. “He smashed his foot. No one remembered why,” Pairy said.
“It was seven years ago,” Turo explained.
“And what happened to him?” I asked.
“He became a bodyguard,” Turo said.
“For Queen Satiah,” Pairy said.
And I understood Pentu’s warning.
I Anger the Queen
My left leg twitched with impatience as the servant boy named Ramose tied the belt of my kilt for the third time. The involuntary movement reminded me of Lord Amenhotep’s incessant fidgeting, and I wondered if my master had known that Thanuny was under the command of Queen Satiah.
Was that the news carried in the letter he had given me to deliver to Lord Useramen?
Then I shook my head. Thanuny’s body had not been discovered when Lord Amenhotep had written to Lord Useramen.
They were hiding some other secret.
I looked down at the servant boy. Ramose tugged the knot tight and measured the length of the tails that fell from the knot.
“They look beautiful,” I said.
“The one on the inside must hang lower than the other. By the width of my hand,” Ramose said. “And they can’t be twisted. They must hang straight. Queen Satiah has a keen eye. She notices things like that.”
I shifted my legs to raise my hip. “Is that better?”
“Yes,” Ramose said. “But you can’t stand like that all the time.”
“No,” I agreed. “But I can keep moving so that the tails aren’t hanging still. That way Queen Satiah will not notice if they are not perfectly aligned.”
“I guess that would work,” Ramose said, rocking back on his heels and rising.
“Would you please call the guard who is going to escort me to the queen?” I said.
“I have to smell your hands first,” Ramose said.
“Smell my hands?”
“They need to be scented with myrrh. It’s because the prince died and queen Satiah wants the air in her chamber to be pure for his ka. She believes that myrrh will attract his ka and she can comfort him,” Ramose said as I offered my hands for inspection.
The servant sniffed and then frowned. “Did you wash them with the water in that basin?” He pointed to an alabaster bowl on a side table. When I shook my head in answer, Ramose said, “Come, please,” and led me to the table.
After a step Ramose turned and pointed to my leather pouch. “That must smell like myrrh, too.”
Stifling a smile, I lifted the leather bag for the boy to sniff.
“Pew! That smells like feet,” Ramose said, putting a perfumed hand to his nose. “What is in it?”
I withdrew the dirty sandal.
“Thanuny’s sandal,” Ramose said.
“You recognize it?” I asked.
“Of course,” Ramose said, pointing to the wide leather band that covered the front of the sandal. “He was missing three toes. The strap hid the deformity.”
“But how did you know him?” I asked.
“He is one of Queen Satiah’s bodyguards. He used to be here all the time. He went with her to Men-Nefer, but he didn’t return with her. I haven’t seen him since she returned.” The boy looked from the sandal to my face. “Why do you have Thanuny’s sandal?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope that Queen Satiah can tell me.”
***
I had never been inside those grim temples where Thoth prepared the bodies of the dead,, but I imagined that they would be more cheerful that Queen Satiah’s chambers.
The room’s two tall windows were covered with several layers of black-dyed linen which made the window openings darker than the stone walls around them. Painted with colorful scenes of the river Iteru — fish jumping beneath a fisherman’s widespread net, ferocious hippos standing with open mouths as approaching hunters raised spears overhead, graceful sailboats crossing the water in front of a scrim of green papyrus stalks and distant, red mountains — the walls surprised me. I expected scenes of the gods, of royalty being served, of dancers and musicians and feasts, not paintings of life.
I paused inside the doorway while the guards replaced the wooden screen that blocked the entrance, casting another layer of gloom over the room.
Waiting with bowed head, I closed my eyes and tested the air with my nose. It felt thick, heavy with a burden of incense and burning oil and — I cocked my head in confusion — spoiled milk?
A minute passed and then a second, and I began to wonder if I was alone in the room. Listening closely as I held my own breath, I heard the passage of air through pinched nostrils. And, now, from another direction, a long sigh.
Opening my eyes, I raised my head.
Faint orange-red glows from the wall to my right announced the presence of incense bowls. A dancing pale light to my left marked the shrouded flame of a shallow oil lamp. Ahead a shadow shifted and I heard another sigh, this one choked with tears.
Kneeling toward the sad sigh, I said, “Greetings, Queen Satiah. Long life!” As soon as I spoke the words I regretted them. My remorse was rewarded with a whimpered cry from the shadows.
“I beg forgiveness, Queen Satiah. My ka mourns the great loss the Two Lands has suffered, but…”
“Don’t even say the words!” the queen said, her voice as fragile as dried papyrus.
I lowered my head.
“Why are you disturbing me?” Queen Satiah asked, in a plaintive voice that could have
been addressing absent gods instead of the lone scribe who knelt before her darkened throne.
“Your husband, Lord Pharaoh Thutmose, third of the name, sends his everlasting love,” I said.
When she did not respond, I continued, “Our lord has won a great victory in Megiddo.”
“I know that. And I know that he loves me. But his victory didn’t save Prince Amenemhat. His love didn’t protect our child, did it?”
I told myself: I am not a priest; I must not offer assurance.
Yet I heard my voice say, “Born a god, Prince Amenemhat has joined his eternal family, Queen Satiah. His ka is young and strong and filled with love for you. Our days here in the Two Lands are a single breath compared to the never-ending life that we will enjoy in Khert-Neter. I know that the promise of holding your son in Khert-Neter will not reduce the pain of his loss, but Queen Satiah, Prince Amenemhat waits for you. He will always wait for you. He will be yours throughout eternity, his love as reliable as the arrival of Re, his lips as soft as Shu’s spring breath.”
I heard a heavy snort, a chuff that presaged tears and then muffled cries.
As I waited for her pain to pass, I listened for the heavy footsteps of guards, expecting to be dragged again from the chambers of a queen.
After a moment, the pained voice spoke again. “As soft as Shu’s breath. Yes, his lips, his skin, his hair, all as soft as air. You speak the truth. Who are you?”
“I am Suti, a simple scribe.”
“You are the first to speak to my heart, simple scribe,” she said, her voice growing strong.
“I feel your pain strongly as I feel the heat of Re. But I know that if I was nearer to Re, that the heat would be unbearable. I see your pain, but I cannot understand it, Queen Satiah. Your anguish is beyond my ability to sense it,” I said.
“No one can,” she said. “That is true. Do you hear that?” she said loudly, speaking to unseen attendants. “This scribe knows that he cannot understand my sorrow. It is too great for anyone to comprehend!”
