‘What fate?’
The man did not answer. With a quick nod he dismissed the guards, who exited through the curtained archway onto the outer deck.
‘Who are you?’ Kiya growled.
‘I am Imhoter,’ said the man.
He stepped from the shadows and bowed low. His long robe was as white as Khufu’s tomb. He held its wide sleeves together in a priestly manner, concealing his hands. Kiya observed the finely embroidered skin of a leopard, the symbol of a high priest, adorning the robe’s thick edging. The only part of his body that that was not covered by cloth was his head, which was so well-shaven it shone like a copper bowl even in the somnolent shadows.
‘Where am I?’
‘Look around,’ said Imhoter. ‘Where do you think you might be? Think hard, for the owner of this ship does not fancy a fool.’
Kiya observed the richly decorated room. Feeling the holy man’s eyes upon her, she sought clues to the occupant’s identity. He must be quite highborn indeed, she thought, to be able to afford such finery. Kiya knew nothing about the Khemetian aristocracy, except that they lived in palaces and villas and floated about the streets of Memphis in litters borne by slaves.
‘If I guess incorrectly will you let me go?’ she asked.
‘An interesting question. Already you show cleverness,’ said Imhoter. ‘But, nay, I will not let you go.’
Kiya felt as if she were being put to a test that she did not wish to pass. Still, she would not have the priest believing her a fool.
Her eyes scanned the cabin’s adornments, searching for clues. On one table she noticed a gold pitcher, displaying a hieroglyphic relief. Kiya could not read hieroglyphs, but she recognised two of the symbols easily enough: a sedge plant and a bee. The symbols of Upper and Lower Khemet.
Next to the pitcher, a platter of finely glazed faience pottery held a pile of kebabs. Kiya’s mouth watered as she admired the succulent cubes of recently cooked mutton and drank in their earthy scent. Since the beginning of the drought only the most landed nobles had been able to afford to consume meat. Kiya spied plates that held other meats—duck and perhaps gazelle. Clearly the owner of the boat possessed land.
Behind her she beheld a beautiful tapestry. It depicted two women: one with the head of a cobra, the other with the head of a vulture. They were the Goddesses Wadjet and Nekhbet—the celestial guardians of Upper and Lower Khemet, the Ladies of the Two Lands. It seemed safe to say that the owner of the boat was part of the Khemetian government, probably quite high up. The King’s vizier, perhaps? Or some very powerful nomarch?
It wasn’t until she beheld the small wooden statue of a falcon-headed man that she realised just how high up.
‘I am on King Khufu’s ship?’ Kiya asked, disbelieving.
‘That’s a good girl,’ said the priest. ‘In fact you are in King Khufu’s living quarters. His sleeping quarters are on another ship. You see, the Great River was too low for the royal barge. I think these smaller vessels serve admirably, though, don’t you?’
The priest was speaking to her as if she had been ferried about on ships of gold her entire life. What could she possibly say in response? Yes, they are quite nice, good priest, though it would be well if the cushions were a bit larger.
Hem! Never in her life had Kiya beheld a space like this, let alone been allowed into it. She wondered what Tahar would think of this boat and felt her throat tighten.
‘This is a very nice vessel, yes,’ Kiya said carefully. ‘It is certainly worthy of His Royal Highness, King Khufu, Lord of the Two Lands.’ She was not sure if she had embellished enough so she added, ‘Horus Incarnate, Keeper of Khemet, He of Sedge and Bee, long may He reign.’
The priest nodded reverently, but she thought she could detect a slight smile dancing faintly across his lips. ‘I am the King’s Advisor and Holy Seer, though I admit that I have not seen you in any vision.’
The priest was unusually tall and exuded strangeness, as if he had come from another world, and yet there was something familiar about him.
‘Am I a prisoner?’ Kiya whispered.
‘Far from it,’ he said.
She straightened herself and spoke with firmness. ‘Well, there must be some mistake. I am not royal. I am not even highborn. Good priest, I do not belong here.’
‘Speak no more, silly woman. Of course you belong here. You were chosen by the King himself.’
The priest seemed to be floating across the room towards her.
‘The Gods have set you upon a path far more important than whatever path you travelled before,’ he explained.
He stopped just inches from where Kiya stood, and she had to tilt her head to see all of him. There he was, looming above her like the spectre of a god.
‘In a few short hours you will break bread with the King of Khemet. In this very room.’
What? Kiya felt herself grow dizzy. To balance herself, she grasped the holy man’s arm. This couldn’t be. She needed to return to Meemoo and her grain. She needed to make camp and a fire. Something to signal to Tahar if he should come for her.
What if Tahar should come for her?
The priest placed his cool, soft hand on her arm. ‘Do not fear for your beast or any of your possessions. They are being cared for.’
Kiya gazed up at the holy man’s impassive face. This could not be happening. Tahar might still be alive. Even now he might be on his way. If he arrived upon Abu and did not find her, what would he think? Perhaps he would simply give up. Or, worse, he would comb the island in search of her and instead find the tips of soldiers’ spears. And when they noticed Tahar’s Libu scar? What then? They would surely place him in bonds—that was if they did not simply slay him on sight.
‘Whoever he is, Hathor, you must let him go now,’ the priest said, reading Kiya’s mind. ‘The next few hours will be the most important of your life. You must not speak to the Living God unless he speaks to you. You must never turn your back to him—not even if you have been dismissed. I pray that you will not be dismissed, however.’
‘Dismissed? What do you mean?’ Kiya’s skin prickled.
‘I mean only that you should try to win the King’s favour. Many have endeavoured; all have failed. You will likely fail. But let us not speculate. Only the Gods know what is meant to be. That is all I will say.’
A perfectly manicured hand poked out from under his sleeve. He reached for a bell and rang it. Seconds later a small woman stood in the doorway. She wore a plain white tunic and a striking black wig that framed her face and accentuated her large brown eyes. They stared at Kiya in wonder, then quickly looked at the floor.
‘This is Neferdula,’ explained Imhoter. ‘She is a gifted artist whose job it is to paint the face of the King. She will also paint your face.’
The woman bowed.
‘Neferdula will groom you for your encounter. She will bathe you and clothe you and anoint you properly. She will also explain how you should comport yourself. You must do as she says. Do you understand?’
Kiya nodded.
‘Now I will leave you to begin,’ Imhoter said, nodding to Neferdula. ‘It takes time to create a goddess—though I must say you have quite a remarkable start.’
Kiya was stunned. A goddess? She was a beggar, a nobody. A boy. Was the priest in his right mind?
‘Excuse me, good priest, but do you mean that the King wants to break bread with me?’
Imhoter lifted an eyebrow. ‘He wishes to break bread with Hathor, Goddess of Love and Abundance, Mother of the Flood. Do you understand?’
Kiya flushed. So she was to be an imposter once again. She felt dizzy. She could hide amongst tomb workers and disappear into the streets of Memphis. But to pretend before the Living God...? This was a ruse she could not sustain. She did not even know how to address him. She did not how to move or sp
eak or even breathe in his royal presence.
She found Neferdula’s eyes. Do not fear, they told Kiya. I will make you into Hathor.
‘Yes, I understand.’
Kiya felt a rush of gratitude towards Neferdula, followed by a pang of longing for Tahar. What if she did not wish to be made into Hathor? What if she wished to return to a certain oasis, deep in the desert? What if what she really wanted was to strip off all her disguises and curl her body into a certain desert trader’s big embrace?
Naked. Playing the role of herself.
‘The King will arrive at sunset,’ said Imhoter, closing the door to the cabin. ‘Try to please him, Hathor. I dare say the future of Khemet is in your hands.’
‘But why? How?’
‘If you are as clever as you seem, Goddess, then you shall see. You shall see.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘Come closer, Goddess,’ King Khufu said.
His voice was higher pitched than she would have guessed. It clanged against her ears like copper upon granite.
‘Let me see you in the light.’
He was perhaps twice Kiya’s age, but unusually well-preserved. His pleated white wrap was tied smartly about his waist, its front knot concealed by a square blue sash. Above the sash small ripples of naked flesh gradually expanded into a solid brown chest. Several golden necklaces lay heavily upon that swath of flesh, including a looped ankh cross inlaid with beautiful carnelian stones. His shoulders were broad, and they extended into thick upper arms adorned with bracelets.
Kiya took a deep breath, then stepped out of the shadows. She kept her eyes on the ground, careful not to trip upon the soft linen gown that dragged luxuriantly behind her. Neferdula had taken the garment from her own closet and added embellishments of moonstone and turquoise along the seams.
‘It is just a lounging dress,’ Neferdula had told Kiya kindly. ‘I will not miss it.’
Neferdula’s demeanour had changed once she had set upon the task of painting Kiya. With the concentration of an artist Neferdula had dipped her paintbrushes into tiny cups containing the colours of the earth: red, brown, green and gold. Kiya had noticed tiny golden flakes inside the cup of gold.
‘Yes, that is real gold,’ Neferdula had said flatly, ‘so that you may sparkle before the King.’
Neferdula had scolded Kiya several times for not holding her position, and had cursed when one of her painted spirals had come out as oblong instead of round. After many hours of effort, Neferdula had dabbed a sweet-smelling resin upon Kiya’s neck. She had held a brass mirror before Kiya and proclaimed simply, ‘You are my best work.’
Kiya had not recognised herself in the reflection. The black lines encircling her eyes made them seem both larger and deeper somehow, and her skin exuded its own special light. Her long, luxuriant wig and ruby-red lips completed the vision, which was nothing like how Kiya really looked. She was, Kiya reluctantly admitted, quite beautiful.
As Kiya approached the King now he set his golden goblet aside. His eyes grew wide. ‘I did not think it was possible for you to be more beautiful. Neferdula has outdone herself.’
‘I am honoured, My King,’ Kiya said with assurance, but her hands were shaking and she could not control her breaths. She was in the presence of the Living God. She was not prepared for this. She was not worthy of this.
She dropped to her knees as Neferdula had instructed and bowed her head.
The King rushed to her side and lifted her gently by the arm. ‘That is not necessary, My Goddess. We are alone. We can dispense with ceremony. Besides, I should be the one kneeling before you.’
Kiya stared in wonder at the man who held Khemet in the palm of his hand, who had built the most glorious tomb the world had ever known, whose ka was so exalted it was said that he whispered to the Gods.
And yet he was just a man.
The King reached for the pitcher and poured Kiya a goblet of wine. ‘What is that sweet smell you wear? Lily? Myrrh?’
‘Forgive me, My Lord, I do not know.’
‘I think it is something exotic,’ said the King. ‘Or perhaps it is just...you.’ He handed her the goblet. ‘When the Gods told me to come to Abu I had no idea I would find Hathor Incarnate here. Now I see their plan more clearly than ever before.’
The King took his own goblet and clinked it against hers and they drank.
‘Tell me, Hathor, am I pleasing to you?’
Kiya was so surprised by the question that she almost spat the tart liquid upon the floor. Am I pleasing to you? Was that what he had asked? Was that what the Living God wanted to know? Perhaps Neferdula had cast some strange spell upon Kiya’s ears. Or maybe she had inhaled too much incense and the smoke had clouded her mind.
The King studied her, earnestly awaiting her answer.
‘I do not know you,’ she said at length, ‘so I cannot yet say.’
The King raised a single brow, then looked away. She realised suddenly that she had insulted him.
‘Apologies, My King, I did not mean what I said—’
‘Of course you meant it,’ the King said. Then a smile of delight broke across his cleanly shaven jaw. He took a loaf of bread from a platter and divided it in two, giving one half to Kiya. ‘And it is exhilarating to experience such honesty. You do not know me, so how do you know if I please you or not? Ha! It appears that you are as wise as you are beautiful. But, tell me, am I pleasing to your eyes?’
The King filled his chest with air. He looked at her sidelong.
Kiya stared at the King in confusion. Did the Lord of the Two Lands really want to know if she found him...appealing? She took a bite of her bread and chewed, trying to delay. She needed to get this answer right.
He was softer than Tahar, and rounder. His chest muscles were not as well defined, and nor did his stomach end like Tahar’s did in that fascinating ripple of strength. Still, the King was solidly built. His wide chest and thick, powerful arms were not unappealing. His eyes had been kohled and his body shaved in the fashion of highborn Khemetian men.
Kiya chose her words carefully. ‘You are pleasing to my eye. You are both strong and soft.’
‘Hie!’ the King shouted, laughing. ‘Your honesty moves me.’
He finished the bread and swallowed the contents of his wine glass. Then he took Kiya’s arms and guided her down onto a large cushion. ‘And what think you of my face?’ he asked. ‘Pray, be specific...’
Kiya studied King Khufu’s face as he rested it against the large, soft cushion. ‘Your nose is like ancient King Sneferu’s Second Pyramid of Stone.’
‘How so?’
‘It is bent.’
‘Hazah!’ The King chortled. He grazed his fingers lightly across her arm. ‘What else?’
‘The shape of your face is as Thoth’s—pale and round and full.’
‘It is indeed,’ he said.
He patted her wig, placing a portion of her long black hair behind her ear. His eyes lingered uncomfortably on the length of her neck.
‘Your eyes are narrow, but they shine brightly,’ she added.
‘Do they?’
He moved his body closer to hers. He was lying so close to her now she began to fear what he might do next.
‘And your lips...’ Kiya paused. She thought of Tahar’s lips. So smart and well-defined. So certain. If she had not been discovered by the King she might be kissing those lips right now.
‘What about my lips?’ urged the King.
His arm reached around her waist and Kiya caught her breath. Your lips are pale and lifeless. They are nothing like Tahar’s.
‘Your lips are sacred. They confer with the Gods,’ she said.
‘Hem,’ said the King.
Kiya could feel him stiffen.
He pulled his hand from her w
aist and sat up. ‘My lips have not conferred with the Gods for a long while, for if they had the Great River’s blessed flood would be flowing across the land.’
Kiya felt her limbs relax. Her words had diverted the King from his path of lust. Imhoter would not be pleased, but Kiya was relieved.
‘Aye, the drought is a terrible hardship.’
‘Hardship?’ The King growled. ‘It threatens my reign. My very survival!’ He let out a breath. ‘I am sorry, dear Hathor. It is just—the drought makes me cross.’
‘I can only imagine how you must feel,’ Kiya said, her visions of a benevolent king shattering into a million shards. While the people of Khemet starved, King Khufu worried only about his reign! She sat up and drew her legs close. ‘Such threats should stay where they belong,’ she added, ‘in tales.’
‘Aye,’ said the King, lying back on the pillows. He ran his finger along Kiya’s arm, making her shiver. ‘Do you know many tales, Hathor?’
‘Yes, My King.’
‘Then tell me one of them. Tell me one and ease my weary mind.’
Kiya searched her mind. She had heard many tales, but never before had she actually told one. If only she were like her mother, who had always had a tale upon her lips worthy of a king’s ears.
In that instant Kiya grasped a truth so profound and shocking that she thought she might just sink through the floor of the King’s floating palace. Her mother had been King Sneferu’s concubine, and this man was King Sneferu’s legitimate son. She had to stop herself from laughing aloud. I am this man’s half-sister.
Careful not to stare, she stole another glance at His Majesty’s face. Though she did not share his bent nose and rounded profile, there was something in the shape of his eyes that matched her own—at least as they had appeared when Neferdula had held the mirror to her painted face.
This man and I share the same father.
Kiya felt her limbs grow cold. What had Imhoter told her? He wishes to break bread with Hathor, Goddess of Love and Abundance, Mother of the Flood. If Kiya was to be half as clever as Imhoter believed, she knew she could not reveal her true identity to the King. The fragility of his pride told her that his disillusionment would quickly turn to wrath. Still, it was clear that he meant to bed her—and she could not allow that to happen either. Royal brothers and sisters often married, but it was well known that they did not share the same bed.
Enslaved by the Desert Trader Page 14
