‘Well?’ the King added impatiently. ‘Any tale will do, Goddess. Share your wisdom with me.’
Kiya sat up, remembered her mother’s beautiful face, and began. ‘I would love to tell you a tale, Your Majesty.’ My Brother. ‘There was and there was not...a man who was visited by a god. And the God told him to make out of his own home a ship, for a great flood was coming...’
As Kiya recounted the old Sumerian tale the King listened closely, and when Kiya came to the end a single tear traced a path down his cheek.
‘Many people died in that great flood, did they not?’ Khufu asked.
‘Aye.’
‘The Gods did not help them?’
‘Nay—they helped just the man and his wife, to whom they granted immortality. The rest of the people turned to clay.’ Kiya paused. Her mother had once told her that the job of a storyteller was to cause pain and then to take it away. She had clearly caused the King pain. How was she to ease his mind? ‘My King, I have seen the Great River from above. It is much longer than I could have ever dreamed.’
‘Why do you tell me this, Hathor?’
‘I tell you this because I believe that we are smaller than we know. We are temporary. We are...whispers in the grass. The Gods are mighty, but they care little about us.’ Kiya blinked back a tear, remembering the moment Tahar had first uttered those words to her. ‘Therefore,’ she continued, ‘we must care about each other.’
The King stared at Kiya in wonder. ‘I have never met anyone like you in my life.’
‘I only wish to take away your pain, My King. But I have said too much—’
‘Nay, you speak your mind, and it is a beautiful mind.’ He took her hand in his and pressed his lips to it. ‘But I fear I am still in pain. What else can you tell me?’
What else? Her mother would know what to say. Concubines were trained for such moments. Kiya was not a concubine, however, and nor did she ever wish to be. What she wished was to return to shore, where she might wait for Tahar.
She would not coddle the King nor flatter him, therefore. He was her own half-brother, after all. She would simply tell him the truth. ‘I can tell you that the flood is coming,’ Kiya stated. ‘It will be here in a cycle of the moon. It will be late, but it will come.’
The King’s eyes lit up, then narrowed. ‘You are bold in making such a claim. You may be divine, but there are some things even the Gods cannot know. You overstep.’
‘Your Majesty, you may doubt me, but you cannot doubt the locusts, which swarm on the eastern sides of the dunes but do not fly. And you cannot doubt the breath of wind that has lately begun to whisper its way northward in the deepest part of night.’ Kiya lifted her wig and pulled out the seed that she had discovered in the sand so many days ago. ‘You cannot doubt that the acacia seeds that lay beneath the soil have begun to crack.’ She handed the seed to the King. ‘Hapi comes.’
The King’s mouth dropped open. He lowered his eyes. ‘Forgive me, Goddess,’ he said. ‘It is I who overstep.’ He raised himself upon his knees, then bowed to her. He lifted her hand and put his lips to it. ‘It is clear to me now that you have been sent by the Gods. You are Hathor, and you have come to bless Khemet and take away its pain. You bring beauty and fertility. You bring the flood.’
The King returned the seed to Kiya’s hand and eased her back onto the cushions. She pretended to relax. The King of Khemet, Horus Incarnate, believed her to be a goddess. Was he mad? Perhaps he was simply a man who thought himself a god and believed whatever he liked.
He stroked her wig, then let his hand glide slowly down the length of her back. He pulled her close. ‘Tell me, Hathor, do you believe me to be the incarnation of a god?’ he asked.
He pushed himself against her and a pang of terror catapulted through Kiya’s body. ‘My King, I believe...that you are and you are not.’
‘My darling,’ he said, smiling ruefully. ‘You are rarer than the rarest gem and a thousand times more precious.’
He traced her lips with his fingers and she could feel the warmth of his breath.
‘And to think I wished only to give you my seed.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘Hathor, my Goddess, I shall make you my wife.’
Chapter Thirty
Kiya straightened her wig. She balanced herself on a stack of cushions and peered out through the high window at the throng that had gathered at the end of the dock. The royal herald had just announced her: Hathor Incarnate—the King’s betrothed.
Sighs and whispers rippled through the crowd as the people of the village of Asyut received the unexpected news. The King was to take a third wife—and not just any wife but the Goddess of Love and Abundance reborn. And she was here on this very day, to greet the people of Asyut and grace them with her beauty and love.
Kiya felt nauseous. The henna designs that decorated the sides of her breasts had begun to run, and she was sweating through her white linen tunic. The Goddess of Love and Abundance, indeed.
‘Go, Hathor, your people await,’ urged Neferdula.
My people?
Kiya could not even hear her own thoughts for the blare of trumpets and the thrum of royal drums signalling her arrival.
‘The epitome of beauty and womanhood has graced the House of Horus,’ cried the herald, and it occurred to Kiya that if she delayed any longer he might just promise her arrival would be upon a beam of light.
She imagined it was not King Khufu but Tahar waiting for her on the dock and felt her heart grow light. Then she heard Imhoter’s sobering tone.
‘Why do you make your King wait?’ he called to her from outside the deck house. ‘You are to become Queen soon. You must greet the people of Asyut. You must represent the House of Horus and give them hope.’
Imhoter was the last person Kiya wanted to disappoint, though earlier that day she had all but begged him to release her.
‘But I am an imposter,’ she had explained as Neferdula had lifted a simple linen tunic over Kiya’s head. ‘I am not Hathor but Kiya—a common name for a common woman.’
But the old priest had raised his hairless brow and spoken sternly. ‘Whoever you were before, she is gone. Whatever you wanted before, let it go. You are Hathor now. You are not common.’
‘Nay, you are anything but common,’ Neferdula had said, and Kiya had seen the small woman’s arm muscles flex as she lifted a heavy beaded object resembling a net over Kiya’s head.
The colourful beaded net dress had been settled snugly atop Kiya’s white tunic, accentuating her curves. The dress had felt unusually heavy, and as Kiya had looked down at the beads she’d noticed that some even glimmered in the candlelight.
Neferdula had stood beside Imhoter for a long while, appraising her work. ‘Look at how the gilded beads reflect the golden flecks in her eyes,’ she had commented.
Imhoter had nodded solemnly. ‘There is royalty in you, Hathor, whatever you say, and godliness too.’
‘I fear you are both mistaken,’ Kiya had continued, but it had appeared that the two had ceased to hear her.
‘You belong to Khemet now,’ Imhoter had said before taking his leave. ‘You must bring hope to a dying land.’
Now Kiya looked down at her hands. They were dry and cracked, like Khemet itself. Neferdula’s many salves and oils could not revive them. Her fingers were thin and knobby, the fingernails short, the palms callused. They were not the sort of hands made to dole out hope.
And now they were trembling.
Kiya spied a lily in a vase upon one of the tables. ‘I should like to hold the lily, if I may?’
Neferdula appeared relieved. ‘That is a wonderful idea,’ she said, quickly retrieving the long white flower. She handed it to Kiya, then gripped Kiya’s hand reassuringly. ‘Do not be afraid, Goddess. You shall make their hearts light.’
Kiya nodded and smiled gr
atefully. ‘Thank you, dear Neferdula. You have lightened my own heart.’ Then she stepped through the door.
If she had not been able to hear the farmers’ murmurs she might have believed them to be ghosts. They watched and waited at the end of the dock, wearing their finest wigs.
As instructed, Kiya placed one hand upon the King’s outstretched arm and together they walked slowly across the planks towards the shore, with the royal shade bearers flanking them and the colourful beads of her heavy bead net dress clinking softly with her every move.
The river ended before the dock did. The remainder of the tall wooden structure hovered over a vast swath of cracked mud. As she and the King approached the crowd, Kiya could see it was entirely comprised of farmers—ruddy-faced men and women who worked hard every day, coaxing bounty from the earth. They were the people who made Khemet great, and they studied Kiya with sunken eyes. Their thin, listless bodies seemed to sway in the heat. Kiya glanced between the planks at the dry, barren bottomlands, watered only by the tears of these people’s suffering.
As Kiya and the King neared, Kiya caught sight of a girl standing at the front of the crowd. The little fledgling could not have seen more than ten cycles of the sun, but her bony limbs and gaunt face made her appear much older.
Kiya bent down and handed the girl her flower. ‘A blossom for a blossom,’ said Kiya.
The girl’s pale face lit up with a smile.
‘The flood will come, little one. Do not fear. It is on its way even now.’
The girl reached her hands around Kiya’s neck in an embrace. Kiya held her tightly.
‘Behold Hathor, Mother of the Flood!’ the King said, and the people erupted in cries of exultation.
Kiya could never have imagined that her words could carry such power. Only three months before she had made herself mute, afraid of her own voice. Now it rang out across Khemet like a song of hope.
* * *
And that was how it went. The days passed in a blur of joy and anguish. Dusty villages appeared one after the other as they made their way slowly back up the River, northward towards Memphis. The people of Khemet prostrated themselves before Kiya, believing her a goddess. They reached out to touch her fine dresses, which Neferdula produced as if by magic. They placed their heads in Kiya’s hands and wept.
She tried to console them. She dried their tears and whispered into their ears. ‘Do not despair. Do you see the breeze that tousles the King’s flag? That is Hapi, our precious flood. It whispers to us that it is on its way.’
They were Tahar’s words that she spoke, and every time they escaped her lips her heart ached. She had misjudged him profoundly. She had believed him selfish when in fact he had given her everything he had. His knowledge, his words, his life.
Every day she allowed Neferdula to paint her face and drape her in full regalia and make her into someone she was not. The breasts she had worked so hard to conceal were now often exposed, their only cover two thin straps and the sacred henna designs that Neferdula painted on them with such care.
Slowly Kiya lost her timidity, and forgave herself for the lie she cultivated. If posing as Hathor could give a little girl with an empty belly a ray of hope, then Kiya would pose. She only wished she could find her own ray of hope—that Tahar was alive somewhere, that he was coming for her, that he hadn’t given up.
Every evening the King visited her in her cabin, ebullient with joy. ‘They love me again because of you, Hathor,’ he would say, caressing her cheek. ‘They forgive me because of you.’
‘King, there is nothing to forgive. You have always done what you must—just as I do what I must.’
He seemed mesmerised by her words, by her quiet observations of the world. He circled her like a lion, full of flattery, immune to her indifference. Or perhaps it was her very indifference that spurred him on, for there was nothing she could say or do, it seemed, to repel him.
‘You are my little radish, ripe and lovely,’ he told her, placing golden necklaces about her neck. ‘Your honey skin makes my blood run thick.’
Her mother’s warning echoed in her mind. Clearly the King meant to possess her body as soon as they were wed, and the thought made Kiya sick with dread. She did not wish to join with her half-brother, no matter how much gold or praise he lavished upon her. Khemetian kings often married their sisters, for they were gods and could do as they liked. But Kiya did not wish to be touched by a god. She wished only to return to that moment when Tahar had taken her in his arms and told her that she was safe.
Mercifully, her coupling with the King could not take place before their marriage. It was the law. A Khemetian king could take a concubine whenever he liked, but to take a holy wife was another matter. The King’s body was Khemet’s body, and the parentage of his legitimate progeny must be witnessed and ensured. A king’s child was only royal if conceived after marriage.
For that reason Imhoter and Neferdula kept vigilant watch over both Kiya and the King. Neferdula stayed on Kiya’s designated boat, ensuring that the King’s visits were supervised. And whenever Kiya visited the King, Imhoter stood in the shadows, still as a statue, witnessing all.
‘You shall bear me a son,’ the King said one morning after they had broken their fast.
He stroked Kiya’s belly. They lay side by side against the King’s cushions, the gently rocking ship lulling the King towards slumber.
‘And I shall call the child Khnum Incarnate, Exalted Child of Khnum-Khufu, Mighty Saviour of Khemet.’ The King glanced at the corner of the cabin, where Imhoter had tucked himself into the shadows. ‘What do you think of that name, Imhoter?’
‘It is a fine name, Majesty.’
‘Step out of the shadows, eunuch! By the Gods, I feel I am being haunted by a spirit. And tell me the truth. Do you like the name or not?’
Obediently Imhoter stepped forward, and Kiya thought she could discern a flush of red upon the ancient man’s cheeks. King Khufu had embarrassed him.
‘In truth, I am not fond of it, Majesty.’
‘Seth’s blood—why? What is wrong with it, eunuch?’
The crimson in Imhoter’s cheeks deepened. Kiya longed to silence the King, whose bitingly personal words seemed to have sliced Imhoter’s ka in two.
‘My Lord, the name lacks...subtlety,’ said Imhoter.
After the King had fallen asleep, Kiya joined Imhoter above deck. It was still early, but already the north wind had begun to blow. Imhoter watched the boatmen as they stepped down the mast and took their positions at the oars.
‘Greetings, good priest,’ Kiya said.
‘Good morning, Young Goddess,’ he said, bowing sombrely, though Kiya thought she could detect a glint in his eyes.
‘It appears the wind is not in our favour,’ she observed.
‘Fortunately the flow of the Great River itself is,’ said Imhoter. ‘The royal heralds shall arrive in Memphis before the day is done.’
It was customary for the heralds to travel ahead of the King’s entourage and announce his arrival in each of the villages. In this case the heralds were also tasked with announcing the King’s betrothal.
‘Their job is a happy one,’ Imhoter said. ‘The announcement alone has diverted the people from their suffering. They anxiously await your arrival.’
‘What of the King’s other queens, Imhoter?’ Kiya asked. ‘Tell me about them.’
‘Meritites and Henutsen were betrothed to the King as children. They are much older than you—powerful women, half-sisters of the King. They get along well, and are content to leave their husband to his concubines. I suspect they will treat you as a daughter. You are fortunate. Not all kings’ wives are so amicable.’
‘You have served other kings?’
Imhoter pursed his lips. ‘Indeed I have. I served Khufu’s father, King Sneferu. His wives fought like cats—
’ Imhoter paused, and a smile broke across his face. ‘But I speak too freely with you, Young Goddess. You have made me into a gossip.’
‘If a gossip, then a holy one,’ Kiya said, enjoying the private jest. She felt strangely trusting of the old man—as if she had known him her whole life. His cool, aloof demeanour did not intimidate Kiya as it seemed to do to others, and she delighted in trying to breach his tight-lipped decorum.
‘Will you indulge me but one more indecorous question, Imhoter?’
‘Clearly I do not have a choice.’
‘Did Khufu’s father Sneferu heed your advice as Khufu himself does?’
Imhoter spoke carefully. ‘He did for a time, and then he did not.’
Kiya spoke softly. ‘Forgive me, Imhoter. Did King Sneferu make you a...what you are?’
‘I thought you were going to ask only one indecorous question?’ he said. Then he laughed sadly. ‘It is as you suspect, clever one,’ said Imhoter. ‘Khufu’s father took my manhood.’
‘Will you not tell me how it happened?’
‘One day I will tell you, but not today. It is a long, sad tale and not for the ears of a wife-to-be.’ He looked into Kiya’s eyes. ‘I will tell you this, though: it is ill-advised to cross a king.’
‘Heave to!’ the helmsman yelled, and the vessel lunged forward.
‘Ah! The men have rested well,’ Imhoter observed as the shoreline began to race past them. ‘We shall be within the walls of the palace in no more than seven days.’
That soon? It had taken Kiya and Tahar many, many weeks to reach the southern borders of Upper Khemet. Now, with the help of the Great River, they would be ushered back north in a blur of time. To her home—to Memphis. This time, however, she would not arrive half starving at the docks, searching for scraps. Now she would arrive upon the ship of a king, its blue and white flag flying high, bringing her to the palace dock and into the folds of her new life.
Enslaved by the Desert Trader Page 15
