And for that she should be happy. Nay, she should be ecstatic. She had fulfilled every Khemetian girl’s fondest dream. She had captured the heart of a king! And not merely as a concubine; she would soon be elevated to queen. Queen! She would enjoy power and status and endless wealth. No more scratching her existence from the dirty streets. She would dine on mutton and bathe herself in milk and bedeck herself with jewels.
Why, then, did she feel so poor? Why was her most prized possession still the acacia seed she kept hidden beneath her wig? She retrieved it now and fingered its glossy shell. It had worn thin from so much handling. Soon its cottony pith would be all that was left.
And that was as well, for she needed to forget him. She needed to purge his memory from her mind.
Still, every day she found herself wishing she could go back in time. To the oasis pool, to the cave, to the wide-open plain. Anywhere she might find him—his strong, confident hands, his curious smile, his eyes slaying her soul like daggers. He had shown her things she would have never believed real—visions beyond her wildest dreams—and she wished to see them all over again, with him by her side.
But mostly she wished to see his face.
It was such a good face. So angular and strong. So certain. And those eyes... She would prefer the lustrous sparkle of those eyes to the sheen of any jewel.
‘We are as actors in a feast-day drama, My Young Goddess,’ Imhoter said as he stared at the passing shore. ‘We must fulfil our roles. Already you have given the people of Khemet the performance of a lifetime. You have uplifted their hearts and filled them with hope. Soon you shall become the greatest Queen Khemet has ever known. The storytellers will sing of you and the scribes will write your story on many scrolls. If only—’
‘If only what?’
‘May I now speak indecorously?’ Imhoter asked.
‘You may always speak truths to me,’ said Kiya.
‘If only you are able to fully embrace your role as Queen,’ Imhoter said, gripping her in his gaze. ‘Whoever he is, you must cast him from your mind.’
‘I have no idea of whom you speak,’ Kiya said defensively.
Imhoter lifted a perfectly shaved eyebrow until it wrinkled with accusation.
‘It seems I can hide nothing from you, Holy One.’ Kiya sighed.
‘Once again, your cleverness serves you. But are you clever enough to know what you must forget?’
‘I am trying to forget him—but it is impossible, I fear.’
Imhoter watched her closely. ‘You must try harder. You must be selfless. You must care for the people of Khemet more.’
Kiya noticed that Imhoter had left out the notion of caring for the King himself.
The helmsman shouted another order and the oarsmen slowed. They were nearing a village. Kiya could see ribbons of smoke stretching from a dozen fires in the distance. Along the shore she spotted a group of children. They were trying in vain to keep pace with the royal boats. Kiya waved to them and they jumped and shouted gleefully before tumbling upon the dry ground in exhaustion.
‘Is that not enough?’ asked Imhoter. ‘To bring joy into the hearts of young ones? To embody their aspirations? As Queen, you shall represent what makes this land great. Everything that Khemet is, you shall be.’
If Khemet is great it is its people, not their Queen, who make it so, Kiya thought.
She turned the seed over and over with her fingers. When she was younger she would sometimes take her night’s rest upon the soft grasses that fringed the Great River. She would stare up at the sky in wonder, imagining it to be a great mirror of the earth. Its celestial river flowed in a milky cloud, and she was one of the tiny points of light sleeping at its side.
Back then she’d had no idea where the Great River began or ended. Now she had seen it with her own eyes. It was much longer than she could even imagine. She had seen it. Thanks to him.
‘Might I travel to foreign lands as Queen?’
‘A queen of Khemet may travel as much as she likes. She may see the world, if she so chooses.’
‘I should like to see the world,’ she mused.
The shore rushed past them in a blur of colour, and Kiya imagined herself on a royal expedition. She was combing across the land, seeing wondrous sights. Searching for Tahar, wishing he were by my side.
‘The Dark Sea, for example. I should like to explore it. And beyond it to the Lands of the Grass.’
Imhoter seemed to read her thoughts. ‘I speak to you for your own good, dear Hathor. I see how you resist the King. You are unable to let him into your heart. Know this: a person departed is but a hollow statue, beautiful and unchanging. Over time their features fade and we forget their faults. I suspect that this man you hold on to so tightly with your heart was not perfect. Or did he descend from the realm of the Gods?’
‘Nay, he was not perfect.’
What had Tahar’s last words been, exactly? I wish for you to be free from such an evil man. If it had not been Chief Bandir who had asked for her hand but some kindly Nubian prince would Tahar have still set her free? Or would he have sold her as he’d planned, his conscience mollified by the certainty of her safety?
‘You have a choice before you,’ said Imhoter. ‘Let the man you pine for go and enjoy the life of a queen. Or keep your lost love in your heart and spend your days in misery.’
It seemed that Imhoter understood Kiya better than she understood herself. She was putting her desire for one man—a man she wasn’t sure was even alive—above her own destiny.
Had Tahar really loved her as she did him? She could never be sure. The only thing that was certain was that soon she would be elevated to a position that she would retain even in death. To the level of the Gods. She owed her life to Khemet now, and to its mighty King. The small prejudices of her heart were insignificant. They were trifles—tiny points of light that became lost in that great, milky river of the sky.
She held out her hand and let the seed drop into the current.
Goodbye, Tahar. I will never forget you.
Chapter Thirty-One
There it was: the third serpent. She had known it was coming, for that was the way of harbingers—whether in storytellers’ tales or on priests’ papyrus scrolls: they always came in threes. The only difference was that this was not a tale. This was Kiya’s wedding day. And the third serpent was not alive. It was made of gold and it sat upon the crown of the man who, in a few short hours, would become her husband.
Kiya concealed herself at the rear of the great audience hall, peering from behind the curtains as the King made his royal entrance. He stepped out onto the long blue carpet and the crowd went silent. The drumbeats began and he kept pace with them—each beat a single footfall. He wore ritual leather sandals upon his feet, and a simple white wrap about his waist. A golden sapphire and turquoise necklace hung about his neck, forming a collar so large he was veritably clad in its brilliant stones.
It was his dazzling crown, however, that seemed to elevate him to the realm of the Gods. Cased in a red helmet, the imposing headpiece was tall and white, with a conical tip that stretched to the heavens. A spiralling red coil protruded from the helmet and a golden cobra—the fabled ureaus—reared up from the crown’s base.
The imposing gilded serpent invested the King with a latent power that seemed to mesmerise everyone who viewed him. With his crook and flail in hand, the soft, imperfect man who doted on Kiya and marvelled at her every word had been transformed. He was majestic and mysterious, hard and commanding, and every inch a king.
The drummers thrummed their steady beat as His Majesty walked between the pillars. The hundreds who had gathered gasped and whispered as they beheld their resplendent monarch. At length Khufu climbed the dais and stood before his throne, observing his flock.
The royal herald’s voice resounded across
the immense pillared space. ‘Behold Horus, Son of Sneferu, Lord of the Two Lands, King Khufu the Magnificent.’
The King lifted his crook and each of the hundreds of finely dressed guests dropped to their knees in silent obeisance.
‘Rise,’ the King said, and all the souls returned to standing. A servant replaced the King’s crook and flail with a goblet of wine. The King raised the golden chalice in the air with both hands. ‘Let us rejoice, for today I shall marry!’
The crowd erupted in cheers. The King drank a deep draught, then took his seat upon the high throne. A long line of well-wishers rapidly assembled upon the royal carpet before him. Their arms overflowed with gifts: garlands of flowers, bowls of spices, small elegant boxes containing jewels.
The ritual presentation of gifts began. The King’s assistants announced each gift-giver’s name and also the nature of the gift he presented, while the onlookers oohed and aahed. After its formal presentation and description, each gift was placed on a display table for all to behold. There were jars full of honey, barrels of natron, and shards of beautiful stained glass. There were baskets full of Sumerian frankincense so potent that Kiya could smell its earthy scent from where she stood. There was even a trained monkey, who drew applause and laughter when he demonstrated his amazing ability to braid a woman’s hair.
The King stroked his long, ceremonial black beard and accepted his subjects’ offerings with pompous amusement. One after another the people came, kissing the ground before him, pouring out their adulations, presenting their gifts.
‘What a happy day!’ they exclaimed. ‘For the greatest King of all time is to be married to the Mother of the Flood. The Gods smile upon us all.’
Presently a richly bejewelled man arrived, followed by three plainly dressed young women. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, bowing deeply. ‘I bring you help for the royal kitchen.’
‘You are too generous, Ranofer,’ Khufu told the highborn man. ‘They will be much appreciated by the cooks.’
Kiya watched with open-mouthed horror as the women were escorted to the table and told to stand where the other gifts were being displayed. Could it be that the King’s highborn guests were giving the King slaves? As gifts?
She felt a gentle hand upon her arm. ‘Come, Blessed Hathor,’ said Imhoter. ‘Spying is unseemly for a queen.’
Kiya followed Imhoter back to the royal robing room, trying to forget what she had just seen. She needed to quiet her emotions, for she was being prepared for her own royal entrance. Still, she couldn’t get the three young women out of her mind. One of those girls could have been me, she thought.
‘Are you clever enough to know what you must forget?’ asked Imhoter suddenly, as if he had read her mind.
He had asked the same question of her many weeks ago, on the deck of the King’s ship. She knew that he was trying to protect her now, as he had then, to strengthen her for the coming ordeal. Still, she wondered if she could ever forget being married to a man who accepted slaves as gifts. She wondered if she could possibly overlook the fact that she had abandoned all hope of ever finding her true love.
She looked into the old man’s kind, wrinkled face. She wanted to make him proud, but feared she never could.
‘I am clever enough to know when to stay silent,’ she said.
She followed him into the bustling robe room, where a small army of servants hurried about, readying the painting area, waving ostrich feather fans and pouring water into golden goblets.
Kiya stood before her designated seat opposite a tall copper mirror. Presently a servant appeared and patted her sweating brow with cloth. It was the first day of peret—the growing season—but akhet’s relentless heat lingered still.
Kiya lifted a goblet and took a sip. The water was cool and sweet, but it did nothing for the dryness she felt in her throat.
She longed for Tahar. Many weeks had passed since she’d vowed to forget him, but he haunted her thoughts still. She had tried to smile and embrace her new life, but she could not. It was as if her soul had been suffering a drought, and only Tahar could bring the flood. Even now she imagined him standing beside her, whispering in her ear.
‘Do not fear,’ he told her. ‘The world is large and we are small.’
‘Aye, My Love,’ she said back to him. ‘Whispers in the grass.’
She set down the goblet and studied her gown. The fabric was unusual—like nothing she had ever known. It was smooth, like glass, yet soft—extremely soft—like a girl’s freshly combed hair. When light shone upon it, it glowed like oil, and when it moved against her skin she felt as if she was stepping into the waters of a tranquil pool.
She touched the unearthly material, as if it might cool her hands.
‘Do not touch the dress!’ barked Imhoter. He had brought it to her just days before, having procured the fabric from a Lebanese merchant who claimed to have travelled far beyond the Big Green to obtain it. ‘Tiny insects spun the threads of this fabric,’ explained Imhoter. ‘The merchant called it silk.’
‘Silk...’ Kiya repeated. The word seemed perfectly matched to the fabric it named, for it trickled across her tongue like a stream of water.
Imhoter had paid the man in gold for the material—a goodly number of ingots. ‘Trust me,’ Imhoter told Kiya. ‘When the King and his guests behold you in your gown the illusion will be complete. It will all be worth it.’
Imhoter did not need to reassure her. He was the only person in this strange, highborn world whom she trusted at all, though she could not explain why that was so. Indeed, she trusted him enough to defy custom, for it was traditional for a queen-to-be to wear a simple tunic on her wedding day.
‘It is truly a beautiful dress,’ she told Imhoter now.
He stood beside her and gazed into the mirror, transfixed. Like other gowns, it had thick straps that ran over her shoulders, covering her breasts, but that was where the similarities ended. With its silver-blue sheen and long, loose train, the dress was like none that had ever been seen in Khemetian court. Kiya appeared covered in liquid, as if she had just stepped from the Great River itself.
She looked beautiful and elegant and, she admitted, not quite human. ‘I do not deserve such finery.’
‘Of course you deserve it. You are a goddess in full. You have proved that to me.’
‘May I confess to you a secret, dearest Imhoter?’ Kiya whispered. ‘Before I become Queen?’
‘Of course, sweet child. Tell it now and let the burden be lifted from your lovely shoulders.’
Kiya leaned close to Imhoter’s ear and spoke softly. ‘I was born in the royal harem.’
Imhoter stared at Kiya in the mirror, but she could not see what was behind his large, dark eyes.
‘You were born to a concubine of Sneferu’s, then?’ he murmured, and turned to look at her directly.
‘Aye, I am a child of the deceased King.’
Imhoter wrinkled his lips in thinly veiled horror. Had she offended him? Had he become so convinced of the divinity with which he had cloaked her that he was insulted by the truth?
‘It cannot be...’ he said. He was poring over her face as if trying to decipher an ancient scroll.
But of course she was a child of the deceased King. All the children born in the royal harem belonged to the King, did they not? Or what was the purpose of a harem?
Kiya wished to discuss it further, but Neferdula arrived, carrying a large white sheet.
‘It is time to paint you and to arrange your wig,’ she said sharply. ‘Please sit.’
Kiya could read the nervousness on Neferdula’s face as she sat and allowed herself to be blanketed by the protective fabric.
Neferdula studied Kiya’s face in the mirror’s reflection as if studying a blank papyrus. ‘Today I shall do my most important work.’
Meanwhile Imhoter had dro
pped to his knees and was busying himself with the bottom of Kiya’s dress. When he finally stood, Kiya discerned a glassy quality to his eyes.
‘What cannot be?’ she asked him.
His breaths came quickly to his lips. ‘It is nothing. An illusion—that is all. For a moment you reminded me of someone I once knew.’ Imhoter looked away. He appeared to be choking back tears. ‘I will leave you now in Neferdula’s capable hands,’ he said, bowing deeply. ‘I will return when her work is complete.’
‘Thank you, Imhoter,’ said Kiya. ‘For the dress, for your wise counsel, for...everything.’
‘You are most welcome, Blessed One. There is no one more deserving than you.’
Kiya bowed her head, humbled by this unassuming man who seemed to blow the invisible winds that kept the ship of Khemet from harm.
Why had he suddenly appeared on the verge of tears? Surely it was the dress.
Kiya had doubted all his elaborate artifices at first, especially when the people of Khemet suffered so gravely from the drought. But now she had begun to see how the pageantry gladdened people’s souls, she could no longer believe it completely frivolous. It had only been when they had arrived in Memphis, however, that she had truly understood the import of the elaborate mask Imhoter had asked her to wear.
In the King’s absence Menis, the most powerful priest in Memphis, had approached his tenant farmers and promised to waive their rents for ever if they joined him in arms against the King. A host of Menis’s farmer-soldiers had been camped at the docks, waiting for Menis’s order to attack.
Meanwhile Menis had colluded with the other priests, plotting the King’s overthrow. His timing had been auspicious, for most of the King’s soldiers had been dispatched to the Red Land in their pointless search for the Libu raiders. The few of Khufu’s soldiers who remained in Memphis had been willing to forget their loyalty in exchange for the right amount of grain.
Enslaved by the Desert Trader Page 16
