Menis had campaigned amongst the people, doling out his grain and urging them to acknowledge the will of the Gods—whom, he had claimed, had forsaken King Khufu long ago.
‘I will bring the flood and restore maat to Khemet,’ Menis had promised, filling their grain bags with his private stores. ‘It is clear that the Gods wish for Menis to become your Holy King!’
There was one thing, however, that Menis had not accounted for in his quiet usurpation. There was something the people of Khemet craved more than grain.
It was love.
Love was stronger than loyalty, stronger than greed. It was stronger, sometimes, even than hunger—for it was what fed the Khemetians’ souls: stories of love, professions of love, promises of love. Love embodied.
Imhoter, unlike Menis, understood this craving, and when the royal ships had arrived at the docks of Memphis he had fed it. He had placed the red crown of Hathor upon Kiya’s head and set her upon a litter festooned with flowers, right beside the King’s own.
‘Behold the Goddess of Love,’ the herald had sung as she was paraded into the city. ‘Hathor, Mother of the Flood, the King’s Betrothed. She has come to deliver us from the drought. Rejoice!’
The spectacle had had its desired effect. Menis’s minions had laid down their arms and prostrated themselves before Kiya and the King, weeping like babes and begging for mercy. Never again would they allow the promises of an ambitious priest to turn them against what they had always known: King Khufu was divine. They had stared up at him and his Goddess Betrothed in awe. How could they have ever doubted the builder of the Great Pyramid of Stone?
As the entourage had proceeded the remaining King’s Guards had remembered their forgotten oaths. They had pledged the grain they’d received from Menis and joined the procession, which had grown and grown as it had proceeded through the city, with Hathor and the King at the helm. The citizens of Memphis had emerged from their smoky hovels to behold the sight. They had stepped through their doorways and bounded to their rooftops to witness the Living God and Goddess and to be blessed.
When the entourage had arrived at the white walls surrounding the royal palace it had grown a hundredfold. Kiya had stepped from her litter into Imhoter’s warm embrace.
‘Well done,’ he’d whispered in her ear. ‘Take this now.’ He had handed her a long, polished stick with a forked bottom and a thin, angular handle. ‘It is the sacred Was Sceptre. Hathor wields it to keep the forces of Seth at bay.’
The King had taken Kiya by the hand, accepting his own gilded crook from Imhoter, and led Kiya up a steep set of stairs.
They had emerged at the top of the wall and looked out at the citizens of Memphis. ‘Behold,’ the King had pronounced. ‘The Goddess of Love Incarnate!’
The crowd had exploded with cheers.
‘My Betrothed!’
Kiya had looked out over the thousands of faces staring up at her and felt her knees grow weak. Some had cheered, others had been weeping, still others had knelt upon the ground, deep in prayer.
‘The Mother of the Flood assures us that Hapi comes,’ the King had continued, glancing significantly at Kiya. He’d spoken soothingly to his flock, explaining that he understood their weakness in the wake of his absence, and that in his magnanimity he forgave them all.
Or, almost all. There was one man whom he did not forgive—Menis himself. With a wave of his crook Khufu had divested Menis of all his lands. Menis’s private stores of grain had become the property of the King, and he had ordered them to be distributed to all the people of Khemet. The flood was late, but it would come, the King had assured them. In the meantime the grain he gave from Menis’s coffers would sustain them.
The people of Memphis had rejoiced. With his betrothed Queen, the King had appeared to them even grander than before. The Gods were clearly favouring him once again, for they had blessed him with both beauty and triumph.
It should have been enough—but not for Khufu. Later that day he had imprisoned Menis in a small cell in the stone-lined basement of the Royal Harem. The cell had been designed for food storage—a cool place for the palace cooks to keep their cheeses and meats. There was a small stream fed by the King’s Shallows that ran through it, where caught fish could be held and kept fresh.
Kiya had heard that Menis had stayed there for many days, in the company of those doomed fish. Then, one day, a man had arrived. Not a cook, nor a fisherman, but a physician. Khufu’s physician, carrying a physician’s instruments.
He had not come to cure the old priest of his ailments, however.
Now Menis stood with the other priests in a semicircle behind Khufu’s throne. He was bald and wrinkled, like the others, but his face was a little paler, and there was a slight limp in his gait. The people called the King ‘Khufu the Merciful’, for they believed their mighty monarch had pardoned the evil usurper and shown compassion. But Kiya knew the truth.
Khufu hadn’t pardoned Menis at all. Menis was like Imhoter now—a man but not a man. A eunuch.
Kiya wiped her brow, remembering the very real mercy that Tahar had shown their would-be killers that day upon the plain. ‘You gave them all our meat,’ she had accused him, unable to comprehend his kind, selfless act. Now, as she observed Menis’s dull, sunken eyes, she understood Tahar’s actions perfectly.
The world needed mercy more than it needed strength or cunning. It needed more men like Tahar.
Kiya tried not to move as Neferdula completed the arrangement of her wig, carefully separating the hair into three sections—two that rested against her shoulders and a third that was trained down her exposed back. She topped the arrangement with a diadem made of the same silk fabric that had been used for her dress.
Neferdula moved quickly to the task of powdering Kiya’s face. Instinctively Kiya reached up to wipe the small beads of sweat gathering above her eyebrows.
‘You must not touch your face, Goddess,’ Neferdula scolded. ‘You will ruin the effect.’
Neferdula restored Kiya’s smudged brow by patting it with an alabaster-soaked cloth. Then she took a long, thin brush in her fingers and dipped it into a pestle containing a thick kohl paste.
Steady as a scribe, Neferdula painted Kiya’s eyes, following their curves and extending them into a thick black line that reached to the sides of her temples. From there she moved the brush in short, coiling loops all the way down to Kiya’s collarbone. She did the same on the other side of Kiya’s face, then stood in front of Kiya and studied her work.
‘They are perfect,’ she proclaimed.
‘They?’
‘See for yourself, Goddess,’ Neferdula said, then stepped out of the way.
Kiya looked into the mirror and beheld a stranger. Her ochred lips appeared red as blood against her skin’s moon-white surface. Thick black lines surrounded her eyes and extended outward to her temples, where they were transformed into two coiling black serpents.
‘Serpents...’ Kiya uttered, but before she could say anything more Imhoter appeared behind her.
He swallowed audibly. ‘The lady of serpents...’ he said perplexed. ‘My vision has come to pass. It cannot be...’
‘What vision? What cannot be?’ asked Kiya. She turned to discover Imhoter’s face twisted with concern.
‘It is nothing, dear Hathor,’ he said, gathering himself. ‘I—ah—did not know that Neferdula was going to create such a divine display. The serpent is a powerful symbol of death and rebirth. Like a serpent, you have shed your old skin and emerged anew. Neferdula has given the people a powerful and unexpected vision.’ He turned to Neferdula. ‘Carry on, for it is fated that you do so.’
To complete her vision Neferdula fitted Kiya with two serpent bracelets. Their gilded bodies wrapped thrice around Kiya’s arms before ending in bejewelled heads that stared up at her as if ready to strike. Neferdula placed simila
r golden hoops around Kiya’s ankles, then asked Kiya to stand.
‘I think we are ready,’ Neferdula said.
One of the servants retrieved a large golden necklace from an adjacent table.
‘We have waited to adorn you with your necklace because it is quite heavy.’ Neferdula pronounced. ‘Now, bend.’
Obediently Kiya bent her head, and found herself encircled in an elaborate web of turquoise filigreed with gold.
‘Another name for Hathor is the Lady of Turquoise,’ Neferdula explained.
The necklace was beautiful, but it weighed on Kiya like an ox’s yoke.
Neferdula helped Kiya to her feet. ‘Your hands are so cold, Goddess.’ She motioned to a servant to bring wine, which was poured into a goblet and put to Kiya’s lips. ‘Drink,’ Neferdula urged. ‘You must try to relax. Soon you shall meet your destiny.’
Kiya drained the contents of the goblet and returned to the edge of the curtains, where she stared out at the finely dressed crowd. Never before had she beheld so many highborns together in one place. The air was thick with their flowery perfume, and Kiya could hear their sharp whispers.
Where is Hathor?
When will she make her entrance?
‘May I have more wine?’ Kiya asked.
The King had now received almost all the well-wishers: only a few remained in the gifting line. Kiya spied the backs of three men cloaked in soldiers’ armour. It appeared that the King was being presented with another twisted kind of wedding gift—this time a captured criminal. The unusually large prisoner was so hunched and defeated it seemed he might collapse where he stood.
Kiya cringed to think what the King might do to the beleaguered man. What my husband might do to him. She guzzled another goblet full of wine.
‘Careful,’ said Neferdula, plucking the goblet from Kiya’s fingers. ‘We do not want the boat veering into an eddy, now, do we?’
She smiled playfully as she led Kiya to the end of the royal carpet and the beginning of her new life.
Chapter Thirty-Two
A dozen young women marched ahead of Kiya—the King’s concubines. They carried baskets full of oleander flowers, which they had been instructed by Imhoter to toss upon the royal carpet as they went. Silently they began their march. Behind the concubines followed the two queens, Meritites and Henutsen, their expressions as vacant as the royal granaries.
Kiya took her first step behind them, hearing the single beat of a drum. She took another step, and another, trying to keep her pace even as she made her way down the never-ending carpet. She had been told to keep her head up, but she could not bring herself to do it. She stared at the ground, picking her way among the blossoms.
Mother, what have I become?
As the entourage approached the throne the flower-bearers veered from their path and found their positions, flanking the carpet. The priests of Memphis stepped forward, and the Queens installed themselves in two of three thrones that had been positioned below the King’s. After their marriage Kiya would be expected to take her place in the third throne, but for now she was expected to remain standing, to address the King and make her obeisance.
Now, just steps from the throne, she gathered the courage to lift her head. The King gazed at her from atop his high perch and Kiya felt a pang of fear traverse her heart. Never cross a king, Imhoter had told her.
Kiya noticed the three frightened servant girls, still standing just beyond the throne at the gift table, watching her with wary eyes. The royal scribe stood near them, his writing kit in hand, ready to finalise the marriage contract.
Kiya yearned for another glass of wine. Or something stronger. Milk of poppy, perhaps. Or the pinch of a serpent’s fangs upon her neck. Anything to free her from the dread that had suddenly flooded into her soul and threatened to drown her.
That was when she saw them. Just beyond the girls. She would have recognised them anywhere. Their blue flames burned into her, melting her heart.
Those eyes.
Those impossibly blue eyes.
They peered out from beneath his heavy brow like secret wells.
It could not be.
Kiya fought to keep her balance.
It was. An overgrown beard concealed the contours of his face, but still she recognised it. It was the face she loved. The face she wanted to run and kiss. The face she wanted to stare at for a thousand years.
Tahar.
The King’s coppery voice sliced through her heart.
‘Welcome, Blessed Hathor, to the House of Horus,’ he said.
She bent to the ground and kissed it three times, as she had been instructed. Her whole body was trembling.
‘You may rise.’
‘Thank you, my Beloved King,’ Kiya said, standing.
There was something else she was obliged to say, but she could not think of it now. She could only glance repeatedly at the ragged man who stood just paces beyond the base of the King’s throne. He was stooped, but strong. Battered, but alive. His long hair just concealing the crescent-shaped scar that marked him for death.
‘Why do you study the Libu captive, Goddess?’ asked the King, turning in irritation. ‘Do you know him?’
Her eyes had betrayed her. She diverted her gaze to the floor and prayed that Neferdula had applied the alabaster powder thickly enough to conceal the crimson she was certain rose in her cheeks.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ she responded, but her words were scarcely audible.
I do know this man. He is the man I love.
The King’s nostrils flared. ‘How do you know this Libu murderer?’
The crowd whirred.
‘Libu scum!’ someone yelled.
‘Kill him!’ another shrieked.
With a brush of his hand Khufu silenced his guests. Then he motioned to the soldiers, who dragged their prisoner before him.
He was now standing so near to Kiya that she had to stop herself from reaching out to touch him. It appeared that his legs had been bound together by rope, so that he could only take the smallest of steps. His hair was matted, and the filthy shreds of a headdress were all he wore about his sinuous body. He was caked with dirt and smelled of sour sweat. He was a giant made small—a god reduced to rags.
‘Slave, tell us who your people are,’ Khufu commanded.
‘I have no people,’ said Tahar.
‘You bear the Libu scar. You are Libu!’ shouted the King.
‘Not any more,’ Tahar mumbled, shaking his head.
Kiya studied the destruction that had been wrought upon his body. Red gashes criss-crossed his chest and bruises speckled his limbs, as if someone had made a sport of causing him pain. Her heart heaved. She wished to tend to his wounds and cut his bonds and wash the filth from his skin.
‘Do you deny that you were part of the raid on my grain tent?’ Khufu asked him.
‘I do not deny it.’
‘How do you know the Goddess Hathor?’
‘She was my captive.’
‘Your captive?’
The King stroked his long ceremonial beard and Kiya read his thoughts. Right here, right now, Khufu could increase his popularity even more. Before this crowd of highborn witnesses he could condemn the Libu villain and the people would love him for it.
‘Is this true, Goddess?’ asked the King.
‘I was his captive for a time, but then he set me free.’
The King’s mouth twisted into a scowl. ‘If he captured you then he sinned against Osiris—my heavenly father!’
Kiya wondered how much the God of Death and Rebirth really worried about Tahar. It seemed the King was invoking the Great God’s name much as he invoked the Goddess Hathor—for his own purposes and gains.
Now the King lifted his eyes to the crowd. ‘This l
owly Libu worm captured the future Queen of Khemet!’
The guests hissed with rage.
‘This dirty Redlander participated in the raid on the grain tent and surely also on Zoser’s tomb!’
More angry howls.
The King’s voice crescendoed. ‘This strange outsider has sinned against the Gods. For the good of Khemet...’ the King paused, savouring the moment ‘...he must be sacrificed.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tahar felt his legs buckle as ferocious cheers rose up from the crowd.
‘This man shall pay for the Libu’s sins against Khemet,’ continued the King, pointing a bejewelled finger menacingly at Tahar.
A sandal flew out of the crowd, hitting Tahar in the face. Another punched into his ribs. A leather belt slapped him across his back. The guards kept Tahar on his feet—gripping him like a prize. He closed his eyes, keeping the image of her at the forefront of his mind as he tried to ignore the pain. How beautiful she was—his Hathor.
The King’s guests sneered and shouted.
‘Die, Libu vermin!’
‘Kill the Libu thief!’
It was as if the Khemetian highborns believed Tahar alone to be the cause of all their hardship. And as their cries grew louder Tahar realised that they might have been the cries of his own Libu tribesmen the night of the raid. And King Khufu might have been Chief Bandir, fomenting the crowd’s anger and playing upon the people’s prejudices until their only solace was the promise of violence.
Indeed, Tahar had given the King just what he wanted—the chance to sacrifice a human being. Not since the time of Narmer had the Khemetians performed the appalling spectacle. Now, it seemed, it would be part of the King’s heroic act.
There were no winners in this perpetual game of power, Tahar thought bitterly, only endless victims. And he, apparently, was to be the next. He had finally found her, the woman he loved, and now he was going to lose her again—along with his own life.
He heard the loud clang of metal upon the ground.
Enslaved by the Desert Trader Page 17
