The Amarnan Kings, Book 1: Scarab - Akhenaten

by Overton, Max

  "Yes, sir." Smenkhkare smiled weakly. "Do you know the way?"

  The street sweeper looked the children over carefully, his gaze lingering on the girl's silver and lapis necklace and the boy's golden one. "What's in it for me, eh? Why should I bother to tell you unless I'm getting something for my trouble?"

  "I'm sorry if we have troubled you then. We shall ask elsewhere." Smenkhkare turned away, steering Scarab away from the man.

  "Hold on there," called the old man, scrambling to his feet. He spilt his pot of beer as he rose and he cursed fluently, staring down at the rapidly evaporating patch of liquid on the ground. "Who's going to pay for that then?"

  "You spilt it," Smenkhkare said, backing away.

  "Well, you made me." The old man smiled, his toothless gums spread wide though his eyes glittered with avarice. "You are two obviously rich children. I think you should pay me for my beer. One of those necklaces will do." He took a step toward them, his eyes wandering over Scarab again. "Or else perhaps the little girl would like to comfort me?" He made a sudden grab and clutched Scarab's arm. She screamed and tried to pull free.

  Smenkhkare leapt forward and grappled with the old man, shoving him backward with an incoherent yell of rage. The man backhanded him, knocking him to the ground, and dragged the girl closer.

  "What's going on here?" A deep voice interrupted the scuffle. Smenkhkare looked up from the ground at a tall young man standing behind the old street sweeper, his fists on his hips, legs spread.

  "Samu, are you annoying these children?"

  "They spilt my beer," Samu whined. "It's only fair they pay for it."

  "We did not spill it," Smenkhkare yelled, scrambling to his feet. "He spilt it when he got up. We were only asking for directions and he wanted payment so we were leaving and ..."

  "Enough. It doesn't matter who spilt it. Samu, have you forgotten who paid for that beer in the first place?" The young man's eyes glittered and his voice hardened. "Now let go of that young girl."

  Samu grumbled but released Scarab, who retreated behind her brother, rubbing her arm. She watched warily as Smenkhkare confronted the young man and the old street sweeper.

  "Thank you, sir," Smenkhkare said, bowing slightly, though his eyes never left the old man. "May I know your name?"

  The young man smiled. "Quite the little lord, are you not? I am Mahuhy, a local businessman. And you? What is your name, young master? And that of your friend?"

  "I am Smenkhkare, and this is my friend Scarab."

  Mahuhy frowned. "Smenkhkare?" His eyes flicked over the fine white linen of their kilts and the jewelry. "There is a boy of that name up at the palace, a prince. Would your parents have named you after him?"

  "No, Mahuhy, businessman of Waset. I was not named after anyone else. That is my name alone."

  "Ah." Mahuhy smiled again, considering. "And the girl? A princess perhaps? Though she does not bear any princess' name I have heard of."

  "A friend," Smenkhkare said firmly. "It would be wise to treat my friends well."

  Mahuhy bowed mockingly, his smile never leaving his face. "Then how may I be of service, Prince Smenkhkare and Princess Scarab?"

  "You may not. We were just leaving." Smenkhkare backed away, drawing his sister after him.

  "They was wanting directions to the East Gate Embalming House," Samu muttered.

  "Indeed?" Mahuhy said. "I can give you directions."

  "No thank you. We shall ask elsewhere."

  "Samu," Mahuhy said, without turning. "Go and get yourself another pot of beer." He dug into the pouch at his belt and flipped a small piece of copper at the old man, waiting until Samu had disappeared into the ale-house. "Come, Smenkhkare, my friend Samu has given offense. Let me make amends by directing you to your destination. I am heading in that direction myself, so it would be no trouble."

  Smenkhkare considered, glancing about the street, seeing few other people. "Very well, but only by well-frequented streets. We will not go down any alleys or deserted streets with you."

  "You think ill of me, young sir." Mahuhy's smile broadened into a grin. "Never mind. It shall be as you say, only crowded streets. This way then, if you please." He led the way down the Street of Cloth onto another narrower avenue also crowded with people.

  A group of children ran by, naked as the day they were born, laughing and chattering. Scarab turned and watched them, thinking how nice it would be to be part of a group, off on a carefree adventure. Then she noticed that one of them limped badly and at least two others were covered in sores. Another had a swollen and inflamed arm, and all of them had weeping pus-filled eyes. "How can they be happy?" she whispered to herself. "How can they laugh?"

  Smenkhkare relaxed slightly as they threaded their way through the crowds, following the tall Mahuhy. He still scanned the people they passed and Mahuhy, looking for any signs of recognition passing between them. Leaning closer to his sister, he whispered in her ear. "I don't trust him. If there is any trouble, I will delay him. You run, as fast as you can."

  Scarab gripped his hand tighter. "Where would I run?" she quavered.

  "Anywhere. Stop a woman and ask the way to the temple of Amun on the Avenue of Rams. You can get home from there."

  "What about you? I don't want to leave you."

  "I'll be all right. You can alert the temple guards if you like. They'll come and look for me." Smenkhkare shrugged philosophically. "Of course, when word of this gets out I'll be prevented from coming into the city again but it can't be helped."

  The crowds thinned and Mahuhy turned onto a still narrower street that was peopled enough to allay their suspicions. The air grew thicker with the stink of rotting things and flies buzzed in black clouds above objects in the street that the children avoided looking at. Refuse of all sorts littered the street. The young man dropped back to walk beside the children.

  "Are you really prince Smenkhkare?"

  "Does it matter? Would you only be helping us if I was?"

  Mahuhy laughed. "You expect me to help people just out of the goodness of my heart?"

  "It is what the gods expect of us. When Inpu weighs your heart against the feather of truth, do you not want a good deed to lighten your heart?"

  "That may work in the palace, boy, though I have heard many tales to the contrary. It certainly doesn't work that way in the city."

  Smenkhkare guided Scarab around a pile of refuse on the street. Two pariah dogs, their flanks scarred by running sores, fought over scraps of rotting food. He screwed up his face in disgust.

  "I have nothing to pay you with."

  "No matter. When Prince Smenkhkare comes into his own, perhaps he will remember Mahuhy once helped him."

  They walked on down the street and Mahuhy paused on the corner of the Street of Whores. "I have business down here," he remarked. "I shall not be long; I merely have a message to pass on."

  Smenkhkare looked at the refuse-filled street they were on and the somewhat cleaner street facing them. "We shall accompany you."

  "Are you sure, boy?" Mahuhy smirked. "You are a bit young to know about this. How old are you anyway, ten?"

  "Eleven. And my education is broad. I know what passes between a man and a woman."

  Mahuhy laughed out loud. "Come then." He led the way down the Street of Whores. It soon became apparent why the street was so-named. Although there were residences still, and shops, a number of the low mud brick buildings sported large open doorways thronged with heavily made-up women of all ages, sizes and skin tones, dressed only in diaphanous linen shifts and brightly coloured scarves. Men wandered the street, openly appraising the merits of this woman or that, laughing and pointing, uttering crude remarks. A number were foreigners and Smenkhkare recognized bearded Syrian traders, short-kilted Cretan sailors with hair in ringlets and muscular blue-black Nubian soldiers. The women in their turn called out to the men as they passed, offering their charms or just passing good-natured banter. Many of them seemed to know Mahuhy and called to him. Some of the rema
rks were addressed at Smenkhkare and Scarab though, and the children hurried along, pressing closer to their guide.

  "Here we are," Mahuhy said, stopping outside a freshly white-washed building. "Wait here." He ducked inside the doorway and stood, still visible from the street in an open courtyard. He called out loudly. "Nefer, Inet, Tio--where are you?"

  A woman's voice, low and languid, answered him from the shadows. "What do you want, Mahuhy? It is a hot day and I just want to sleep." The woman moved out into the sunshine, holding a hand up to shield her eyes from the glare. The heavy make-up and layers of clothing could not disguise the wrinkles and sags of a much-used body. Her name Nefer, 'beautiful', had not been accurate for many years.

  "Come, Nefer," Mahuhy cajoled. "At least you get to lie down when you work. Where is Tio? I have a job for her."

  Nefer jerked her head toward the shadows. "She is with a customer. Tio!" she yelled.

  There was silence for a few moments before a muffled "What? I am busy." emanated from the shadowed building at the far end of the courtyard.

  "Never mind, tell her when she finishes that Pamiu, overseer of the garbage collectors guild wants her." Mahuhy grinned. "The usual place. And tell her to be especially nice to him; he has paid me already."

  "I'll tell her." Nefer looked out into the street. "Who are they? More youngsters you have persuaded to earn you money?"

  "Never you mind," Mahuhy said curtly. He turned on his heel and walked back out into the street. He beckoned to the children and started sauntering back the way they had come. At the corner he turned into the Street of Potters. "Nearly there."

  "Do they work for you?" Smenkhkare asked.

  Mahuhy grinned. "Yes. You want one? It'll cost you though. I can get silver for my young ones."

  "No thank you. I merely wish to know what manner of man I am talking to."

  "Oh, very straight and moral aren't we? We all have to make a living, princeling, unless we are born in the palace. How I choose to make mine is no concern of yours."

  "You have made your choice, Mahuhy. Have your women also chosen it or are they forced to it?"

  Mahuhy shrugged. "They are free to leave as soon as they have worked off their debt to me." He pointed down the long street to where the massive walls of the city were pierced by a large gate. "There you go, princeling, you can't miss it. The city entrance to the East Gate House of Embalming is on the right, just by the gate. I will leave you here." He turned and walked a few steps before turning back. "Don't forget my name, young Smenkhkare; I will hold you to your debt."

  Smenkhkare stared at the young man. "I will not forget," he replied softly. He turned away and, hand-in-hand, led Scarab down the street toward their destination.

  The House of Embalming was a huge edifice of granite set into the outer walls of the city. As such, it had one small entrance that opened onto a city street and several that opened onto the plains outside where a broad, much-traveled road led to the funerary temples and the ferry of the dead that carried the mummified bodies across the river on their final journeys to the tombs on the Western bank. The newly dead were considered ceremonially unclean and any contact of the House of the Dead with the residential and business quarters of the city was looked on with disfavor. However, the realities of supply led to the House being as close to the city as possible without actually being in it. Consequently, the vast edifice devoted to the preparation of the dead was within the actual walls of the city.

  The cedar wood door Smenkhkare walked up to was set into the polished granite facing, between two towering columns engraved with scenes from the Book of the Dead. He knocked softly, then after a few minutes, again, louder.

  "They may be busy," Smenkhkare explained. "Ah, here comes someone."

  The door opened with a creak and a flood of cool air laden with the rich heavy odors of spices, incense and resins flooded from the dim interior. A fat middle-aged man in a clean white kilt looked out at the street then down at the two children standing on the steps. The man smiled, recognizing the boy.

  "Smenkhkare. What a surprise. What can I do for you?"

  "Hello, Ipuwer." He pushed his sister forward. "This is my sister, Scarab. She has never seen a dead body and I thought maybe you could show us one."

  "This is not a place of entertainment," Ipuwer said reprovingly. "In these halls, we prepare the dead for immortality."

  "That is not what I meant, Ipuwer. She seeks to learn, as do I. If we are to prepare ourselves for eternity, surely we should know how we will face it?"

  Ipuwer considered, one hand stroking his smooth chin. "There is merit in your argument, young sir." He opened the cedar door wider and beckoned them in. "Your sister, you say? I do not think I know of anyone by the name Scarab. Does she have another?"

  Smenkhkare shook his head. "Nebmaetre and Tiye are her parents, though."

  "Indeed?" The man looked at Scarab with interest for a few moments then shook himself. "Well, come in then. You wanted to see a dead body, young lady?"

  "You have some?" Smenkhkare asked eagerly.

  Ipuwer looked at the young boy until his enthusiasm waned before turning back to Scarab. "Now, young lady, you realize that the House of Death in the temple precincts of Amun is the parent body to all the other Houses? Their clients are the royal family and priests. This House is but one of many in the city, and we cater for more well-to-do customers. Well, the fees are high, but the quality of work that comes from this house is second to none." Ipuwer coughed and added, "Maybe second to the House of Death itself, but certainly of a very high standard." He started walking down a long hallway that ran parallel to the city wall. The narrow hall was dimly lit, with bronze lamps suspended by chains from the ceiling. Oil burned in the lamps, ill-kept wicks guttering to produce a sooty yellow flame. The smoke, together with the strong odour of burning incense, irritated Scarab's nose and she rubbed it with the back of one hand.

  "Because we only cater to the nobility we never have many clients in our halls at one time." He pointed to large double doors on the left as he walked past them. "This is the Hall of Incision. We have nobody there at present, but last week Anahy, a local landholder, slipped in some cow-dung and hit his head. He died the next day and his son brought him to us, together with fifty deben of gold. We brought in the Cutter--you know about cutters?"

  Scarab shook her head and sneezed. "Sorry. No sir, I don't."

  "How about you, Smenkhkare?"

  "He's the person that cuts open the body. Will we meet him?"

  "No, you most certainly will not. The cutter is unclean and untouchable because he deals with the dead bodies before they have been ritually purified. He is brought in solely to make the abdominal incision in the flank, draw out the viscera and clean the brain from the skull cavity. He works under supervision of course. We have resident scribes for that."

  "What do you do, sir?" Scarab asked in a tremulous whisper.

  "I am an embalmer, young lady. A priest of the funerary temple, and I supervise the preparation of the body for eternity. I have had training in the House of Life as a physician and also in the House of Death." Ipuwer stopped outside another set of double doors. "This is the first stage in the preparation. Do you want to see it?"

  Scarab nodded timidly and Smenkhkare agreed with an eager grin.

  Ipuwer threw open the doors and ushered the children inside, closing them again. "Welcome to the Place of Purification."

  Scarab stared around in fascination and some trepidation, expecting to see bodies all over the place. Instead the large room was almost empty, dominated by a single granite slab raised to a man's waist height. A high, wide window on the north-facing wall let in a broad shaft of sunlight which lit the slab and the surrounding area, throwing the rest of the room into deep shadow by contrast. Her eyes slid away from the lit slab toward the shadows, expecting to see something terrible stalk out from them. As Scarab's eyes grew accustomed to the gloom however, she began to make out huge chests and coffers lining the walls, sh
elves groaning under a multitude of pots and bottles, urns and instruments.

  A movement by the slab caught her eye and Scarab gave a start as she realized a small group of men were standing round the granite table, their attention riveted on the top. Ipuwer moved toward the central slab, silently beckoning the children to follow.

  The men around the slab looked up as Ipuwer entered the shaft of sunlight, nodding in silent greeting before turning back to their tasks. Scarab looked at what they were doing but had trouble recognizing anything. It looked like a bundle of waxy yellow-white rags or parchment lay on the table, then as one of the men moved, his shadow slipped off the bundle and the sunlight lit up the unmistakable profile of a man. She gasped and drew back, clutching her brother's arm.

  "Not what you expected, young lady?" Ipuwer moved closer and greeted the other men. "Rekhmire, fetch me two small stools." A young man immediately bowed and ran off into the gloom, returning a few minutes later with a pair of plain wooden stools. "Thank you, my son." Ipuwer placed them alongside the slab and motioned the children to climb up on them. "Leave us," he murmured, waiting until the preparers had left the room.

  Scarab found herself looking down on the naked corpse of a small wizened man. The skin was a pasty yellow colour, darkening where the flesh pressed against the cold granite slab. The eyelids were shut over sunken eyes and the mouth hung open, the teeth white and even.

  "You would not think; to look at him," Ipuwer said softly, "That this is PenMa'at, son of Pepienhebsed the Controller of the King's Wharves, a sixteen year old youth. He looks like an old man, does he not?" He leaned forward and touched the dead face, then the hands. "Look though at the teeth, still white and unbroken. He ate a rich man's diet with little grit in his bread. See too the hands, soft and uncallused. This boy was no common laborer. He lived in luxury and privilege but he died just the same. Of the running flux as it happens." Ipuwer looked across at the children, searching their faces, noting the eagerness in the boy's and the fear in the girl's.