by Scott Peters
"Take this," Ramses told him, pouring a cup of water from the jug.
Aunt Zalika snatched it away before Sepi could take it. Her face was ashen. "How dare you? After what I just saw?"
"I was trying to help him."
"You were trying to kill him."
"I don’t care what you think," Ramses said.
"Get out."
"I won’t."
She stepped forward and backhanded him hard. Her rings drew blood.
"This is my house," Ramses said. "I won’t get out. Ever."
"You'll regret that." She grabbed Sepi’s walking stick. Ramses ducked as she brought it down on his head; it slammed his shoulder. He stumbled sideways as she hit him again.
"Stop it," Sepi managed between racking coughs. "Stop!"
"Stay away from my son. You come in here because he’s weak? Trying to get him on your side? Filling his head with lies?"
"Sepi is my friend."
Her face turned crimson. He ducked as she raised the cane again. It landed with a thud on the wooden chest. A second blow cracked across his forearm. Ramses rolled away, trying to protect his hands.
"Stop it," Sepi shouted. "Stop this instant. Stop or I’ll die. I’ll make myself die."
Aunt Zalika hesitated.
Ramses didn’t. He forced himself off the floor and bolted.
He ran, stumbling down the hall.
In a tiny alcove, he paused and sank down against the wall. He put his bruised head between his knees to stop its spinning. How could she have promised—to his father's face, while he lay on his deathbed—to care for him as her own child? Ramses' cheek felt slippery with blood. His heart boiled over with rage.
But beneath his rage, he felt shame. Shame at what life had become in his own house. His parents’ house.
He remembered Aunt Zalika’s fury when she found him drawing this morning.
She was scared. She should be.
He was going to do it.
By every god, he would win that position.
He just had to.
Chapter Nine
Still sitting in the tiny alcove, Ramses heard Sepi’s door open and close. Aunt Zalika’s voice echoed down the dark passageway. It was answered by Uncle Hay. His aunt and uncle were headed straight for Ramses' hiding spot.
He pressed deeper into the shadows, wishing he could disappear. They stopped in front of the household shrine. He heard the crack of a flame. Then the cloying smell of incense filled the air.
"I want to kill that boy," Aunt Zalika said.
"He’s not worth worrying about, is he? He wouldn't really hurt our son, would he? Let it go, dear wife, that’s what I say."
"Let it go?" There was a long pause. "Is that what you just said to me?" Aunt Zalika’s voice was a mix of disbelief and rage.
"I just meant, well, we want him to work, don’t we?"
"You think I don’t know what I’m doing?"
"Not at all, my sweet! It’s just, well he is your . . ." Uncle Hay paused.
Was Uncle Hay defending him?
"He is my what?"
"Of course, I wouldn’t presume to tell you—"
"Then don’t," she snapped. "I’m done being ordered around. I’m done being anyone’s lackey. I had enough of it living with your mother. I certainly won’t be yours."
"I understand, my darling."
"I have a headache. I’m going to lie down before dinner."
As their footsteps receded, Ramses let out a huge breath.
Uncle Hay had defended him. What else could his words have meant? Ramses should talk to him. Maybe his uncle would help him try for the apprenticeship. Buoyed at the thought, he went in search of Sobek and Hebony.
The kitchen door stood ajar. Warm cooking smells wafted out, along with the sound of laughter.
Wait until they heard the Chief Scribe’s news.
He peered inside; here was something that never changed. Water jugs stood in a row; bowls overflowed with dates and juicy pomegranates; onion bulbs and bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling; two oil lamps flickered on the big sycamore table.
Sobek sat on a low stool, leaning back against the wall, and watched his wife, Hebony, as she worked. She had her left arm wrapped around a giant bowl of dough; the other struggled with a spoon. Clouds rose as she stirred. Flour covered the floor, her apron, her hair, everything.
With a grunt, she gave it one last turn and plopped the bowl on the table. "Will the gods please bring this harvest to an end? Eight months of my ghastly cooking, I can barely stand to eat it myself. I’m surprised anyone does!"
"We wouldn’t, if we didn’t mind starving." Sobek’s eyes twinkled.
"Hey!" Hebony tossed a lump of dough at him. "The correct answer is, wife, how wrong you are, we love your cooking."
Sobek took a bite of raw dough before she could stop him. "Delicious!"
She smoothed her hair. "Oh, you’re such a flatterer."
Ramses grinned. His father used to say that Hebony might lack cooking skills, but she more than made it up in secretarial expertise: calculating taxes, keeping tabs on work supplies, all the clerical duties that went along with running a farm.
He pushed the door open. It scraped against the beaten-earth floor. Hebony and Sobek turned at the sound, still laughing. But seeing him, their laughter died. The lump where the cane had hit Ramses’ cheek seemed to swell under their scrutiny.
Sobek’s face darkened; Hebony’s jaw dropped.
"What . . . by the gods . . . what happened?" she said.
He pressed his fingers to it. "Nothing, I’m fine—"
"That’s what you call fine?" Hebony hurried over and closed the door. Her floury hands examined his face and skull.
"I’m fine. You’re not going to believe what I just—"
"Who did this to you?"
"It’s not important. Just listen."
"You have a lump the size of a goose egg on your head!"
He wiggled away and turned to Sobek. "The Place of Truth is having an examination. They’re looking for an apprentice!"
"Impossible. Where did you hear that?" Sobek said.
"Sepi’s tutor told him. He heard it from the Chief Scribe himself."
Sobek looked amazed. "Well this changes everything."
Hebony said, "That’s all very exciting and I wish Pharaoh's craftsmen the best of luck—now come and let me fix you. Look at your beautiful cheek, and your shoulders! Oh dear!"
"So Zalika knows about it?" Sobek said.
Ramses nodded.
Sobek sighed. "Let me guess. She wants Sepi to try for the apprenticeship." He took a wet cloth from a bucket and draped it over his shaved head. Water trickled past his ears and down his broad shoulders.
"She’s bringing a tutor from Memphis to train him," Ramses said.
"When’s the exam?"
"In three weeks."
Sobek flung the dripping rag into the pail. "No one can make an artist in three weeks. Only a thief makes promises like that."
The clouds of flour had settled. Ramses dragged his toe through the white dust to make a circle. "Maybe not. Maybe he has skills we can only dream about."
Sobek snorted. "Not likely. At least now we know what this morning was about."
"I don’t like the sound of that," Hebony said, looking up from her box of medical supplies. "What happened this morning?"
There was a long pause.
"Zalika found him drawing during lunch and went mad."
"During his break?" She spun to Ramses. "That’s why she beat you? It’s none of her business what you do on your break!" She yanked the lid off a pot of salve, crossed to him and dabbed a glob on his cheek.
"Actually," Ramses glanced at Sobek as a horrible realization hit. "She beat me in Sepi’s room because—I’m sorry Sobek! She warned you not to let me visit him. Now I know why! She knew Sepi would tell me about the apprenticeship. But I was stupid to go there. By the gods, I'm so sorry. I can't believe I let her catch me in there."
How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so selfish?
What he’d done had just cost Sobek his job.
Chapter Ten
In the kitchen, Ramses' head spun in horror at what he'd done. Forehead in his hands, he leaned his elbows against the big table and tried to think. Sobek was like a father to him now. Would Aunt Zalika really fire Sobek and Hebony and send them away?
"I’ll swear to her you didn't know," Ramses said.
"Swear you didn’t know what?" Hebony demanded. "What’s going on?"
"Nothing," Sobek interjected.
"Nothing?" Hebony said. "Will someone please explain what happened?"
"Zalika makes threats," Sobek said, "but they’re meaningless. She can’t do anything. She needs us too much."
Ramses wasn't so sure. He wiped his slick palms on his kilt. If only he’d gotten out of there before Aunt Zalika came! He never should’ve stayed so long. How could he have been so stupid?
"Stop worrying," Sobek said. "We'll deal with her anger when the time comes. Now tell me what Sepi's tutor said. About the apprenticeship. How does one enter?"
With effort, Ramses pried his mind away from the black hole of fear. He tried to focus on Sobek's question. "Sepi said that people who want to enter have to submit a drawing."
"Good. That can be done."
"No. There's a problem. To qualify, it has to be on papyrus."
"I’m confused." Hebony wrinkled her flour-smudged forehead. "Are you talking about trying it yourself?"
"Yes."
She started to laugh. "Why? Why would you do that?"
"Why?" Sobek said. "You’ve seen his drawings. That’s why."
"Because this is my chance, Hebony!"
She looked beyond shocked. She looked offended. "You don’t need a chance. You’re heir to this estate. Your duty is here. Not off indulging in some wild dream."
Wild dream? Was that all she thought it was? Her words hurt.
"Your parents worked their whole lives to build this farm. They did it for you, and for your children. Do you have any respect at all for what an accomplishment that was? This house? Those fields? People would die for what you have. You promised them you’d take care of everything, of your home—"
"You think this is still my home?" Ramses said. "Look at me. I’m a servant!"
A lamp sputtered and died. Half the room was thrown into shadow.
"I know things aren’t easy right now—"
"You think I want to leave? You think I don’t look at my parents’ room and want to scream when I see Aunt Zalika in there, wearing my mother’s clothes?"
"Things will get better," she said. "I promise."
He straightened. On the table, a dish of dates glittered in the half-light. He plucked one, but instead of eating it, he crushed it between his thumb and forefinger. Sticky pulp oozed out. "I thought you’d be excited for me."
"Don’t do this," Hebony said. "Please. Just try to go along with things."
"Go along with things? I’ve been going along with things for months! And for what? To fill my aunt and uncle’s pockets?"
"Shhh! Keep your voice down . . . To go along with things until you come of age and can take what’s yours."
Sobek cut in. "Ramses will make up his own mind."
Hebony looked taken aback by her husband's words.
"Uncle Hay might help me get papyrus," Ramses said. "I heard him talking and—"
Sobek’s brow darkened. "I wouldn’t be so quick to trust Hay."
"Why not?"
From outside the door came a soft rustle; it sounded as if someone was listening. Ramses looked from Hebony to Sobek; then he darted over and pushed it open. Shadows mottled the walls blue and purple. The air felt still as a tomb.
The hall was empty.
He glanced down. Bastet, the cat, greeted him with her golden eyes.
"Thank the gods," Hebony said, sagging against the table. "Just our little friend, come to say hello."
As if in agreement, Bastet leaped into Ramses' waiting arms.
From the sitting room, Aunt Zalika shouted, "Sobek!"
Bastet shot for the dark window. With a twitch of her tail, she disappeared.
"Sobek," Aunt Zalika shouted again, "Get out here. We need to talk. Now!"
"I’ll talk to her," Ramses said.
"No." Sobek pushed past and strode down the hall.
Hebony watched her husband go.
Ramses wanted to tell her he was sorry he’d been so stupid, that he never meant to get Sobek in trouble. Instead, he said nothing. Those happy moments in Sepi’s room seemed ridiculous now. It felt like he had a hole in his stomach. A hole to the underworld, into which every good thing was falling.
"We need onions," she murmured.
Mouth dry, he headed for the garden behind the house.
In the twilight, the purple spikes of larkspur looked gray. Bastet dozed in the shadows with her back to a large cabbage. The dark mass of trailing peas had grown thick and tangled. Instead of climbing around the vines, he wrenched them apart and forced his way through, sending leaves tearing and tumbling to the ground.
On the other side, he knelt where onion tops sprouted in a row. He tore one up; as he did, a rotting odor burst from the dirt. Squinting, he saw the onion crawled with maggots. Growling, he flung it away, hard. To his shock, nearly all the rest were the same. He returned with one small one just as Sobek entered from the hall.
Hebony ran to her husband. "What happened? What did Zalika say?"
Sobek closed the door. "She fired a farm hand."
Ramses swore.
"That’s what she wanted?" Hebony pressed her hand to her chest. "I’m ashamed to admit it, but that’s a relief. Still, now? At the height of the harvest? What did he do?"
"Nothing. It’s to punish Ramses."
"I don’t understand."
"I do," Ramses said.
Sobek gave a grim nod. "In her words, if you have so much free time, you can do the work of two people."
Ramses stared out the window. He’d never have time to find papyrus now, or to figure out how to draw with brush and ink, let alone design an entry piece worthy of the exam. He’d be slaving long before dawn and long after dark. It was stupid to think he could’ve won. To think he could’ve beat her.
"But that’s crazy!" Hebony said. "He’s a boy! That’s impossible. Ramses doesn’t have to do this."
"No. But I do," Sobek said. "If our output falls short, Zalika’s going to deny us our annual share. We won’t be able to pay our living dues."
"She wouldn’t."
Sobek didn’t answer.
"She’d leave us homeless? Without a coin to our names?"
"I swear," Ramses said. "That won’t happen. We’ll get your annual share. I’ll do the man’s work. I swear it Hebony, I can do this."
But it felt like an impossible promise.
Chapter Eleven
Ramses knew only one way to finish the work on time. He did it in secret, glad beyond relief that Sobek and Hebony hadn't been sent away. The thought of losing them was too much to bear.
Under cover of darkness, the whack of his blade was followed by the swish of falling wheat. He moved swiftly, guided by the jab of cut stalks underfoot. His arms were numb.
It was the third time he’d worked through the night.
The extra work was taking its toll. His blade caught his shin. He clamped his hand over the gash. Exhaustion was making him clumsy. He needed to lie down. Just for a few hours.
Moonlight splashed cold across the paving stones of the courtyard. The smooth stone felt cool under his blistered feet. He reached the door to his cell, which had once been used to keep the goats penned up and safe from predators at night. He pushed the door open.
Air, hot as an oven and rank with the smell of sour bed rushes, closed over him. The smell of goat urine and manure had never faded. He grimaced, threw himself down and took a thick, stuffy breath. Sweat trickled down his gri
tty forehead; he scrubbed at it and rolled over.
The filth and stench were unbearable. He slammed outside into the cool night and headed for a bend in the river where the water ran clear. Wading in to his waist, he bent forward and plunged his head under.
Still dripping, Ramses made for a stand of rushes. He started to cut a fresh bundle for his bedding when he heard a cry. It sounded like a child. He pushed deeper into the foliage, squinting in the silver moonlight. He would’ve tripped over the trap if not for the creature’s whimper.
Crouching low, Ramses peered inside.
A tiny duck, more fluffy than feathered, huddled in the claws of a wood and metal contraption. It came alive at the sight of him, flapping its wings, frantic. Even though Ramses had hunted himself with his father, the sight of this poor creature tore at his heart.
"I’m not going to hurt you," Ramses said, examining the trap’s workings.
His fingers found a clamp. He struggled with it, trying to get the creature free. It thrashed against him. A slick substance was turning Ramses’ hands slippery and he pulled away to wipe them on his shins. They left smears of blood.
Quickly, he reached again for the clamp. "I’m not going to hurt you!"
This time the bird stopped struggling, went limp and let him work.
But there was too much blood; it would be dead in minutes. Still, he kept working. His fingers slipped against the bird’s slick body. It shifted its head and looked up at him. Ramses knew what it felt like to be trapped, with no way to escape. A frightening foreboding overtook him, and he began to feel that his own freedom was dependent on freeing this poor, lost creature.
"Almost there," Ramses whispered to it. He could hear the desperation in his voice.
The bird's glistening eyes met his.
Then the bird’s ka slipped from this world and disappeared.
With a growl, Ramses smashed the trap to pieces. He dug a hole and buried the bird deep. Deep enough that the hyenas would never find it. Then he prayed to Osiris to care for the bird's everlasting soul.
Back in his cell, he threw himself down, only then realizing he’d left the fresh bedding abandoned on the bank.
