by Scott Peters
"Then I accept."
Chapter Sixty-Two
Neferet headed for the gates.
Outside, the men were up in arms. They argued heatedly. She caught scraps of words, and Ramses’ name was mentioned over and over. She swallowed, searching for her father, and saw him debating with Paimu. She headed his way, but then thought better. Instead, she pulled Tui apart from the crowd. He was the only man smiling.
"What’s happened?" she said.
"Nothing, yet."
"Then why is there such an uproar?"
"Because I think your friend Ramses has beat us at our own game."
"What are you talking about?"
"Look for yourself." He pulled aside the flap.
Ramses sat at a table, so lost in concentration he didn’t notice her standing there. He had several sheets of papyrus on the table, one of which had thick black lines crisscrossing left to right, top to bottom. It looked like a lot of squares. No, she corrected herself, a grid, that was the word for it.
"What’s he doing?" she asked as he laid a second sheet over top of it.
Ramses bent forward and started to draw on the top sheet. Tui started to laugh. He laughed so hard, tears leaped to the corners of his eyes.
"Tui! What is he doing?"
"Don’t you see? He gave us the first drawing, and he used the grid underneath as a form of measure! I asked him to draw matching images. He’s using the grid once again to do the drawing a second time."
"But . . . you mean, I don't understand.
"The head goes in the top square, the shoulders in the second one and—
"But that’s cheating!"
Tui wiped his eyes. "It’s not. That’s why everyone’s in a huff. He asked me right at the start if there were any rules. I gave him only one. Hand me the first papyrus, and that is all. Don’t you see? He’s brilliant. Your friend is brilliant. He has more than a gift, he is smart. He doesn’t rely on the whim of the gods. He puts a method to work, a reliable method that nothing can foil. A farmer. The boy is a farmer. And farmers are stubborn, determined people. Perhaps there are things we can learn from one another."
She watched Ramses; he was oblivious to the filthy state of his clothes, to the grime in his hair, to the purple bruises welling up on his cheeks. Instead, he had his head down, his whole attention focused. Clearly he could care less what others thought, not when there was work to be done. Maybe she could learn something from him, too.
He glanced up and handed her father his finished work.
Ramses looked worried, but when he saw her, and gave her a small smile that sent her stomach flipping. The craftsmen retired to a private corner of the tent to vote. She headed over. Ramses tore his eyes away from the group that would decide his future and focused on her.
"Are you all right?" he asked her.
"Yes."
"And Denger?" He let the question hang.
She sat down. On the ground, ink had splattered like black blood. "No. We tried."
"By the gods!" Ramses ran his fingers over his scalp; they raked his gashes and he winced as if having forgotten they were there. "I didn’t know what else to do. It’s all I could think of! He was going to kill you, he—"
"That’s twice you’ve saved my life. I’m sorry for Jabari, but I can’t tell you how glad I am we’re alive right now."
At that moment, her father approached. "Ramses."
Ramses stood. "Sir?"
"We’ve made our decision." He waited for the men to gather around. "Several months ago, we lost an important member of our community. A very skilled, young apprentice painter. The likelihood of finding someone to fill his sandals seemed impossible." A gentle breeze ruffled the open flap. "Today, however, it seems fate has carried someone to our door who not only fits in, but exceeds our hopes in every way. A boy with a talent so rare, a gift so special, that one can only believe he is a favorite of the gods themselves."
The morning sun made the tent walls glow soft white.
"Ramses, you have more than met our expectations," he said. "You have surpassed them in every way."
Ramses looked as if he were hardly able to believe what her father was saying.
"Do you mean?" Ramses stopped, unable to voice his hopes.
"Yes. You're accepted."
Neferet jumped into the air and whooped. She couldn’t help it.
"Welcome," her father said. He stepped forward and shook Ramses’ hand.
A cheer went up and the other craftsmen crushed in to do the same. Tui and Paimu, the two old painters, slapped him on the back. From the way they looked, smiling from ear to ear, it was as if they had just won the exam themselves. In a way, Neferet thought, they had.
Tui suddenly glanced at her, and then shouted over the others. "There’s someone else we need to acknowledge here," he cried. "The person who came up with the idea of this examination in the first place."
"Yes, Tui," they all shouted, laughing, "you were wise. We acknowledge you. Are you happy?"
"I am, but it’s not me you need to acknowledge," he said. Neferet was trying to shy away, but Tui caught her by the shoulder and pushed her forward. "A cheer for Neferet!"
The Chief Scribe stared at his daughter. "This examination was your idea?"
"Well—I, um . . . I would’ve told you but—"
Her father looked skyward. "By the beard of Ptah, I should have known." But he was smiling. Wider than Neferet had seen him smile in a very long time.
Chapter Sixty-Three
The craftsmen swept Ramses from the tent. He glanced at Neferet, who ran along at his side. Up ahead stood the gates to the village. They’d been thrown wide-open, waiting to welcome him in.
"Tell me I’m not dreaming," Ramses said to her.
"You’re not," she said, grinning. "Believe me, you’re really not. And neither am I."
Ramses took a breath. Then he stepped over the threshold, and into the sacred world of craftsmen. But he couldn’t celebrate. Not yet. Not until he knew what had happened to his best friends back home.
All around him, villagers streamed down the streets to congratulate him. He grinned and laughed and shook their hands. Together, he, Neferet and the other craftsmen made their way down the alleys. Ramses was mesmerized. The neat, whitewashed houses, all in a row, were so different from his farm. The doors were labeled with names; the air was dry and clean. He caught glimpses of tiny workshops through open doorways. He breathed deeply, taking it all in.
When they reached a house with the Chief Scribe’s name above the door, the group made their way up the steps and into the front room. The walls were painted white and cushions lay scattered across the floor, giving it a comfortable, welcoming, homey feel. A table had been mounded high with dishes of food—savory pastries, sweet dates, baskets of bread, platters of grilled meats, and sweating jugs of beer.
Toward the back a door stood ajar, and he spied what must be the Chief Scribe’s office. Shelves were piled with papyrus scrolls, there were baskets of ostraca shards, and pots crammed with brushes.
"That’s where my father keeps records of all our supplies," Neferet said.
"And we’ll be ordering a pile for you soon enough," Tui added.
"Really? I’ll get my own supplies?" he said without thinking, and then laughed. Of course he would. His own brushes! And paints! It was that single thought, that simple realization, which made Ramses finally realize he’d found a place he truly belonged.
It was afternoon by the time Ramses had a chance to get the Chief Scribe alone.
"I don’t know how else to say this. Except that I need your help."
"I’m listening."
"My aunt and uncle are going to sell my parents’ farm. If I don’t stop them, two of my closest friends will be turned out. They’ll have nowhere to go, nothing."
"I don’t understand. It’s your parents’ farm? Why do you need my help? You’re the legal heir."
"Yes, well, not really."
"I’m listening."
"I think I’d best come with you. I’d like to speak with your aunt and uncle in person."
Accompanied by a handful of sentries, they headed out. At the ruins of the old plough shed, the procession halted.
"Go, we’ll find you as planned," the Chief Scribe said.
Ramses nodded.
Alone, he made his way across the familiar fields. Sheltering his gaze against the afternoon sun, he spotted the farm workers loading the last of the cut wheat into baskets. It all seemed so normal, as if nothing had happened. In the middle of them all, he caught sight of Sobek; he’d recognize those broad shoulders anywhere.
The farm manager turned. When their eyes met, Sobek’s jaw dropped. He looked as if he were seeing a ghost; he hurried to meet him, grabbing him by both shoulders.
"We thought you were dead!"
"Not yet," Ramses said, grinning.
Relief flooded his friend’s face. Still, he said, "Zalika’s furious. It’s not a good idea you show yourself. We need to get you—"
"Wait," Ramses said. "I have something to tell you."
"Not here, we need to get you out of sight. Quickly. Come with me."
"No, she’s not going to make me run away."
Sobek paused. "There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?"
"Sobek, I’m the new apprentice."
His friend stared at him in confusion. "What? How is that possible, they said you were in trouble, guards were looking for you . . ."
"They were." Ramses explained everything. About how he’d lost his papyrus. About Weris and Denger being tomb-robbers—at which point, Sobek’s eyes darkened. He told him about Neferet, and the test in the tent. And finally, how he’d walked down the streets of the Place of Truth to the Chief Scribe’s own house.
Sobek let out a bellow of joy and gave him a crushing hug. "I knew you could do it. We all did." He swiped a tear from his leathery cheek, and laughed. "Wait until Hebony hears about our famous Ramses! In fact, why wait? Go tell her! I’m right behind you."
The men had dropped what they were doing and were heading over.
"Don’t stop!" Sobek shouted. "Let’s get this work done and over with, we have something to celebrate!"
Alone, Ramses skirted the pond. A fish broke the surface and disappeared. It was strange to be here. He slowed when he reached the courtyard. The front door opened.
Aunt Zalika stepped out.
"Ramses," she gasped. She lunged and snatched his wrist. "Come back have you? What have you done? How dare you ruin my good name?" Her cheeks were puffed and red beneath her jeweled headdress. "Sentries came here last night, looking for you! And now here you are, crawling back for handouts. Well you’ll get them all right. This time I won’t stop until those fingers of yours are broken for good."
He was trying to pull away, when her expression changed. The glare drained from her kohl-lined eyes; she attempted a smile. The effect was a sickening grimace.
"But of course," she cooed, "we’re so happy to have you home. Even if we get angry sometimes, you’re like a son to us, you know that." She released his hand. Rigidly, she patted him on the head.
Ramses flinched.
"There will be no more punishments for Ramses," the Chief Scribe said in a voice deep with calm authority. He stood at the side of the house, together with Sobek.
"Punishment? Oh no, of course not!" Aunt Zalika’s hands fluttered. "I’d never really hit the boy. I’d never do anything to harm our little darling." She tried to pat Ramses’ arm.
Ramses sidestepped her.
The Chief Scribe frowned. "I’ve come to tell you that Ramses is master of this farm. You may have been its caretakers, but this house—and this land—has never been yours. If I had my way, you’d be facing the authorities. But your nephew wants to allow you to remain on the farm."
She puckered her mouth at Ramses. "I should hope so! After all we’ve done for him. I’m his aunt."
"Yes, you are," the Chief Scribe said, distaste plain in his voice. "You and your husband will move your things to Ramses’ room. Sobek and Hebony will take over as head of the household, since Ramses has accepted our offer to join us as our new apprentice in the Place of Truth."
Aunt Zalika stared at Ramses. "New apprentice?" After a moment she shook head as if to clear it and said, "Well, why would we move to Ramses room? That’s where our son Sepi sleeps!"
The Chief Scribe glanced at Ramses, confused.
"Not my old room," Ramses said. "The room where I’ve been sleeping since my parents died."
"You mean . . ." Aunt Zalika paled. "That goat pen? That dank hole? That’s barely fit for a servant. Or, I mean . . ."
"Exactly," the Chief Scribe said. "And it will take many years to repay your debt to Ramses."
One of the guards stepped from the house. "The Weris fellow is gone."
Hebony was right on his heels. "Of course he’s gone," she said, swiping flour from her cheek. "What’s all this chaos, then, what’s happened, what’s he done?" She stopped dead at the sight of Ramses. "Ramses!" She glanced from face to face and then rushed to throw her arms around him. "You’re okay."
"He’s more than okay," Sobek said.
When she heard the news, she rejoiced, screaming, howling, and jumping up and down like a girl half her age.
"My sentiments exactly," the Chief Scribe said.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Only one person remained who hadn’t heard the news: Sepi. Ramses stomach churned with worry. How would his best friend feel about everything? But there was no point in waiting. He wiped his damp palms on his kilt and headed into the cool interior.
"Sepi?" Ramses said, shoving open the door to Sepi’s room.
He stopped dead.
Sepi was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the priest with the serpent tattoo sat at Sepi’s desk. The sight sent terror whip-lashing down Ramses’ spine.
It was as if he’d sprung up from the memory that had haunted his dreams all these years. The priest still wore the white, sacred robes, and his head was shaved, save for the sacred lock of hair tied in a ribbon at his neck.
"You," Ramses whispered.
"Come here, my child," the man said.
When Ramses had been three, the priest had towered over him; yet now the man seemed so much smaller. And his gaze didn’t look ready to spit fire; instead the hazel eyes that studied Ramses’ face looked wise and intense.
"You told me I was cursed!" Ramses said.
"I understand you have faced challenges, these long years."
"Am I cursed then? Was it true?"
"Perhaps you know better than I."
"Me? You want me to say? That’s not enough! You made a prophesy about me. And now you say I’m the one who’s supposed to know the truth?"
The room fell silent.
Finally the priest spoke. "All of our days are shared between darkness and light."
"Tell me the truth! Am I, or am I not?"
"I have tried many times to foresee your future. As a priest, it is my duty to guard this world from evil."
Ramses shifted uncomfortably.
"Your father was a man of strong will. He and your mother called what you do a gift. An accidental gift. And because of them, you chose to see it that way too. Their belief helped set you on a path. A path very much different than the one destined for you."
"Which was what? Why were you so afraid?"
"When I saw you, when I saw so much power had fallen into the hands of a boy—the markings of a dark power that . . ."
"Dark power? That’s not true!"
"Only as long as you use them for good purpose. But you know what I speak of. You’ve felt the power in your creations. They are not mere drawings, Ramses. They have life. They become alive. And your power is growing stronger."
"What’s that supposed to mean? What are you saying?"
"I don’t know. But in the Place of Truth, your ski
lls will be safe."
An ominous shiver pricked at his skin. "Safe from what?"
The man looked away. "I am only a priest. I can’t live your life. One thing I know, you’ve found your way this far. I’m afraid some paths are beyond my ability to see."
Ramses wanted to get more out of him. He had a lot more questions.
"My blessings go with you," the priest said, holding up his hand to signal the conversation was over.
There was a sound in the hallway. Sepi appeared in the doorway, his eyes bright. "Is it true?" he said, stepping inside. "You’re the new apprentice?"
Ramses nodded, searching his cousin’s face. "Yes, but Sepi—"
Sepi shouted with a strength that surprised Ramses. "I knew this would happen! Last night sentries came looking for you. All night, I knew! Somehow, I could feel it! I knew you were the new apprentice."
"Sepi, there’s something I have to tell you."
"What’s wrong? You look worried."
"You’re my best friend, and I’d never want to hurt you."
"How could you hurt me?"
"It’s . . . about your parents. After what happened—the Chief Scribe wanted them to go to court."
Sepi said nothing.
"But I made an agreement with him."
Sepi listened as Ramses explained. When he was done, he said, "I’m sorry Sepi, I didn’t know what else to do."
"You did the right thing," Sepi said.
Ramses met his cousin’s gaze. "I did?"
"It’s a lot better than worrying they’re in some jail."
"So you don’t hate me?"
"Of course not. You’re my best friend. And my parents will live." He went to the window. The hot sunlight colored his pale skin.
Ramses joined him. From there he could see his old cell door.
"You know what?" Sepi said softly. "Maybe it will even be good for them." He faced Ramses, a twinkle in his gray eyes. "But don’t you dare tell them I said that."
"It’s time you finished packing," the old priest said.
Ramses glanced back at the man. What was he talking about? He had nothing to pack.
