The City of Refuge: Book 1 of The Memphis Cycle

by Diana Wilder

  Books by Diana Wilder

  The Memphis Cycle:

  City of Refuge

  Mourningtide

  Pharaoh's Son:

  A Killing Among the Dead

  Paris, 1834

  The Orphan's Tale, Book I

  The American Civil War:

  The Safeguard, A Novel of Georgia in 1864

  Copyright © 2011 Diana Wilder

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  I: THE CITY OF AKHET-ATEN

  II TWENTY FIVE YEARS LATER:

  III

  IV

  V Khemnu

  VI Khebet

  VII Camp, Near Khebet

  VIII Akhet-Aten

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI Along The Northern Track

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV Sumneh

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  XL

  XLI Among The Tombs

  XLII

  XLIII

  XLIV

  XLV

  XLVI The Temple Of The Aten

  XLVII

  XLVIII

  XLIX

  L

  LI

  LII

  LIII

  LIV

  LV

  LVI In Memphis

  LVII

  LVIII Questions Answered

  AFTERWORD

  A Word From The Author

  PREVIEW OF MOURNINGTIDE

  MOURNINGTIDE

  CHAPTER I: Canaan Reign Of Seti I, Year 3

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  About The Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to acknowledge my enormous debt to my friends and family who put up with me and my 'writerly ways' for years, provided gracious and truthful feedback, listened to my thoughts on plots and characters and read (over and over) my proposed chapters. That I managed to not only survive, but to complete this book says a great deal for their good humor, kindness and affection. Thank you, all. This one is for you.

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  Akhenaten Pharaoh of the XVIIIth Dynasty; initially ruled as Amenhotep IV

  Akhet-Aten Akhenaten's capitol city

  Aten The sun-disk; object of Akhenaten's worship

  Hatshepset Khonsu's sister

  Horemheb Pharaoh

  Huni Mayor of Khebet

  Huy Pharaoh who reigned before Ay

  Karoya Khonsu's second at Akhet-Aten

  Khonsu Commander of the Army of the 15th Nome

  Mersu Master Sculptor

  Nakht Vizier of Egypt under Akhenaten

  Neb-Aten Son of Nakht

  Nebamun Second ranking priest of Ptah;

  Nehesi Master Quarryman

  Paser Commander of Ptah’s Temple Guard

  Ptahemhat Captain of Nebamun's personal guard

  Rahu Royal Messenger

  Ramesses General of the Armies

  Sennefer Master-Surgeon

  Seti Son of Ramesses; General

  Sherit. Khonsu's daughter

  Sitra Youngest daughter of Nebamun

  Thutmose, Prince High Priest of Ptah, brother of Akhenaten

  Udjat Amulet in the shape of the eye of Horus

  I THE CITY OF AKHET-ATEN

  Reign of Tutankhamun, Year 2

  The midnight wind whispered through the clefts in the rock with the sound of distant voices. The man gazed down on the river curving away to the southeast like a road of silver gleaming in the starlight. His team of horses was tethered on the crest of the hill behind him; he heard the jingle of harness as one of them shook its head and stamped.

  He drew his cloak closer about himself. Was he a fool to wait here? He shivered and lowered his head to gaze again at the city, far below. Perhaps. What other weapon had he? Now it was growing late, and every moment was precious.

  “My Lord?”

  His hand clenched about the amulet at his neck as he looked up to the man silhouetted against the stars. He spoke calmly over the sudden pounding of his heart. “You come late. Did he send his reply?”

  “He did, my lord. He said 'So be it'.”

  The man turned away, one hand to his throat, staring unseeingly down over the cliffs. 'So be it'? It couldn't be true! The other was watching him as he turned back. “Did you tell him all that I said?”

  “He wouldn't listen, my lord. He turned and left as I was speaking.”

  The man covered his face. “Oh, my son...”

  The other watched him. “I have carried out my charge. The result was unfortunate, but that is not my fault. Do you have my payment?”

  The man extended his arm, to show a heavy gold bracelet that encased his forearm from the wrist a third of the way to the elbow. He removed the clasping pin and opened it.

  The other took the bracelet and turned it in his hands, scowling at it in the starlight.

  The man watched him with an ironic smile. “How could you, of all people, believe that I would cheat you? There is the king's name, and the mark of your teeth from yesterday. Match your teeth to it and see that they fit.”

  The other looked up. “Forgive me, my lord, but these are desperate times.”

  “Perhaps,” the man said. “But even in desperate times I refuse to behave desperately. Go quickly now. If Pharaoh's guards catch you here on this errand, it will go hard with you and I won't be able to protect you.”

  The other looked up from the bracelet that he was settling on his wrist. “I am sorry, my lord.”

  “Don't be,” said the man. “It is for me to mend matters as well as I may. Go while it is safe.”

  He watched the other pass over the spine of the hills. Hooves sounded a moment later, fading away northward.

  He waited a little longer alone under the stars. When the sound was gone he moved through a natural gateway and stepped into a torchlit chamber hewn into the rock of the hillside.

  The torch caught bright colors, lapis blue, malachite green, and the glint of gold. A lavish feast was depicted on the walls deeper into the room, past a gallery of pillars depicting the gods.

  The sculptor had done a splendid job. Tables piled with food of every type, fruits, fresh-baked breads, haunches of beef, grilled fish… Wine stood in tall jars, filled cups were raised everywhere. He moved down the ranks of guests, the carved and painted features of those who had once been his friends. He turned a shoulder to the smooth, shallow faces and lowered his eyes to the form of a little boy crouching beneath his chair, one arm tucked around the neck of a large, gray cat, the other holding his father about the ankle. The man's somber face lightened in a smile as his mind superimposed the living features of his grown son upon the child's skillfully carved face.

  It was too late for him, he thought, touching the boy's painted cheek with gentle fingertips. But not for his son. This night's work was his only hope of turning him from a disastrous course that would destroy him. Maybe one day the lad would be able to understand and forgive.

  Midnight was long past; dawn was approaching. He drew a shaking breath and looked back over his shoulder at the tomb entry. He shoul
d leave.

  But he lingered a moment to gaze upon the chests of garments, the beds hung and padded with finest linen, the boxes filled with his jewels and, there in the corner, one holding the collection of silver cups, chased with scenes of animals and flowers, gracefully fluted and glinting in the glow of the torches as though they had been cast of moonlight. They had been a gift from the king of the Hittites to him, personally, as Vizier of the realm.

  He opened the box and took one of the cups, remembering all the feasts where he had drunk wine from it. Now Hatti was the mightiest power in the Levant, while he- But he paused, remembering. Perhaps one more drink. In celebration...

  He tucked the cup into the breast of his tunic, selected a jar of the finest wine, and lifted it into the crook of his arm. Yes, one last toast would be proper. He went outside again to his chariot

  ** ** **

  The royal road lay ruined in the starlight, the, spacious courtyards bordering it all empty now, the statues of the king smashed and scattered. The eyes of his memory filled the road with cheering people, their bright garments and jewels glinting in the sun that flashed from the diadem on the king's brow. He saw again the long jawed, aquiline face he had once loved. How many times had his king and cousin stood in that spot and showered him with the gold of honor while the court applauded? And what had happened to all the applauders now that the king had gone into the west leaving others to salvage the wreckage of his empire?

  The streets were silent and cloaked with the night once more, the Window of Appearances empty and dark. He shook the reins; the horses moved into a smooth trot that whirled him along with frightening speed toward the end of his journey.

  His house lay silent as he approached, but a figure detached itself from the shadows and came forward to take hold of the horses' bridle as the man drew the team to a halt. “You are late, my lord! Pharaoh's guards came to ask after you twice this evening. I said you would return, and they thought about it and left. They will come again in the morning.”

  The man handed the reins to his Major-Domo. “I am sorry, Neterkhet. All will be settled in the morning: General Horemheb himself has promised.” He stepped down from the chariot. Is the basket on the balcony?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Neterkhet replied. “But I-”

  “Very good,” the man said. He read the question in Neterkhet's eyes. “My son's reply was 'so be it.' He is pursuing a course of mad folly. There is nothing else that I can do. Walk the horses to their stables, deliver your message, and then go to bed, yourself. I won't require your services any more.”

  Neterkhet started to turn away. A moment later he was on his knees with the other's hand clasped between his, tears spilling down his cheeks. “My dearest lord-” he began, “If you could only wait—”

  “I had to choose between saving my son or myself, and I have made my choice. You're needed elsewhere. Now go with all the gods and do what you have been charged to do.” He added, “And keep yourself safe for your mistress' sake and mine.”

  Neterkhet wept as he pushed slowly to his feet. The man watched him leave, then turned and went into the house.

  He moved silently through the chambers he had once shared with his wife, climbed a short flight of steps and came out to a loggia that opened to a view of the high cliffs lying to the northeast, forming a gateway to the city. A gilded chair had been drawn up facing the east. A rush basket, securely tied with a cord and sealed with a pinch of clay, rustled and shifted slightly as he touched it. He set the jar of wine beside the chair. The sky was paling to the east.

  He removed his cloak and shook out his robe. The pleats had survived the long night, and while his sandals were dusty, they were still splendid. A moment's work with a comb set his hair in order. He opened the small box by the door, took out the four golden collars of honor and set them carefully about his neck.

  Almost time.

  He lifted the jar of wine, broke the clay seal and removed the plug of rushes. The wine chimed softly as it filled the silver cup.

  He drained the cup, savoring the taste as the questions came crowding around him.

  Was he responsible for the disasters of the past reign, as his enemies said? He had done his best. Were he not concerned with the rescue of another, he might have waited to see if his star would ascend once more. As it was, he had no time. He had made arrangements with the most honorable and steadfast of his remaining friends: his only son, whom he loved more than life, would be safely settled under the powerful protection of a great lord, but saving him from the results of his disastrous folly required that he sacrifice his own life.

  He poured a last measure of wine and set the jar aside. He leaned forward and broke the seal on the basket, loosening the knot with shaking hands. He set the lid aside, his right hand clenched about the carnelian amulet at his neck.

  He heard the rustling again, like a faint breeze, and watched as a hint of movement within the shadows resolved itself into the glint of growing dawn upon a sleek head set with unblinking dark eyes.

  He sat back.

  The head reared up above the rim of the basket, the eyes fixed on his.

  He lifted the wine to his lips. The head swayed, lowered to the basket rim. The long, lithe body flowed smoothly down over the rough weave like a stream of wine trickling across a bed of gravel.

  The head raised again as he set the cup down and reached toward it. The body lashed backward with a hiss as the hood distended.

  The man flinched, mastered himself, and moved his hand toward the swaying head. A flash of movement almost too swift to be seen left two marks on the webbing of his thumb. The head turned, lowered-

  “No,” he said. “Come back to me. I still have need of you-” He gasped at another quick stab of pain to his forearm, but held the snake by the body and drew it toward him. “Once more,” he said. “Then we are quit of each other.”

  He broke the cobra's neck with a quick twist of hands that were beginning to lose their strength. “There. Now you shall harm no one else.

  His lips were slightly numb, and the periphery of his vision seemed to be darkening. He sighed, closed his eyes and drifted. He had not thought death would be so gentle. But all was settled, and those he loved would be safe.

  An eternity seemed to pass, marked by the slowing beat of his heart. The stab of grief at his son's answer had ebbed when he opened his eyes again. There was treachery somewhere: his son would never have consented to his father's death. It was past mending for him, but the boy was intelligent. He would sort it all out in time, and until then he would be safe.

  “For well or ill, it will soon be over,” he whispered through stiffening lips. “The treasure I am gaining is worth the price. And, let them say what they may, I was Vizier of Egypt.”

  He closed his eyes and opened them some time later to watch the sun's birth through the Gateway to the North, his eyes dazzled by the light in his gathering darkness, his mind filled with the carved image of his son sitting beneath his father's chair and cuddling the family cat as a great state feast proceeded about him.

  II TWENTY FIVE YEARS LATER:

  The City Of Akhet-Aten

  Reign Of Horemheb, Year 13

  The cliffs loomed oppressive as the memory of fevered dreams. The afternoon sun had transformed them into a landscape of beaten brass. The wind, wailing through the narrow valleys, carried no breath of coolness.

  The man shivered despite the heat of the sun and drew his light cloak closer about himself. He turned south toward the city and became, for that moment, the ambitious young man who had seized an opportunity and wrenched fate to his will, winning power and wealth as he did.

  The ruined city lay far away below the cliffs, cradled in the green valley nurtured by the Nile. A ridge of rock hid the ruins from his sight, but he could feel its presence through the stone like the blows of a chisel. The eye of his mind gave those blows substance and shape, cutting through the glare and the heat to recall the city bathed in starlight and swept by a col
d wind on the night he seized his opportunity and turned fate in his favor. The cost had been high. And yet... That night's work had brought him to princely riches...

  He had forgotten that night over the past twenty-five years as a conqueror forgets the wars he has fought. The years had passed. The young man who had stood there was older now, armored by the past years' successes. But now the strife was in his mind once more, and the fear. The memory of the starlight, the wind, and the darkness combined with the terrible reality of the whine and thud of the arrows pursuing him. Arrows that had been fletched by a long-forgotten hand, bearing messages written by one who had been in his grave, swathed in linen and sheeted in rock, for years.

  That first arrow and its message from the dead had brought the memories back. His hands shook as he slid two fingers beneath his belt and drew out a tattered scrap of papyrus bearing a line of writing set down in faded ink. The characters were distinctive; the writer had been a splendid scribe and a better archer.

  There had to be a trick. His hands shaking with fear and fury, he read the writing and then crumpled the papyrus and flung it away from him. It broke and scattered into light flakes, caught by a swirl of wind and spun away down the cliff.

  The rising tide of anger braced him; he growled a curse and strode to the edge of the cliff to glare down at the city. He blinked away the shadows of his memories and forced himself to see the city for the decayed heap of mud brick and stone rubble that it really was. Wrecked, ruined, decayed, and yet a rich mine for those who knew how to work it properly.

  Sometimes the greatest profit is found in death, he thought, and it made him smile. His fingers smoothed the heavy curve of his armlet in a motion made meaningless after years of repetition. He was a fool to let himself be frightened by the shadows of past deeds when the present held so much.

  The sound of hurrying feet turned his thoughts from death, treachery and profit. He stared down along the path leading across the cliff face. The track wound back and forth up the cliff walls from the quarry opening, switching back three times before reaching the top. The lad was coming toward him. He folded his arms and waited as the young man negotiated the final turn before pausing breathlessly on the slight ledge below him.