“How do you know?” Tamit asked.
“Every farmer can tell by how much and where the river drops mud on his fields what the yield will be,” Ramose said. “As our fathers could before us, and our sons will after us.”
“Why didn’t you speak up when the king assessed your grain?” Tamit asked.
“Challenge the king? Would he listen if I did?” Ramose glanced at me. His face reddened too. “Begging your pardon, Majesty.”
“My wife asked for the truth.” Of course Father wouldn’t have listened. He’d have made Ramose pay for disputing him.
“Sometimes royals do listen,” Tamit said, taking hold of my arm. “Though sometimes it’s hard to get their attention.”
“Which you have today, Ramose,” I said. “I suggest you take advantage of the opportunity.”
“Yes, Majesty. Thank you, Majesty,” Hatnufer said, jabbing Ramose in the side with her elbow.
Tamit laughed. “Sometimes it’s hard to get a commoner’s attention too, isn’t it Hatnufer.”
She laughed as well. Some of the tension eased.
“Will you do something for me, Ramose?” Tamit asked.
“Of course, Majesty.”
“I want you to visit every farmer in this region. I want you to figure out how many measures of emmer and barley he expects to grow this season. I want you to determine how many mouths are dependent on that food. Can you do that for me?”
“Of course, Majesty.”
“Do you want to know about the other crops too, Majesty?” Hatnufer asked. “Emmer takes six months to ripen. Barley three. Same with peas and lentils. Beans take four months.”
“Clover for cattle is ready to cut in two months, and a second crop about the same amount of time. We leave the third crop for seed,” Ramose said.
“We grow watermelons on the riverbank too,” Hatnufer added.
“Concentrate on emmer and barley for now,” I directed. Those grains were most critical for the war effort and for guarding against famine.
“I’m going to send a man to you in the morning, Ramose,” Tamit said. “A scribe. He’ll visit the farms with you. He’ll make a record of what each farmer tells you. Iry and I will come back a week from today to talk everything over with you and him.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Tell the farmers you’ve been ordered to gather this information by Iry, son of King Scorpion,” I said. “Tell them if they don’t cooperate they’ll answer to me.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“You should give him a stick,” Tamit said practically.
“Good idea. Have your scribe bring one to Ramose tomorrow.”
Tamit surveyed Ramose’s farm. “Why are there ditches in the dry section of your field?”
“I dug them two years ago, for irrigation,” Ramose replied.
“What’s irrigation?” Tamit asked. “I’ve lived in a settlement my whole life. I don’t know anything about farming.”
“Irrigation means bringing water to a field, Majesty.” Ramose pointed to a low-lying area still covered with water about a quarter mile to the west. “That’s a natural basin. This region’s blessed with some large long narrow ones.”
“They’re everywhere in the valley, Tamit,” I interjected. “There’s not a settlement or hamlet without one.”
Ramose nodded. “Since the valley tips in both directions – the riverbanks are higher than the base of the western and eastern plateaus – water flows into the basins during the inundation and drains out as the river recedes.”
“But half your field is dry, Ramose,” Tamit noted. “You said the inundations have been low. How did water get so far to the west?”
“Ditches. Just like mine, Majesty. My neighbors and I got together the year after the first low inundation and dug ditches from the riverbank to the basin. The following year, when the river didn’t rise high enough to spill over the riverbank, we cut many openings in the bank. Water flowed through the openings and into the ditches and across the dry part of the plain and into the basin. When the basin was as full as it was going to get we blocked the ends of the ditches so the water couldn’t flow out. After that, we dug ditches from the basin to our farms and across our fields, like the ones you see. During the growing season we’ll release water from the basin to keep our crops from withering in the heat.”
“You can grow crops on land the inundation didn’t reach. Interesting.”
“We were able to grow just enough extra emmer to survive the last two years,” Ramose said. “Otherwise we would’ve starved.”
“My father says there are ways to use the water in the basins more effectively,” Hatnufer volunteered.
“How?” I asked.
“We could build dikes around the basins. We’d be able to trap more water in them. The water would last longer. We might be able to store enough to grow a second crop on the same fields.”
“But farmers would have to work in concert to build dikes and maintain them,” Ramose said. “No one will unless the king directs them to. And someone would have to be in charge of rationing the water, so individual farmers didn’t use more than their share.”
“I’m going to give that some thought,” I promised. “We may talk about this again, Ramose.”
“You know where to find me, Majesty,” Ramose said.
Hatnufer indicated Tamit’s stomach. “How long, Majesty?”
“Six months. Perhaps a little less.”
“Your first?”
“Yes.”
“Wait here.”
Hatnufer ran into her hut. She emerged a moment later. She pressed a piece of stone carved in the shape of a pregnant hippo into Tamit’s hand. “This amulet protected me during my pregnancies. It’ll protect you too.”
I could tell Tamit was touched. “Thank you, Hatnufer. We’ll talk again.”
“I’d like that.”
***
“Come with more bad news about my war effort?” Father asked as Tamit and I entered his room in the per’aa a week and a half after our first discussion with Ramose and Hatnufer. Tamit and I had visited their farm twice since.
“In a way, Father. But this news is even more pressing. It concerns Tjeni’s grain supply. Or lack thereof.”
Father waved the serving girls who were attending him out of the room. He leaned forward in his chair, forearms resting on his thighs, concerned. “What do you mean?”
“Tjeni’s granaries are less than half full and won’t be replenished by this year’s harvest. They’ll be nearly empty after you feed everyone in Tjeni you support this year. As far as launching an attack on Nubt? There won’t be enough grain available to feed an army for the foreseeable future.”
“The overseer of my granaries hasn’t warned me of a shortfall,” Father said.
“He doesn’t know how to figure out if there’ll be one or not,” Tamit said.
Father frowned. “But you do? After a mere month in Tjeni?”
“I’ve calculated how much emmer and barley your fields will produce this season, Father, and how much you’ll need to feed everyone who’s dependent on you,” Tamit said evenly. “So, yes, I do.” She was used to dealing with disbelieving men.
“Based on?” Father snapped. He was behaving predictably.
“I directed a local farmer to visit every farmer in the region who owes you fealty,” Tamit replied. “Farmers know based on the inundation how much grain they’ll produce. Subtracting the amount farmers need to feed their families, too little grain will flow into Tjeni this harvest season to feed all your elites and dependents. Based on that number, and the amount of grain currently in your granaries, you’ll exhaust your reserves.”
“But Mekatre built dozens of new granaries to feed the army!” Father protested.
“They’re very nice granaries, Father,” Tamit said. “Beautiful, actually. Every one of them completely empty.”
Father straightened and slammed his fist on the arm of his chair.
“We can
fix the problem, Father,” I said hurriedly. “I’ve already sent a messenger to Sety. He’ll transport this year’s entire delta barley harvest to Tjeni instead of Ineb-hedj. I know for a fact that Ineb-hedj’s granaries contain enough emmer and barley to support its population for at least two years. I’ve also ordered Sety to begin transporting a year’s worth of Ineb-hedj’s emmer to us immediately. This is the very reason I constructed additional granaries at Ineb-hedj – to support Tjeni in time of need.”
“You were thinking ahead, Iry. Lucky for us. But why involve Sety instead of Lagus?”
“Frankly, Father, Sety knows how to do what needs to be done, from harvesting to collecting to transporting. Remember – the delta supplies Ineb-hedj only with barley. Sety’s been trading some of the delta crop with hamlets in the middle of the valley for their emmer to support Ineb-hedj for years. Lagus has no idea about any of this. Grain’s too important to make this crisis a learning experience for him.”
“Agreed,” Father said reluctantly.
“We should send farmers from here to the delta to establish new estates on vacant land too, right away,” Tamit said. “If they leave this week they’ll arrive a little after the inundation has fully subsided in the North. They’ll be able to get a crop in this season. There’s plenty of land available. That’ll give us even more grain.”
“Fewer farmers means even fewer soldiers,” Father groused.
“Soldiers can’t fight if you can’t feed them,” Tamit observed.
“As you know, Niay built me a fleet when I ran Ineb-hedj, Father,” I continued. “Counting the boat he’s currently constructing here at Tjeni, there’ll be at least six vessels with sails available by harvest time. Sety can use those boats for grain transport. If low inundations continue, we’ll also send Sety the vessels Niay’s going to construct for the war effort in future years. If we can’t use them to wage war we’ll use them to feed Tjeni.”
“It’s a good thing I brought you back from Ineb-hedj,” Father admitted. “Both of you.”
It had been a very good thing, I realized – especially for advancement of my quest to become king. I might have lost Ineb-hedj as a selling point, but now I had new ones. I was going to make sure the elites knew the dire nature of our grain shortage and how I was solving it. And how horrible the preparations for war had been and how I was turning them around. The grain and the war were actually far more impactful and visible to Tjeni’s elites than what I’d done at Ineb-hedj, possibly more likely to garner their support.
“Food supply will become a much greater problem once you unify the South, Father,” Tamit said. “You’ll have a larger court to support if you want to keep your throne – not just here in Tjeni, but in Nubt and Nekhen too.”
“It’s not going to be like it has been for generations anymore, Father,” I said. “Used to be a ruler’s court consisted of a dozen elites who owed him fealty and craftsmen who supplied him with luxury goods to keep the elites happy, and his servants and their families. Maybe fifty or sixty people. But now? Your court numbers in the thousands. Elites and craftspeople and servants and boatmen and guards and officials and men to track goods, and their families. You added dependents when I created Ineb-hedj and you founded Sakan. Every time you conquer a swath of the valley in the future you’re going to increase the size of your court even more.”
“Plus, you’ll have to ensure far more commoners have enough to eat and are protected from enemies than today,” Tamit added.
“Which means a need for more grain in your granaries to withstand extended droughts, and feed an army, and support settlements you capture in case their supply of grain is low.”
“If lack of grain threatens the position of elites you’ll lose their support,” Tamit averred.
“Even more dangerous Father – too many droughts and too little grain will make you dependent on the one section of the valley that’s practically immune to problems because of its limitless cultivable land – the delta. Imagine if Pe and Dep ever united the North – they could dictate terms to you.”
Father leaned back in his chair. “Have you brought me a solution, or are you dropping the problem in my lap?”
“We wouldn’t be serving you well if we didn’t bring you solutions, Father,” Tamit said. “A few weeks ago, Iry and I observed first-hand how you assess your share of grain from farmers.”
“The trouble is, Father, you have no idea what your share truly is,” I said.
“Controlling grain’s no different than controlling goods,” Tamit said, business-like. “You simply need to know how much you have in your granaries and how much you need to support your dependents and how much you need to reserve to withstand drought or support a siege by your army.”
“And you can calculate all this, I suppose?”
“Of course. Every farmer knows, based on the height of the inundation, how much grain his farm will produce. A record of this should be made when you assign fields. At that time, knowing how many dependents the farmer has and what he need to support them, you can calculate how much grain you’ll receive. Add that up from all the farms, subtract out the amount you need for your dependents – which I’ve already determined, Father – and for your army and such and you’ll know if you’re going to have a surplus or shortfall. If a shortfall you can either obtain more grain from the delta or put more land near Tjeni in production, using irrigation.”
“I suppose some farmer’s explained irrigation to you?”
“They’re the experts, Father,” I said. “I’ve had good luck listening to experts.” I glanced at Tamit.
Father smiled. “I suppose you have.”
“I’ll need to train scribes to accompany you when you assign fields and make the grain assessments from now on, then track the crops after they’re grown to make sure you get your share, and monitor the granaries. More mouths for you to feed, but worth the investment.”
“Put your controls in place, Tamit,” Father ordered. “You’re in charge of making sure my granaries are kept full from now on.”
“Did you just appoint Tamit an overseer?” I asked Father in mock horror.
He shook his head, then laughed. “I suppose I did.”
“I won’t disappoint you, Father,” Tamit assured him.
Father addressed me. “As long as you’re here, Iry, there’s something we need to discuss.”
“Should I leave?” Tamit asked.
“No.”
“As you wish.”
“Iry, I want you to take charge of constructing my grave. I was going to have Mekatre do it, but after he botched the war…”
“A grave now, Father?” Tamit interrupted. “You surely won’t die for a long time.”
“We rulers never leave our grave to our successor,” Father replied. “What if the elites pick someone besides one of my sons? He’d put me in a hole in the ground and move on.”
“Where will you be buried, Father?” Tamit asked.
“Abdju.”
“Where’s that?”
“A day’s journey by boat south of here,” I said. “A small hamlet.”
“Why there?”
“According to the old stories, the most prominent of our earliest ancestors who settled in this valley believed the entrance to the underworld lay in the cliffs nearby,” Father explained. “They dug their graves there. Generations of successors, even those who settled farther north or south in the valley, had themselves buried at Abdju too, to give them legitimacy and the magical protection of their forebears. Nekhen’s rulers were an exception, with their own royal cemetery. But rulers from Tjeni – and even some from Nubt – are always buried at Abdju. Including my immediate predecessors Bull and Elephant.”
“Has your grave been started, Father?” I asked.
“No.”
“Graves in the delta are simple pits,” Tamit said. “Are they so different in the South that a king’s son must be in charge?”
“Elephant and Bull’s tombs are the most elaborat
e ever created at Abdju,” Father said. “Both have three large underground chambers – one for burial and two for goods. Every important grave at Abdju has dirt mounded over it, representing the primordial mound at the dawn of creation.”
“Two chambers won’t hold all the grave goods Iry and I accumulated for you when we lived at Ineb-hedj unless they’re absolutely monstrous,” Tamit observed.
“No king’s ever been as wealthy as me, Tamit, and has had influence in so much of the valley,” Father said.
Thanks to my creation of Ineb-hedj, and the death of Maadi, and the founding of Sakan, and Father gaining control over trade routes in the North.
“My grave must reflect my status.”
“Manpower?” I asked.
“Local farmers during the inundation. As many as you need.”
I looked at Tamit. “Guess I’ll be building a grave along with everything else.”
“We’ll be building,” she corrected.
3256 BC: 10th regnal year of Scorpion, King of Tjeni
Peret (Seed)
Matia
The heads of the three most important elite families filed into Father’s room to hear a report from a spy Pentu had planted in King Scorpion’s court. Ani was Sabu’s uncle, Bebi was my cousin, and Maya had been Hetshet’s uncle. Pentu was convinced each had a spy of his own in Tjeni – after four years, Scorpion’s blockade had the elites at each others’ throats. None trusted any of the others. That Father still sat his throne was due to Pentu and me holding his and my families firm behind him. Sabu’s relatives constantly advocated for war; the minor elites, in secret, occasionally debated whether to deliver Sabu to King Scorpion so Nubt’s very existence would no longer be threatened.
I’d returned to the per’aa a few hours ago after spending several weeks on Harwa’s farm. I’d been attending Khentetka; she’d given birth to her first child, a daughter, named Matia after me. I’d taken with me the midwife who’d delivered my son Pabasa two years ago. I’d named him after an ancestor, the trader Abar had sent to Nubt from Nekhen almost two hundred years earlier. I’d mixed dates with emmer and herbs and bandaged them to Khentetka’s stomach to free her child. I’d rubbed behen oil and saffron mixed with beer on her belly during her labor to ease her pain. I’d drawn protective circles around her birth bower with a curved carved wand of hippo ivory. I’d assisted Khentetka as she’d squatted, naked and drenched with sweat, on the birthing bricks, caught Little Matia as she entered the world, washed her, put her in my joyful friend’s arms.
House of Scorpion Page 31
