House of Dreams

by Pauline Gedge

  I did so, bringing up the copper mirror in some trepidation, then gasped at what I saw. An exotic creature gazed back at me, the dark paint now emphasizing the startling clarity of my blue eyes so that they dominated my face over cheekbones that had suddenly become delicately patrician. My brown skin had a healthy sheen to it. The red mouth was parted in surprise, the lips full and lush. “It’s magic,” I whispered, and the image mimicked my words. The eyes narrowed seductively then widened. I could not put the mirror down. Disenk chuckled, obviously complimented.

  “Not magic, Thu,” she said. “Any proficient cosmetician can make beautiful that which is truly ugly, but painting you requires no skill. You are an easy assignment.”

  Something in her artless words chilled me. Slowly I lowered the mirror. I wanted to ask her what all this pampering was for. After all, Hui had brought me to Pi-Ramses only to be his servant. Or was there another reason? Had he lied when he told my father that he would guard my virginity more closely than Father himself had done? Was I being prepared for his bed? Suddenly I felt suffocated. Disenk was combing my hair in long, sure strokes but her touch no longer seemed pleasurable.

  “I am flattered that the Master has seen fit to take such a personal interest in me,” I managed clumsily. “Surely not all his servants are accorded this attention.” Her movements did not falter. The comb continued to glide through my heavy tresses.

  “All the house servants must be physically acceptable and presentable,” she pointed out. “Forgive me, Thu, but when I first saw you yesterday I might have mistaken you for a kitchen slave. Many important people come here. The servants must reflect the taste and elegance of the establishment.”

  I was somewhat reassured but not altogether convinced. Not every servant had a sumptuous room to herself, of that I was sure, for did not Disenk herself sleep in the passageway and was she not, by her own admission, my body servant as well as my teacher? I resolved to question Harshira though the prospect was horrifying. Disenk was binding a blue ribbon round my forehead and arranging its ends to fall one over each shoulder. She reached for a jar, broke the wax seal on it, and using another bone stick she anointed me with the contents, pressing gently under my ears, in the hollow of my neck, against my inner elbows. She stroked it through my hair, and gradually the light but pervasive tang of oil of saffron filled the atmosphere. “There!” she said with evident satisfaction. “Now for your sheath and sandals and you will be ready.”

  I stood woodenly as she pulled the garment expertly over my head, avoiding contact with my face, and settled it tight to my body. The linen was white and fine, softer than anything I had ever felt let alone worn, even softer than the kilt Father had brought home so triumphantly for Pa-ari. It draped itself around my slight curves as though it had been made for no one else. A slit up one side would allow me to walk and I looked down admiringly but warily at my provocative length as Disenk put the sandals on my feet. “Remember, Thu,” she warned me, straightening and regarding her handiwork critically, “you must not lope. The sheath will allow small, polite steps, very graceful, very becoming, and you will soon become used to its restriction. A lady does not gallop.” She went to the door and called sharply. A boy entered promptly and bowed. “He will take you to Harshira,” she said, and I turned about and left her, feeling as though I was being torn from my mother’s arms.

  The little slave moved confidently ahead of me along the passage while I teetered after him. My natural stride was long and within a very short time I was in danger of falling on my face as the sheath caught me with every move. At the head of the stairs leading down to the centre of the house I paused. I had had enough. “Wait!” I called to my silent guide, and bending, I examined the stitches in the side of the sheath where the slit ended. They were tight. My mother would have approved of the skill they exhibited. Nevertheless I worked at them until they loosened then I picked several of them undone. The slit was now above my knee but I did not care. The boy was looking at me aghast, as though I had stopped to actually take off the stupid garment. “What are you staring at?” I snapped at him, half in annoyance and half incredulous at my own temerity, and he raised his hands to me, palms skyward, in the ancient gesture of submission and apology and turned away.

  I squared my shoulders in defence and anticipation as we came to the foot of the stairs, but the table where the Chief Steward had sat only the day before was empty. The boy marched past it, turned left away from the main reception hall so that we faced the large, open doorway that gave out onto the rear garden and estate wall, then left again along an inside corridor. The distance was not great. A closed door barred our way. He knocked, was bidden to enter, did so, announced me loudly and succinctly, then slipped past me and vanished. I walked into the room.

  It was full of light and I realized immediately that it lay directly under my quarters, for I could see the front courtyard with the waist-high wall, the gate and the trees clustering beyond. A gardener was just disappearing into the far shade, tools over his shoulder, and a kilted young man strode casually past the window. I could hear his sandals tapping on the paving. This is a good place for the office of the Chief Steward, I thought, even as I came to a halt and bowed. He can see everyone who comes and goes. Nothing will escape him during the daylight hours. I wonder where he sleeps?

  The man himself was sitting, as before, behind a table, but this one was massive and laden with papyrus scrolls of every size. A silver dish piled with wrinkled purple pomegranates sat half-buried to his right hand, a wine jug to his left. Cupboards and chests lined half of each wall from floor to ceiling. The other half was taken up with doors. One, I surmised, led to the main hall and the other surely let into the quarters of the Master and his other important staff members. There my observations ended, for the man himself waved me forward. There was an empty chair beside me but he did not invite me to sit. I resisted the urge to clasp my hands nervously together. His kohled eyes travelled me from head to toe without expression. Both his hands, heavily ringed and surprisingly slim for a man of his girth, remained flat on the desk before him.

  “Are you well?” he asked harshly after the moment of silence. I nodded. “Good,” he went on in the same noncommittal tone. “Today you will dictate a letter to your family, telling them so. When you have finished you will spend the rest of the afternoon in the company of one of the under-scribes, who will begin to teach you how to write and will assess your reading ability. After your evening meal, which you will take with Disenk in your own room, you will exercise with the Master’s physical instructor. Then you will take a history lesson. That is all. Do you have any questions?”

  I did indeed. I had a dozen questions, but under his dark, impassive gaze I felt myself quail. Pull yourself together, Thu, I told myself sternly. Pretend you are a princess and this man is nothing, an inferior whose fate you can decide with a toss of your beautiful, beautiful head. I moistened my lips, wondering fleetingly as I did so if I was transferring red ochre from my mouth to my tongue and would end up looking twice as stupid as I felt.

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, with a poise that surprised me, “I have several. If, of course, it is permitted.” My tone was more sarcastic than I had intended and one of his carefully plucked eyebrows rose a fraction. He lifted one finger from the desk as an indication that I might continue. I took a deep breath. “Why must I take a history lesson?”

  “Because you are an ignorant little girl.”

  “I swim in the river every day. Why must I exercise?” Disenk’s comment regarding cleanliness had rankled. He did not move.

  “Because if you do not exercise you will eventually become unattractively flabby.” Unconsciously I stepped nearer to the desk. “Your pardon, Harshira,” I said firmly, “but what does it matter whether I am unattractive or not? I am here to assist the Master in his labours, am I not? Yet I am primped and pampered like a … a concubine!” The word came hard to my tongue and I knew, furiously, ashamedly, that I was blushing. The exact
ing morals of my peasant upbringing ran strong and deep in me in spite of my reckless nature and I could see my mother’s disapproving face as she reproved me for wanting to talk about some village woman who had been behaving in an unseemly manner. “Concubine,” to my Aswat neighbours, was synonymous with laziness and moral depravity. A man might take a destitute village woman into the bosom of his family, sleep with her, have children by her, but always for the right reasons. Sexual adventure alone was not one of them. His legitimate wife might be barren or in poor health so that she could not perform her household duties. The woman in question would have no other recourse due to her straitened circumstances. When the villagers spoke of Pharaoh’s harem it was always in terms of our Ruler’s necessity to safeguard the Horus Throne with many potential heirs, ridiculous though the justification might be.

  Harshira smiled. His huge cheeks rose. His dark eyes narrowed and for a moment lost their imperturbability. “Did the Master make you any such promise?” he asked me pointedly.

  Promise? Promise! Did this man think that the prospect of concubinage was something to be yearned for, anticipated? “Certainly not!” I burst out.

  “Then why are you anxious? Or are you, in your vanity, perhaps disappointed? I assure you that your virginity is quite safe in this house. Just do as you are told, like an obedient little peasant. Give thanks for your good fortune, learn while you can, and leave the larger issues to those who know better. Is there anything else? No?” He reached behind him and struck one note on a small copper gong. At once the door on the right opened and a servant came in and stood expectantly. “If he is unoccupied, ask Ani to grace me with his presence,” the Steward ordered. The man bowed and left. Crushed, I put my hands behind my back and gazed out the window with attempted nonchalance, seeing out of the corner of my eye that Harshira had placed his elbows on the desk, fingers steepled under his broad chin, and was watching me carefully. Suddenly he laughed, the sound a booming roar that made me jump. “We shall see,” he chuckled. “Yes indeed.” He poured wine from the jug, picked up the cup, inhaled slowly, then sipped with evident enjoyment. Putting down the cup he unrolled one of the scrolls littering the table and began to read, ignoring me.

  I remained still, struggling with my anger. His treatment of me was at such variance with the way I had been catered to by Disenk’s small army of servants that I was completely disarmed. It was as though he had set out to deliberately prevent me from fancying myself the lady Disenk was trying to create. And perhaps that is so, I thought darkly, my attention going to the one long golden earring trembling against his bull neck as his head bent lower over the scroll. One holds out the sweetmeats, the other wields the whip. To what end? In what strange school have I found myself? But before I could consider the matter further the door behind me opened. Harshira immediately let the scroll rustle closed and stood. I turned.

  The man coming forward, smiling, can only be described as anonymous. It was a word I used for him much later. At the time I merely felt that I must look him over several times before I could form an image of him in my mind that could be retained. He was of average height, neither strikingly tall nor short. His build was unremarkable, his features completely regular, even the lines around his mouth could have been drawn by an indifferent artist carving one face in a crowd of similarly middle-aged men. His wig was a simple black shoulder-length creation. He wore a plain white tunic and a thigh-high white kilt. I would have passed him by in the street without a glance or worse, not known that anyone had shared the path with me. His eyes, like Harshira’s, said nothing of what was inside, but unlike the Chief Steward’s, they gave no hint of intelligence beneath. He was a man to be forgotten, ignored, a man whose presence would never prompt feelings of inferiority or arrogance. In a room alone with him, one would be entirely oneself. He and Harshira exchanged bows.

  “This is Thu,” Harshira said simply, gesturing brusquely in my direction. To my surprise, the scribe bowed to me also.

  “Greetings, Thu,” he said, and his voice was a shock. Low and melodious, the words perfectly enunciated, it reminded me of the temple cantor at Aswat, whose praises to Wepwawet would fill the hidden sanctuary with strong music and drift over the wall to echo through the inner court. The sound always brought a throb of strange longing to my throat. “I am the Master’s Chief Scribe, Ani. I understand that today you are to dictate to me.” He turned back to Harshira. “May I take her now?”

  “You may. Run along, Thu, and try to dictate a short and coherent letter. Ani’s time is more valuable than your words.” I gave him what I hoped was a hostile glance but he was smiling at me, the flesh of his face rising into new configurations. I bowed stiffly and followed the scribe out of the room.

  We did not go far. A short way back along the passage I had previously walked with the little slave, we entered a door on the opposite side and I found myself facing a more congenial view than Harshira’s. Ani’s window gave out onto the rear of the gardens. A narrow paved path ran half-hidden between dense shrubbery and the tall trees that grew against the great sheltering wall so that the room was filled with a cool, green light. It contained a desk, several chairs and shelves crowded with hundreds of scrolls. Each shelf was neatly labelled. The atmosphere was quiet and peaceful and I felt myself begin to relax. Ani closed the door behind us and motioned me to a chair.

  “Be pleased to sit, Thu,” he said kindly. “I will prepare my palette.” His manner held none of the arrogance of Harshira’s and he moved and spoke with a warm, calm assurance. I sank into a chair and watched him pull his palette across the desk, uncap the ink, select a suitable brush. A sheaf of papyrus lay at hand and he lifted a sheet, opened a drawer, removed a burnisher and began to vigorously smooth the beige paper. His working materials were plain wood, the palette scored and stained, the brushes unadorned, but the burnisher was of creamy ivory inlaid with gold, its handle softly gleaming from years of use. Lovingly he laid it on the desk, picked up the palette, came round, and sank to the floor by my feet. His eyes closed and his lips moved in the silent, ritual prayer to Thoth, patron of all scribes and the god who had given hieroglyphs to his people. I was vividly reminded of Pa-ari, and felt a rush of affection towards this man, now dipping a brush into the ink. He looked up at me and smiled, and suddenly I did not know how to begin. Shyly I cleared my throat, my gaze travelling the room as I hunted for words. He must have seen my dilemma.

  “Do not be afraid,” he told me. “I am an instrument, nothing more. Think of me that way. Speak from your heart to those you love. Forgive me, Thu, but has your brother the skill, yet, to read your words to your parents?” I admired his gentle tact.

  “I suppose the Master has told you all about me and my family,” I replied ruefully. “Yes, Pa-ari is already an accomplished scribe, still in school but performing a scribe’s duties for the priests in our temple. He will read to my parents. But I do not know how to begin. Or where,” I finished helplessly. “There is so much to tell!”

  “Perhaps a formal opening would be appropriate,” Ani suggested. “‘To my loving parents, greetings from your dutiful daughter Thu. May the blessings of Wepwawet the Mighty be on you and on my brother, Pa-ari.’ Will that suffice?”

  “Thank you,” I said. His head went down and he began to inscribe the words, quickly and with an unselfconscious neatness. I cast about in my mind for a place to begin. Should I start with the journey? A description of the house? A proud declaration of the fact that I had been assigned a body servant? No. I must be diplomatic. I must not speak to them as though they were now somehow beneath me. My fingers had tightened on the arms of the chair. I looked down at the spotless, gossamer-soft linen folding over my knees, felt the ends of the blue ribbon stir against my naked shoulders. My tongue tasted the slightly bitter flavour of red ochre.

  All at once a full awareness of the strange and wonderful fate that had overtaken me blossomed in my consciousness. Until then I had been moving in a kind of waking dream. The trees beyond the window
stirred briefly in a stray puff of wind. I could smell the perfume of the saffron oil anointing my body, the faint sweetness of the cedar wood chair in which I sat. Ani came to the end of the greeting and looked up, brush poised expectantly, and I noticed for the first time the silver Eye of Horus lying against the folds of his tunic. This was my world now, in all its complexity, with all its mysteries and surprises. I was no longer a little peasant girl, running barefooted by the Nile. I inhabited a different womb from which a different person would emerge.

  Rising, I began to pace, palms pressed together. “I have so much to tell you,” I began, “but first I must say that I love you all and I miss you. I am being treated well, in fact, you would not recognize me now. The Seer’s house is a marvel. I have a room all to myself, and in it there is a couch with fine linen …” I had come to the window. I leaned against the casement, eyes closed, dimly hearing the faint rustle of papyrus as Ani worked but was soon lost in the flood of words that poured out. I told them about Disenk and the food and wine. I described Harshira and the frightening, exciting confusion that was the city of Pi-Ramses I had seen briefly from the river. I talked about the fountain and the pools, the other servants, my glimpse of Pharaoh’s barge tethered to the marble watersteps of the palace as Hui’s craft had drifted past.

  Then suddenly I had said it all and I was left with an awareness of my own loneliness. I imagined Pa-ari’s face as he read the scroll to my mother and father in the poor light of the tallow lamp. I could hear his steady voice as it sent my words into the tiny, cramped room. My father would listen intently, silently, his thoughts hidden as always. My mother would exclaim from time to time, leaning forward, her dark eyes glowing with admiration or sparking disapproval. But I was here, here, I was not sitting cross-legged with them on the rough hemp mat, hearing someone else’s incredible adventures with envy and yearning. “I miss you most of all, Pa-ari,” I ended. “Write to me soon.” Trembling with fatigue, empty yet at peace, I resumed my seat. Ani, of course, made no comment on what must have seemed to him an incoherent outpouring. The ink was rapidly drying. Under Ani’s coaxing the scroll rolled up. He rose and placed it on the desk, then covered the ink. He called softly. Immediately the door opened and a servant came in.