Hentmira was taken to the House of the Dead, but no wails of mourning for her filled the harem, although for a few days a sober quiet infected every building. I tried not to imagine the shock and grief her family must be enduring, or the necessary but horrifying indignities being perpetrated on her beautiful young body as the embalmers prepared her for her burial. No official decree to observe the formal seventy days of mourning came from the palace, either because Pharaoh was too ill to think about it, as I hoped, or because it was not the custom.
I began to have curious dreams in which I left my cell and instead of walking over the grass my feet left the ground and I flew, sailing over the wall of the harem and swooping high above the palace complex. The mirage was extremely vivid. I saw the whole royal estate laid out below me in an oasis of tossing green trees, and then the dust and cacophony of the city trailing along the Waters of Avaris. I saw Hui’s house. Drifting west I found the Nile, a wide rope of silver that wandered away south in a haze of searing heat, but then the true nature of my position would come to me and the exaltation would fade to be replaced by a fear that sent me plummeting and screaming back towards my courtyard, and I would land on the grass from whence I left with such force that my ankles would break and the pain would wake me, sweating and crying.
I had to fight a desire to camp outside the door of Pharaoh’s bedchamber. I did not want to eat or drink or sleep, attend to my son, be dressed or painted. I did not want to do anything until I knew what was happening behind those forbidding cedar panels through which I had so often gone in light-hearted anticipation.
Time after time I went over the events of the past few days in my mind. Had Hui given me enough arsenic? Why was it that Hentmira had died with only her hands polluted while the King, who had doubtless been slathered in the oil, was surviving? Had his divinity saved him? Had the gods, recognizing one of their own, stepped in to lessen the effect of the poison?
But after pondering the problem in the feverish, obsessive way I was beginning to think about everything, I decided that of the two, Hentmira had received the larger dose. Her hands had been repeatedly covered in oil whereas the parts of Pharaoh’s body that she massaged would have the arsenic ground into them but once. I should have thought of that. So should Hui. I cursed myself for my crass stupidity, but as no word came from the palace I still believed that the King would ultimately die.
The mood in the harem was solemn. The women spoke of nothing but the precarious state of Pharaoh’s health. Wisps of incense smoke wafted from the doors of the cells as the inmates prayed before their private shrines. Groups still gathered on the lawn but the conversation was hushed and earnest. I ordered Disenk to spend as much time as possible with the King’s personal staff. They were of course a close-mouthed group of servants, tactful and well-trained, but they surely talked among themselves and besides, was not Paibekamun one of them?
For three days Disenk returned with only the vaguest news. Hui and the physician had consulted. The King was still vomiting and clutching his head. Prayers were being said for him in every temple. But on the fourth day she was able to tell me something more definite.
“I managed to converse with the Butler who was commanded to examine all the food and drink served to the One on the day he fell ill,” she informed me as she deftly set out my evening meal. “A slave was summoned to taste every dish and sample every jar from which the King’s wine was poured. He showed no symptoms of any kind.” She cast a sidelong glance at me. “Poison is now suspected, and the movements of everyone who came into Ramses’ presence are being examined. His clothes, utensils and cosmetics are also being scrutinized.” I stared down at the plates being laid before me with their burden of lettuce and celery, the steaming delight of leeks and freshly grilled fish, the oily gleam of dates steeped in honey. A pink lotus flower was floating delicately in the scented water of the fingerbowl and its fragrance came to me faintly. I could not imagine putting any of the food into my mouth.
“Suspicion cannot fall on Hentmira,” I half-whispered. “She is dead. Therefore I am safe.”
“Perhaps.” Disenk bowed and retreated behind my chair, the position she always took as she prepared to serve me. “But Pharaoh is recovering, Thu. He slept soundly this afternoon and was able to drink some milk.” I sat there numbly, unable to lift a hand to the salad that lay quivering before me.
“Speak to Paibekamun,” I said, my voice thin and insubstantial in my ears. “Ask him what he has done with the jar of oil.”
“I would have done so,” she answered, “but I cannot find him.” I was unable to see her face.
For two more days I suffered through a weight of impending dread that only grew heavier as the hours dragged by. Disenk and I wove our pattern of routine around each other with the precision of long familiarity, and perhaps I only imagined that she spoke to me less than she used to do.
Word of Pharaoh’s continued recovery was announced publicly by the Heralds who called the news in every courtyard of the harem, and the women went back to their idle gossiping with obvious relief. I also tried to return to the small pursuits that had filled my time before but I found them numinous with a kind of horror. Each word, each action, acquired an aura of profound but unintelligible meaning, as though they did not belong to me at all. Even Pentauru, as I held him in my arms, and kissed and cuddled his plump warmth, seemed to be the possession of another woman, in another time, and the more I pressed him to my body in an increasing panic the more intangible I felt myself become.
I knew, in some sane corner of my mind, that every moment passing placed me further away from the threat of discovery, knew that I should be relaxing into a progressive safety, but instead the terror grew, and with it the odd certainty that a doom had already overtaken me, that each hour was borrowed from a life of peace and promise I had known hentis ago.
Often, sitting tensely by my couch or pacing just inside the shelter of my doorway, I was seized by a mad urge to flee, to walk out of the harem and lose myself in the orchards and fields beyond the city. Ramses, Hentmira, Kenna, Hui, Disenk, even my son, I would shed them all as I went, until naked, innocent and free my feet would find the searing cleanliness of the Western Desert and I would be a child again with all my life before me.
But it was a dream, a fantasy of absolution and healing when in reality neither guilt nor the sickness of my ka could be expunged, and when the soldiers came to arrest me it died.
24
I HAD BEEN WAITING for Disenk to bring my morning meal when the two guards darkened my door. The wet-nurse had just finished giving Pentauru his milk and was preparing to leave, and I was playing with him on my couch, tickling his swollen belly while he laughed infectiously. The men neither knocked nor hesitated. By the time I had sensed their approach and looked up, they were standing beside the couch, swords drawn, faces impassive under their helmets. Their threatening presence filled the little room. The Herald accompanying them stepped forward. Pentauru began to cry and I grabbed up the sheet to cover myself.
“Lady Thu,” he said. “You are under arrest for the attempted murder of the King. Get dressed.” The wet-nurse began to shriek and the Herald turned to her impatiently. “Be quiet, woman! Take the child to the nursery. Hurry up!” I did not move.
“This is ridiculous,” I said haughtily, gathering Pentauru to my breast where he looked up at me with frightened eyes. “You have the wrong cell. The King suffers from rotten food I am told.” My legs felt like lumps of wood but I forced them to obey me. I slid from the couch and backed away, Pentauru still in my arms. “I do not believe that the King has ordered this intrusion. Show me the proof! And you!” I snapped at one of the soldiers who was eyeing me up and down appreciatively. “Keep your gaze on the floor! I am a royal concubine.” But he behaved as though he had not heard and the Herald withdrew a thin papyrus scroll and handed it to me.
I shook it open, one arm still protectively around my son. It was a command to the Captain of the Palace Guard to
have me placed in custody on the charge of extreme blasphemy, being, of course, the attempted murder of a god, and it was signed by Ramses himself. His name and titles had been written in a shaking hand but were entirely recognizable. I threw it back at the Herald. “Where is the evidence?” I demanded. For answer he nodded at the guard who had been staring at me. The man took hold of Pentauru, and tearing him from me, almost tossed him to the wet-nurse. The woman glanced at me, all frightened eyes, then scurried out. The last I saw of my son was a tuft of unruly black hair sticking up above the wet-nurse’s brawny elbow, but his howls echoed for a long time.
“Get dressed,” the Herald repeated impassively. I shook my head.
“I do not dress myself,” I retorted. “I will wait for my body servant.”
“No, Lady, you will not.” The Herald looked about, and seeing one of my sheaths on a chair, crumpled and discarded from the night before, he snatched it up and held it out. “Put this on. You will be attended later.”
I could do nothing more but obey. Insolently, though my pulse was racing and I was assailed by a wave of faintness, I let the sheet fall to the floor and coolly pulled the proffered sheath over my head, smoothing it past my hips with a slow gesture. Then I looked at the Herald inquiringly. He swallowed, gave me a sudden and shocking smile of disarming sweetness, and bowed. I followed him out of the cell.
The courtyard was already busy and the women and children fell silent and watched me as I walked bare-footed and dishevelled but with head high through their midst, the Herald before me and the two burly guards to either side. We turned left, passed through into the servants’ compound, angled across the packed dirt in front of their quarters, and out through a rear gate.
I had never been this way and I looked about me with interest. I was on the edge of a vast open space, obviously a parade ground, for a dais stood at one end. At the other were the barracks. Soldiers lounged in front of their doors, polishing armour and repairing weapons. A group of them were playing some game with a large ball and much raucous shouting. They ignored me and my escort as we passed, rounded a corner, and came to a row of tiny cells that fronted an untidy expanse of sand and soil. Far to my left I caught a glimpse of stables. Beside them the chariots were ranked, row upon row of gleaming vehicles. The unremitting sun beat down upon the empty, dismal prospect but I did not have much time to study it. The guards pushed me into one of the cells. “Food will be brought to you,” the Herald said, “and a servant will bring you such things as you need.” I opened my mouth to voice one of the many questions beginning to churn about in my mind but the door had already slammed shut and I was alone.
As my eyes became adjusted to the dimness I looked about. The walls and floor of my prison were of undressed mud brick, crude and dark. There was an ancient cot, a plain table, and that was all. A little light came from one tiny square cut in the door and I rushed to it, only to see the two guards who had flanked me taking up their watch one on either side.
I retreated to the cot and sat. I had been arrested. I was a prisoner of a different kind than the harem inmate I had been. Yet my mood was not despairing, indeed the terrible grip of anxiety in which I had lived lately was gradually lessening. This was a temporary discomfort. No matter what suspicions might fall on me, there was no direct evidence to connect me with the attempted assassination of the King. Providing, of course, that Paibekamun had kept his wits about him and destroyed the oil jar …
That thought gave me a moment of unease and I ran my fingers through my uncombed hair and deliberately turned to more pleasant daydreams. I would be acquitted. Ramses would be sorry. He would send for me to apologize. He would shed tears of love. Contrite, he would draw me into his arms and the past would be forgotten. The cell smelled of urine and garlic. It smelled of desperation and misery and oblivion. I pressed my hands between my knees and waited.
After a very long time, during which the heat inside the room intensified and my head began to ache, the door swung open and a servant girl appeared, balancing a tray. She put it on the table then stood staring at me stupidly. I left the cot and went to see what she had brought. There was a bowl of soup, fresh bread, some fruit and a jug of beer. “Where is your obeisance?” I asked her sharply and she immediately bowed.
“I am sorry, Lady Thu,” she stammered. “Is there anything else I may bring you?”
“Yes. You can bring me my very own Disenk.” She flushed and her hands found each other awkwardly.
“Your pardon, Lady Thu, but Disenk has not been seen in the servants’ quarters today and in any case, I have been assigned by the Keeper to take care of you.” I stared at her, appalled.
“Disenk is not to attend me? But why?”
“I do not know, Lady.” Her eyes fled mine, making her seem deceitful, although she was probably just a simple and honest girl, not yet fully trained.
“In that case,” I said caustically, “you can go to my cell and bring me my clothes and cosmetics. Also my jewellery and the two boxes you will find in the chest against the inside wall. One holds my medicines and the other some keepsakes from my childhood. Bring my cushions and a covering for this floor. Particularly the cushions, do you understand? I must have some comfort in this abominable place. Visit the nursery and bring me word that my son is in good hands and is well. Then go and tell the Keeper that I want to speak with him at once.”
She bowed again and retreated to the door, but a thought struck me and I called her back, pointing to the meal she had set out on the table. “Wait. Please taste my food.” I watched her carefully as she lifted the soup to her mouth, took a tiny portion of the bread, bit into the fruit, swallowed a little beer. Her hands were trembling, more, I think, from shyness than from fear. We both waited. I knew that the exercise was futile if a knowing hand had decided to save the palace the inconvenience of a trial, for there were many poisons that worked slowly and insidiously when ingested, but I did not believe there was anyone but myself and Hui who had such a knowledge in Pi-Ramses. The girl stood steadily, eyes downcast, and in the end I dismissed her and pulled the table to the edge of the cot. The guard let her out and I ate my simple meal in heat and silence, serving myself.
Once more I waited. After a while a few flies found their way into the cell through the small window in the door, lured by the swiftly decaying remains of my food, and I watched them settle and explore the dishes. I had no whisk with which to flick them away. My guards occasionally exchanged a casual word or two. Leather creaked as one of them shifted position.
At last I heard them spring to attention and I tensed. The door was unlocked. Amunnakht entered and bowed, and behind him came the servant girl. Her arms were empty. Executing a clumsy reverence she picked up the tray and went out. A cloud of flies followed her.
I turned to the Keeper. “Where are my belongings? Surely I am not a common prisoner, Amunnakht. I cannot be denied some comfort.” He inclined his head. I could smell his perfume. His linen was dazzlingly pure in this place. His gems winked at me dully. His facepaint had been impeccably applied. Already I was painfully aware of the gulf that separated us, particularly as I was still unwashed and wore a sheath from the night before. It has been planned this way to make me feel at a disadvantage, I thought mutinously. Well it will not work.
“My most profound apologies for your continued inconvenience, Lady Thu,” the Keeper replied. “Of course you may have your things, as soon as a thorough search of your quarters has been accomplished. You stand accused of a very serious crime, but until your guilt has been established I may do all I can to ease this experience for you.” Fear shook me. The cushion. Would they find the scroll?
“This cot is not even made up,” I protested. “I cannot lie on it. Can I not even have my linens and cushions? And my totem, Wepwawet. Is it forbidden to pray before the likeness of my god as well? Who is conducting this insulting search?” Amunnakht smiled reassuringly.
“Your case has been placed in the hands of the Prince Ramses. You may be ce
rtain of a fair hearing, Lady Thu. He is an honest man. I have already made enquiries as to when you may have your belongings restored to you, and he has promised them by this evening.”
By then his minions will have rifled through all my chests, fingered my cosmetics, handled my jewellery, and torn apart my mattress and my cushions, I thought cynically. Will they find the scroll? Naturally, for the man in charge of the rape will have been secretly commissioned to look for it, and he will know the difference between the hand of his Prince’s scribe and the hands that recorded prescriptions, letters and my Overseer’s reports on the other pieces of papyrus in my chests. I should have foreseen this eventuality. I should not have been so confident.
“In that case I suppose I must be patient,” I said smoothly. “I would like to see my son, Amunnakht. Will you have him brought to me?” But once again he gracefully shook his head.
“I am sorry, Lady, but it is not allowed. I have personally made sure that he is not being ignored in the nursery. His wet-nurse will see to his feeding, and I have made Eben responsible for his welfare.” My eyebrows shot up.
“Eben? The concubine I supplanted in Pharaoh’s affections? That was a stupid choice, Amunnakht, and I protest it vigorously! She will neglect Pentauru! She will treat him badly out of her jealousy for me!”
“I do not think so,” the Keeper contradicted me gently, “for are you not now in a worse position than she ever was? She has some sympathy for you, and has promised to give Pentauru the best of her care.” I bit my lip and clenched my fists behind my back. To be forced to accept help and sympathy from that woman! To find myself humiliated and abased in her eyes! It was too much. I tasted blood, and dabbed at my mouth.
House of Dreams Page 48
