These days Seknut’s back was bent, her teeth were worn to stumps, and she had the sand cough badly. But she still kept a sharp eye on everything, from his tooth cleaning to the contents of his chamber pot.
Narmer grinned at her affectionately as she draped his clean kilt over the big wooden chest in the corner of the room. ‘I know. I’m late.’
Seknut gave a shadow of a bow, then sat on the edge of the bed and peered at him short-sightedly. It was forbidden to sit without permission in the presence of the royal family. But no one had ever had the courage to remind her.
‘Look at you! Barefoot like a baker’s boy! Where were you?’ Other servants would have bowed to the ground, called him Prince or Golden One. But it was unrealistic to expect someone who had wiped your bum as a baby to do all that.
‘Hunting.’
‘Your royal father sent for you. I had to tell him I didn’t know where you were.’ Seknut sounded as though the crime of not telling her were far greater than that of disappointing a king.
Narmer grinned again. ‘I bet he guessed where I’d gone. He used to slip off hunting too when he was my age.’
‘Your feet are dirty. It’s not seemly for a prince to be seen with bare feet.’
‘My sandals slip on the rock.’ Narmer rubbed the dust off his chest with a damp cloth, then began to wash his feet as well.
‘You should bathe properly.’
‘No time.’
Seknut coughed again. She watched as Narmer undid his everyday kilt and wrapped the clean one about his waist. It was his best, made of finely woven linen bleached white by the sun, with a thin band of red about the hem. Then he pulled on his jewellery: a gold armlet and an antelope-bone necklace with a polished amulet.
Seknut gave a small approving smile, the same one she’d given all those years ago when he managed to use his pot instead of mess the floor.
‘What have you found out about the Trader?’ demanded Narmer. Seknut heard everything that happened in the palace. No servant would dare keep a secret from Seknut.
‘His men are polite, and they know how to wash and not throw their bones on the floor.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But that animal of theirs smells.’
‘What animal?’ Narmer dragged a comb through his long hair.
‘They have a—’ She broke off as the sound of a flute filtered through the colonnades. The feast had begun. ‘Hurry!’ she urged. ‘Your royal father will be annoyed.’
‘Do I look all right?’
Seknut inspected him. ‘You’ll do.’ Other people heaped praised on the Golden One, but this was as close to a compliment as Seknut ever came.
Narmer patted her hand. ‘I’ll save you a hunk of hippopotamus from the feast.’
Seknut’s eyes almost vanished into her wrinkles as she glared at him. ‘And how would my old gums eat hippopotamus? Nasty tough meat it is.’
‘Every hippo we eat is one less in the fields.’ Hippopotamuses were the worst pests of the flood season, pushing their way through the carefully built dykes so that water flooded into the orchards and swamped the trees.
‘The cook has made mutton bread,’ said Seknut, trying to sound casual. Sheep’s meat was reserved for the King and his family and honoured guests. But Narmer knew Seknut loved the tiny pastries filled with minced meat, fruit and the soft fat from sheep’s tails.
‘I’ll save you some,’ he called as he ran out the door.
CHAPTER 3
Narmer slowed down as he reached the end of the colonnade that led to Royal Courtyard. It wouldn’t do to gallop in like an ox stung by bees. He glanced through the painted pillars. His father and brother were already seated under the sycamore and carob trees by the lotus pool.
That other man must be the Trader, thought Narmer. He felt a flash of disappointment. The Trader looked just like anybody else. He was older than Narmer had expected. His beard was grey and trimmed square as a house brick. His head was almost bald, and his face was wrinkled like a brown fig left to dry in the sun. A fourth person sat there too, his face hidden by a scarf.
Narmer walked sedately through the archway of flaming bougainvillea flowers and bowed his face to the tiles respectfully. ‘Father.’
‘My son.’ The King waved a hand to the stool beside him. During feasts only the King sat on a throne, and only his heir sat on a stool. The others sat on cushions, except for the flute player in the shadows, his music no louder than the tinkle of the fountain, who sat cross-legged on a woven mat.
Narmer sat down and nodded at his brother, who smiled back pleasantly. Hawk was always pleasant to his brother. Sometimes—especially when he was younger—Narmer had wished his brother would be…different. Laugh with him, play ball with him, even argue with him like other brothers he sometimes saw in the streets of Thinis, quarrelling then making up, then squabbling again, even their arguments showing how close they were.
But Hawk stayed distant. Perhaps, thought Narmer, it was part of being royal.
Hawk was in his early twenties, almost twice Narmer’s age. He was tall and good-looking enough, Narmer had always thought, apart from his eyes, which bulged like a frog’s, and his skin, which was pitted from the pimples he’d had when he was younger.
Narmer had sometimes wondered if Hawk would have been his father’s heir if only he had been as handsome as Narmer. Would the people have loved Hawk more if his skin had been smooth and golden?
Narmer knew that if he had been in Hawk’s position he would have found it hard to accept the King’s decision. But the King represented the gods. Whatever the King said had to be right. And Hawk had never shown that he felt the King’s choice was anything but wise. When Narmer was king Hawk would make the perfect vizier, supporting his brother’s decisions for the good of the land.
Tonight Hawk was the perfect prince. He had dressed with far more care than Narmer. He had even shaved, and had plucked the hairs from his hands and arms.
Narmer forgot about his brother, and glanced at the Trader instead. Had someone as well dressed as this really come through the Endless Desert? It was hard to believe that there was anything of value beyond the River.
The Trader gazed back at him thoughtfully. Unlike the bare-chested locals, the Trader wore a tunic that covered his chest and arms and fell almost to his ankles. His only ornament was the garland of poppies and lotus flowers around his shoulders that the palace women had made for the guest of honour at the feast.
The Trader’s companion wore the concealing tunic too, as well as a headdress, and the scarf that hid his mouth and nose. Only his eyes showed, and his hands and feet. His hands were small and slender. Young hands, thought Narmer.
He sniffed. The companion smelt…strange. A scent of spices, and an almost familiar animal smell too. Was there something odd about the boy’s feet as well? Yes—one was scarred so badly that half the ankle looked eaten away. Narmer wondered how the young man had managed to walk through the desert.
Suddenly he realised he’d been staring. He forced his gaze away from the strangers and smiled at his father instead.
‘You’re late,’ said the King affectionately, smiling back at his son. The King wore his usual starched kilt, and the gold belt with the bull’s tail hanging from it: the symbol of his power. There was gold at his wrists and on his sandals too.
‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I was…’ Narmer hesitated. He wanted to tell the King about his adventure with the Oracle to excuse his lateness—and also to get the King’s advice on what questions to ask tomorrow. But the Oracle was too important for dinner conversation. Besides, it was…private.
‘I was hunting,’ he said instead.
The King frowned. ‘By yourself?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘How many times have I told you—’
‘How you ran to the hills when you were my age? Many times!’ said Narmer, grinning up at his father. ‘And of course there was the time you hunted that hippopotamus all by yourself…’
The King broke i
nto laughter. ‘You see how he rules me?’ he asked the Trader proudly. ‘Let us hope he rules the country with as much zeal and success.’
The Trader’s expression didn’t change. He doesn’t understand, Narmer realised. He’s like the People of the Sand. He doesn’t know our speech.
‘If you’ll permit, great King?’ The voice behind the scarf was soft and low-pitched. There was an almost-accent too, a curious lilt to the words.
He’s young, thought Narmer, no older than I am, perhaps. Perhaps the young man covered his mouth so it would seem that the master said the words, not the servant.
The King nodded. The young man began to translate for his master, so softly and quickly that it was hard to make out the words.
The Trader’s face broke into a grin. He said something to the Translator.
‘My master says he would like to hear the tale of the king who single-handedly caught a hippopotamus, o great King of all magnificence,’ translated the young man quietly.
The King laughed as he gestured to the servants to bring in the food. ‘I was only a prince back then, Narmer’s age, a year older perhaps. There was a high flood that year, and…’
Narmer hardly listened. He had heard the story many times, from both Seknut and the King. Instead, he looked at the food as the servants began to bring in the platters. He was hungry, despite the snack that the baker had given him. The King and his family always ate well, but tonight would be special, to honour their guest.
There was no hippopotamus, as Narmer had promised Seknut. But there were hunks of roast mutton, deliciously greasy, as well as the mutton pastries that Seknut had craved. There were roast reed birds stuffed with figs, grilled catfish, date bread, honey bread, fig bread, goose eggs baked till they were hard and served with yoghurt sauce, beans baked in a pot with wild honey and herbs, the first of the season’s papyrus stems, steamed till they were soft, a dish of leeks and celery, and barley beer or bright red pomegranate juice to drink.
The servants knelt before the King, then rose to offer the food to each person: first the King, then Narmer, then the Trader, then Prince Hawk, and finally the Trader’s companion. But the young man ate little, lifting the food up under his scarf as he nibbled at shreds of meat or papyrus stem.
Finally platters of jujubes, dried grapes, and stuffed figs and dates were left on the ground for everyone to help themselves, with the King’s favourite dishes placed on a table by his throne.
The King finished his story and the guests murmured appreciatively. The King picked up a cluster of raisins and chewed one pensively. ‘Perhaps,’ he said to the Translator, ‘your master might have a story of his own. We would be honoured to hear something of his travels.’
The Translator turned to his master. Once again the words were almost too soft and rapid to follow.
The Trader looked thoughtful again. He glanced up at Narmer, as though coming to a decision. Then he began to speak, and the Translator’s low voice echoed his words.
‘O great King, ruler of the most magnificent town on the most glorious of rivers, my master will tell you of his first voyage, when he was no older than Prince Narmer—may your son have peace and plenty for many years.’
The Translator bowed his head respectfully to Narmer. His husky voice continued. ‘My master travelled with his grandfather and thirty men. But halfway across the sea their ship was hit by a storm.’
‘You can count?’ asked Narmer. Few people could count further than their fingers. It was hard to believe that anyone beyond the River could be so skilled.
He could almost hear the smile in the young man’s voice. ‘Of course, o glorious Prince. What use is a humble trader’s servant who can’t count?’
‘But how can a boat carry thirty men?’ cried Narmer.
‘You are discourteous, my son,’ rebuked the King.
‘I’m sorry, Father. But—’
‘There are ships in other lands that are much larger than your fishing boats,’ said the Translator. ‘But this is my master’s story…
‘The waves leapt like goats, and were as high as hills. For three days the ship was tossed like wheat at the threshing. But on the fourth night the wind vanished. When the crew woke the sea was as flat as unleavened bread. And there was an island in front of them.
‘It was a bare island, just two hills like skulls, side by side. No trees. No sand. Just rock down to the shore.
‘But that wasn’t the strangest thing. From the island came the most glorious voice my master had ever heard.
‘It was a woman, singing. Even now, after all his years, my master says he has never heard a voice like it.’
The Trader interrupted, his voice suddenly harsh. Once again his gaze seemed focused on Narmer alone.
‘Or wanted to,’ the boy translated quietly.
The Trader began to speak again. The Translator took up the tale, talking easily, as though he could both listen and translate at the same time. Or perhaps, thought Narmer, he had heard this story so many times before that he knew it by heart.
‘The shore was too rocky for the ship to beach safely. But there was a smaller boat on board, about the size of the reed boats on your river here. Every man on board longed to be first ashore, to find the woman who sang so sweetly. But the boat could only carry two men at a time.
‘So the Captain went first, with a sailor to paddle. They leapt onto the rocks, pulled up the canoe and ran between the hills.
‘And my master waited, and so did everyone else on board.
‘But the Captain didn’t return. And still the song came from the island, the sweetest voice it was possible to hear.
‘One of the sailors could swim, so my master’s grandfather sent him to bring the boat back. Then my master’s grandfather set out with another sailor. But before he left he took his grandson, my master, aside.
‘“If I do not return, do not look for me,” he said. “I entrust the ship, her cargo and the men to you. Sail away. Do not look back and never look for me again.”
‘“Why, Grandfather?” my master cried.
‘But his grandfather wouldn’t answer.
‘My master watched them paddle across the water, until they too pulled up at the rocks and went ashore, then vanished between the hills.
‘The shadows grew longer and still no one came back. The voice sang as sweetly as ever. Night fell, and the voice died away. But still no one came down to the boat at the shore.
‘No one on board slept that night. The sailors were waiting for the voice to sing again. And my master was waiting for his grandfather.
‘Dawn rose, pink and clear. And as the sun climbed above the waves the voice began to sing again.
‘My master hesitated till the sun was at its height. He knew he should obey his grandfather’s command. But he also knew that if he left his grandfather stranded on the island, he could never forgive himself.
‘So he begged the sailor to swim to the island again. And when the boat was brought back my master and the sailor began to paddle across to the island.
‘Closer and closer they came…The voice grew louder, and sweeter too. They pulled the boat up onto the rocks.
‘My master said, “Wait! We must go carefully. You wait here and—”
‘But the sailor had already gone. Like the others, he was mesmerised by the voice and had vanished into the gully between the hills.’
The Trader stopped, to drink from his mug. The Translator stopped politely too, though Narmer was sure the young man could have finished the story by himself.
The Trader cleared his throat. He looked thoughtfully at Narmer for a moment, then began again.
‘The others had all disappeared between the rocks. So my master crept up the hill instead, sneaked over the summit on his belly and looked down.
‘There was a clearing between the hills, hidden from the sea. A woman sat on one of the rocks. All my master could see was her hair, long and black and shining like a river in full flood. For a moment she seemed as b
eautiful as her voice.
‘And then she turned, so he could glimpse her face. It looked young. Her features were lovely, except for her eyes, as cold as ashes. Her mouth was black, and so were her teeth and hands.
‘And the black was…blood,’ said the Translator simply. ‘Dried blood. There was a blowpipe beside her, with thorns that might have been poison darts. And there, tied to stakes, were the Captain, the two sailors and my master’s grandfather, with blood draining from wounds in their necks into stone cups below.’
Narmer felt his skin crawl, as if ants were creeping over him. ‘But…but what…’ he began.
‘She was an afreet,’ said the Translator in his low voice. ‘In the desert they lure a man out into the endless dry to send him mad. At sea they lure men from their ships and then they feast on them.
‘But what was worse—so much worse—was that my master’s grandfather saw my master up on the cliff as the blood dripped from his veins. But he couldn’t move.
‘My master tried to read the expression in his eyes. Was he calling for rescue, or to be left to die so his grandson might be safe?
‘It didn’t matter. My master flung himself down the cliff onto the afreet. It was obvious she didn’t expect anything of the kind as his knife went into her back. She turned, her eyes wide, and my master saw that her teeth were crusted with the skin of men. Her breath smelt worse than a hundred privies, for privies do not smell of death.
‘“How did you resist me?” she whispered.
‘“My manhood was stolen from me years ago,” said my master. “But it seems that the thieves have unknowingly given me my life.”’
‘She smiled at that. Even though the knife was lodged in her back she could still smile.
‘“I have sung here for a thousand years,” she said. “An afreet cannot die of old age, not while she drinks the blood of living men. A thousand years of blood and loneliness…You have given me the gift of death. So I will give you a gift as well.”
‘Her voice was just a whisper now. “Continue travelling,” she said, “and this I promise. A dying promise cannot lie. One day as you travel you will find your son and daughter.”
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