Pharaoh

by Jackie French

  I remember that smell, thought Narmer. The scent of human blood, so different from the blood of a sheep or deer. He felt helpless, sitting with his arms around the cat. How could the Queen bear it?

  Suddenly he understood: the Queen bore all this for Punt, not for herself. For a moment he wished his father could meet this queen.

  Then the Trader widened the cut, pulling the loose skin of her throat tight so he could slice more accurately. Nitho took a soft cloth and began to dab the blood away, so the Trader could see where to cut the Queen’s flesh. He frowned in concentration. Sweat rolled down his forehead. Nitho’s brown hands moved swiftly to wipe it away from his eyes with her cloth, leaving a smudge of the Queen’s blood on his cheek.

  The Queen made a noise, halfway between a groan and a gasp. Her feet twitched. But by some superhuman effort she kept the rest of herself still.

  There was so much blood…The stench of flesh was everywhere. Bast gave a hiss, her eyes bright, as though the smell excited her.

  Something fat and yellow plopped into the bucket by the throne. Narmer gasped.

  More blood dripped onto the floor. Nitho handed the Trader the needle and catgut. Her hands trembled slightly, then steadied as she held the edges of the wound together while the Trader stitched. Now his forehead was drenched in sweat.

  ‘Is she…’ began Narmer.

  ‘She is still alive,’ said Nitho. ‘But the operation isn’t over yet.’

  A spurt of blood hit Nitho’s face and began to drip. Narmer felt the room begin to spin. He felt cold and hot at the same time. His stomach lurched.

  Suddenly the bleeding stopped, as though a spring had been plugged by a stone. The Queen’s head slumped forward.

  Narmer felt terror grab his chest and squeeze. Was she dead? Had they killed her?

  ‘Quickly!’ the Trader gasped. Narmer stumbled forward as the Trader beckoned. ‘She’s fainted! Hold her head up or she’ll choke!’

  Narmer grasped the lolling head. The Queen’s mouth was open and there was spittle at the corners. Her crown had slipped. Narmer ignored his instinct to straighten it. He glanced down. There was blood everywhere. His fingers were already slippery with it. Nitho’s cloth was soaked, and her arms stained to the elbows. Fresh, bright red blood, and darker blood clots. But there was also a neat line of tiny stitches across the Queen’s neck. And she still breathed.

  ‘Mrrow?’ To Narmer’s horror the cat was nosing at the bucket. Nitho pushed her away with her foot. Bast glared at her, then retreated, peering at the basket where the leopard cub was sleeping through it all.

  ‘Lie her down,’ said the Trader, panting. ‘Remember we have to keep her neck steady.’

  He sounded as though he had run across the desert. Nitho’s face, too, was white and running with sweat.

  ‘But she said—’ began Narmer.

  ‘Do it!’ he ordered.

  Narmer had never heard the usually placid Trader speak like this before. He took the Queen’s legs, as the Trader took her arms, while Nitho held her head. They carried her as gently as possible to the couch, and laid her flat, then Nitho arranged cushions to keep her head still.

  The Queen was breathing in shallow gasps.

  ‘Will she live?’ whispered Narmer.

  The Trader didn’t reply. He held her wrist up to his ear. He put it down and shrugged. ‘Wash her,’ he instructed them tersely. ‘Try to get rid of the blood.’

  The attendants might panic if they saw a bloodstained Queen, thought Narmer. Trying not to gag, he picked up one of the unused linen bandages, dipped them in the scented water and washed the Queen’s face, neck, her bare bosom, her arms and her hands, while Nitho wrapped up the bloody towels and moved the bucket of blood-stained water out of sight. When she looked up Narmer was startled to see tears in her eyes.

  Then they waited. Narmer’s heart was pounding. Would the Queen wake up?

  Finally she groaned. Her eyes opened and she tried to move. The Trader jumped to his feet, his face flushed with relief. He dipped a clean cloth into the poppy juice, then gently held the Queen’s chin while he squeezed the liquid into her mouth. ‘You may sleep now, Your Majesty,’ he said softly. ‘The growth is gone! You have survived! Sleep, for as long as you need to, until the worst of the pain has disappeared.’

  The Queen blinked at him with agony-blurred eyes. Her lips twitched in an almost smile. She swallowed with obvious effort, then swallowed again as the Trader dripped more juice into her mouth.

  And then she slept.

  CHAPTER 19

  The afternoon shadows had lengthened outside the windows when a small door opened opposite the room’s main entrance. Narmer wondered wearily what member of the Council had finally dared to enter the Queen’s chamber uninvited.

  But it was a small girl who peered in. ‘Mama?’

  Nitho got stiffly to her feet. She limped swiftly towards the child and took her in her arms. ‘Your mama will live,’ she told her.

  ‘Will she?’ The child stared at Nitho. ‘Are you a queen too? No one is allowed to touch me unless they’re royal.’

  ‘She has helped save a queen,’ said Narmer, smiling. ‘That’s almost as good as being a queen.’

  Someone else looked around the door. It was a woman this time, one of the Queen’s Council, her neck laden with pearls, her eyes smudged with fear. ‘Is it true? Does the Queen live?’

  ‘She lives,’ said the Trader. His voice was unbearably tired, and Narmer saw that his hands were shaking.

  ‘You need rest yourself,’ said Nitho with concern, the princess still in her arms. ‘We need somewhere nearby to sleep,’ she told the woman, ‘in case the Queen wakes up and needs us.’

  The woman’s eyes were wide with awe. ‘Yes, Your…Your Worthiness. Your rooms have been prepared.’

  No one along the whole River had ever dreamed of luxury like this, thought Narmer, as he looked at the rich kilt laid out for him on the bed.

  The room’s ceiling was higher than that of any temple, the walls made from blocks of alabaster fitted so closely that the joins were impossible to see. The smooth stone floor was covered in finely woven carpets dyed a rainbow of colours. Splendid cloth hung on the walls, woven with scenes of birds, and leopards prancing through fields of flowers.

  The bed was as big as his entire room at home, with carved lions instead of legs. Best of all was a giant bath, carried in on the shoulders of six male servants dressed in loincloths embroidered with fine gold. When Narmer felt the water it was as warm as fresh bread, and when he smelt it, it was as fragrant as his father’s courtyard flowers.

  Hot water merely to wash in!

  He had just untied his filthy kilt when Nitho wandered in, with Bast following as though she had coincidentally decided to come the same way. The cat peered around the room in case there was food.

  ‘Hey!’ Narmer pulled his kilt back around his waist.

  Nitho grinned. ‘In Punt a woman goes where she wants to. The men do what they are told.’

  ‘How is the Queen?’

  ‘The master has just been to see her again. He gave her more poppy. But he says there’s no more bleeding, and she’s breathing well.’

  ‘We did it!’ said Narmer happily. ‘…Well, you and our master.’

  ‘You helped too. I’ve sent for the porters. They’ll be here soon.’ She bit her lip. ‘There may still be problems, you know. The wound will swell. She may get a fever—people often do, after things like this. But the master has put honey on the wound to sweeten it, and her women are holding damp cloths on it, scented with rose oil, to keep it cool and to keep the swelling down. He thinks she will be all right.’

  Nitho looked almost like a stranger, Narmer thought in surprise. It wasn’t just what she was wearing—a Punt-style kilt trimmed with gold, but with a shawl fringed in alabaster beads across her breasts and arms. Somehow she was walking like a woman now, as well as talking like one. The veiled ‘boy’ of Thinis and the desert was gone.

  The
fine clothes should have made her scar stand out even more. But the Trader had been right, Narmer realised. The scar was so familiar now that he hardly saw it. He just saw Nitho.

  Nitho smiled. ‘There’s a meal for us in the courtyard.’ She gestured to the patio beyond their rooms, with its view over the palace gardens and the city to the scrubby hills beyond. ‘I’ll see you out there soon,’ she added.

  Narmer finished untying his kilt. He slipped into the water and lowered himself into its silky embrace. The bath felt smooth and warm against his skin. A haze of perfume floated around him. The water relaxed muscles that ached from the tension of the operation.

  He shut his eyes, then opened them when his stomach growled. The bath was all very well, but he needed food. He stepped out of the water, towelled himself, and fastened on the new kilt. It hung in soft rich folds against his legs.

  There were combs and brushes laid out for him. He ran a comb through his hair and tied it with a leather thong, then slipped his feet into the sandals he had brought with him. He might be only an ex-prince from a small town on a distant river, but at least he knew enough not to go barefoot in a palace.

  As he went out to join Nitho he caught a glimpse of a young man. He stopped and stared. The young man gazed back at him from a smooth brown sheet of metal hanging on the wall. He was good looking, Narmer thought, apart from a fading scar on one cheek, and bore himself proudly, as though he were…

  A prince of Thinis, thought Narmer, suddenly recognising himself, but somehow older than he had imagined himself to be, his eyes bright in his desertbrowned face. He had only ever seen his reflection in pools of water. But this polished bit of bronze reflected far better than water ever could. He ran his hand over it, but that was all it was: a thin, smooth disc. It must be just for showing people their reflections, he thought. What a peculiar idea.

  He hobbled through colonnades carved into the shape of palm trees to reach the courtyard, where food had been spread out on a series of low tables. The air smelt sweet. The servants must have scattered scented oil onto the plants growing around the courtyard’s edges, Narmer supposed, as bougainvillea had no scent.

  There were three couches piled with cushions. Nitho and the Trader occupied two of them. The Trader looked different too. For the first time since Narmer had known him he had left off his false beard. His round chin was pinker than the rest of his face.

  The third couch was occupied by the cat. She opened her eyes as Narmer approached, then quickly shut them again, carefully excluding him from any possibility of lying there himself.

  He heard a muffled giggle from Nitho. She clapped her hands and a servant ran into the room.

  ‘Another couch,’ she ordered.

  ‘At once, Your Worthiness.’

  Narmer smiled. After the days of fear in the desert it was good to be treated with respect again. And somehow ‘Worthiness’ suited Nitho.

  It was an extraordinary meal. Narmer had eaten well as a prince, but nothing like this. There were platters of small birds filled with grain and spices, stuffed cucumbers, fish made into small spiced balls and fried in oil, salads of finely chopped lettuce stems, leeks and pomegranate juice, and slices of a giant pink fruit with a thick white rind and green skin.

  Narmer took a bite and felt the cold juice drip down his chin. It was probably the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. ‘What is this?’ he asked.

  ‘They call it watermelon,’ said the Trader. ‘The people in the deserts far to the south carry melons instead of water bags. The flesh is so cold because it is chilled with snow, brought from a mountain far to the south.’

  ‘Snow?’ The word was unfamiliar to Narmer. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Water. Very cold water that becomes solid.’ The Trader selected another piece of melon. ‘I have melons growing on my farm at home,’ he added. ‘I got the seeds from Punt.’

  It was the first time the Trader had spoken of his home. What was it like? Narmer wondered. Not rich, perhaps; the Trader had said he had no gold at home. But somehow Narmer had assumed he owned a town house—like a baker, perhaps—not a farm.

  Who was this man he was travelling with?

  Suddenly a great cry sounded outside the courtyard walls. Narmer looked at Nitho and the Trader in alarm. The cry came again. But this time he realised that the sound was cheering.

  Nitho clapped her hands to call one of the servants. A woman hurried in, bowing low. ‘Yes, Your Worthiness?

  ‘What’s happening?’ Nitho asked her.

  ‘The Council has given out the news,’ the servant said. ‘The Queen has spoken to her women.’

  Nitho glanced at the Trader. He nodded, smiling. ‘If she can speak, she will live.’

  The servant’s smile was as wide as a slice of watermelon. ‘The Queen is saved!’ She backed out of the room, still bowing.

  ‘And so are we,’ said the Trader, but softly, so that the servant didn’t hear.

  CHAPTER 20

  The celebrations continued through the night. It was as though a fog had been lifted from the palace. Servants sang in the colonnades as they swept. The smell of smoke and spices was replaced by the scent of flowers. The women wore garlands on their heads and bosoms, hiding their breasts, for which Narmer was grateful. All that flesh was…interesting, but it was embarrassing trying not to stare at it.

  Nothing was too good for the people who had saved Punt’s beloved Queen. Fresh flowers were scattered through their rooms at dawn and dusk. Rose oil was sprinkled in front of them as they walked along the corridors. The best of everything was brought to them.

  The Trader checked on the Queen throughout the following day. She was weak, but more at ease with her women and her daughters than with him. Within three days she was able to speak easily and sip soup instead of poppy, though her neck was still badly swollen around the wound.

  On the fifteenth day the Trader took Nitho and Narmer with him while the cat stayed in their courtyard. Narmer watched as the Trader carefully cut the stitches and pulled out the catgut, and Nitho mopped the tiny traces of blood then wiped on ointment mixed with honey. The Queen flinched, and finally smiled.

  ‘Why does a little pain like that seem harder to bear than the agony of your knives?’

  The Trader smiled at her. ‘Because you know that you will live. Now pain is an indignity, not a curse.’

  ‘You have an answer for everything, old friend,’ said the Queen. Her voice was regaining its strength too. ‘Even this.’ She touched her throat lightly. ‘So, what does a queen offer in return for her life?’

  Narmer half expected the Trader to say politely, ‘Between friends no payment is needed.’ But instead he stroked his bare chin where the beard had been. ‘Whatever you think it is worth,’ he replied, not even trying to hide his delight. Narmer had never seen him smile so broadly.

  The Queen began to laugh, then stopped, as it hurt her bruised throat. ‘Very well, my friend the trader. I offer all that you and your men can carry. Your choice of goods.’

  The Trader’s eyes gleamed. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘you have fulfilled a trader’s dream.’

  It was like a dream, thought Narmer, as servant after servant brought in bales of panther skin, fragrant wood carved into delicate boxes, beads of lapis lazuli and turquoise, the bronze plates he now knew as mirrors, heaps of myrrh resin, slabs of ebony wood, piles of elephant tusks, small bowls filled with a strange, almost green-coloured gold, the rarest in the world, curls of cinnamon bark, khesyt wood, small coloured jars of incense, and eye cosmetics.

  There were apes, too, and monkeys that chattered and tried to climb the wall hangings, and even a wild dog that had been tamed. The dog made Bast spit and her hackles rise, though she tolerated the apes and monkeys.

  Narmer half hoped the Trader would let him take a monkey. But he agreed that the poor thing might die during the long trek through the dry lands to Sumer. Humans, it seemed, were tougher than monkeys.

  Nor would the Trader take any of
the slaves, even the most beautiful or strong, though he accepted the offer of more guards to go part of the way to Sumer with them.

  Instead he chose nuggets of myrrh and bags of the greenish gold, as much as he thought they could possibly carry, as well as parched grain, dates and nuts to trade for meat and water along their journey. Gold and myrrh were no use if you were dying of hunger or thirst.

  The day before their departure they had a final audience with the Queen. The swelling on her neck had mostly gone now, leaving a vivid red scar, surrounded by wrinkles of skin where the growth had stretched it. But her hair shone again. Her crown was larger and heavy with jewels, her lips were rouged, and her hands and feet were decorated in red and orange spirals, just like her aunt’s. The leopard cub sat on her lap, golden-eyed and watchful.

  She looked almost, thought Narmer, like the glorious queen he had first imagined.

  Perhaps she saw something of that in his face, for she laughed, then clapped her hands at one of the servants standing by the smooth alabaster walls. The servant bowed and picked something up, then brought it over to her.

  It was a cushion, and on it were three identical amulets on long gold chains. The servant held the cushion out to Nitho, then the Trader. Finally Narmer picked up the third amulet. It was an alabaster egg, smooth and white as the palace walls. But some skilled hand had set spiralled gold tracery, with a touch of turquoise, into the stone itself.

  It was the most beautiful thing Narmer had ever seen.

  He glanced at the others. Nitho was pulling hers over her head, so Narmer did as well. It felt cool against his skin.

  ‘An amulet to take you safely home,’ said the Queen lightly, as if she hadn’t already given them treasure that kings would envy. ‘Though I don’t believe you will need it.’ She smiled at them. ‘I had another dream last night. A true dream, I think. You were all in it.’