by Marc Graham
“Nonsense,” Horemheb said. He stepped toward Yetzer, raised him by the shoulders and embraced him. “I may be Pharaoh, whether by the will of the gods or of man. But you, Yetzer, are the savior and friend of Pharaoh. As such, you are the savior and friend of all Kemet. Come. Sit and eat.”
Horemheb led Yetzer around the sand pit to the far corner of the hall where a low table sat surrounded by thick cushions. Ameniye and Pharaoh’s principal wife, Mutnedjmet, shared one side of the table. The princess looked at Yetzer through her eyelashes and smiled. Opposite the women sat a withered man with a long robe draped over his bony frame. Pharaoh made the introductions.
“Yetzer, greet Huy, High Priest and Servant of Amun.” In a louder voice he said, “Master Huy, your servant presents—”
“No need to shout, Ouros,” the priest said, calling Pharaoh by his birth name. “These old ears can still hear a dragonfly’s whisper. And no need to introduce the hero of Bakhu.”
“Please, don’t get up,” Yetzer said as the priest pushed away from the table.
Huy brushed off Pharaoh’s offer of help. Ancient bones and parched sinews creaked as they straightened beneath the priest. When he had finished his noisy unfolding, he stood a head taller than Pharaoh, despite the stoop that bent the priest’s spine.
“You are Yetzer abi-Huram, eh?”
Cold hands clamped onto Yetzer’s face, turning his head side to side, contorting his features as though to reshape his image.
“Ah, there he is,” Huy said at last. “The father rests in the son.” He released his hold and tapped Yetzer’s nose. “Something of the Habiru, too, hmm? Of what tribe is your mother, boy?”
“Naftali,” Yetzer said.
The priest squeezed his eyes shut and furrowed his brow, then snapped his fingers. “‘Naftali is a fleeting deer who gives good instruction.’ Are you a fleeting deer, young Yetzer?”
“I don’t—” Yetzer stammered for an answer, but Pharaoh interceded.
“Sit, Master. Eat,” he said, and led the priest back to his seat. “The duck will not stay warm forever.”
“The student becomes the teacher,” Huy said, and patted Horemheb’s hand.
Pharaoh gestured Yetzer to a cushion at one end of the table, between Ameniye and the High Priest, then sat opposite him.
“Would you sanctify the food, Master Huy?” he said to the priest.
The old man spread out his hands. “As it was before the beginning,” Huy intoned in a reedy chant, “may it be soon and forever. As it is in the heavens, let it be upon the earth.”
He took up some bread, raised his eyes toward the ceiling and broke the loaf in two. “As the body of Osaure has gone to the earth, so does the earth return his body in the grain of the field, to nourish and sanctify us to the service of the gods and one another.”
The priest took a portion of the bread then handed the remaining parts to Horemheb and Yetzer. Each in turn broke his portion in two and handed a part to the woman beside him.
Huy then raised a silver chalice filled with wine from the oasis of Faiyum. “The blood of Osaure, spilled upon the earth and enlivened in the grape to revive the spirit of man.” He dipped his bread into the wine, ate his portion, then handed the cup to Horemheb. Pharaoh repeated the motions, and the ceremony continued around the table until Ameniye handed the cup to Yetzer. Her fingers burned under his as she passed the wine to him, her eyes alight. Yetzer took the chalice, dipped in his bread …
And was dumbfounded.
He had dined in Pharaoh’s house many times, had drunk from the best of the royal vineyards, but those feasts had never affected him like this simple meal.
Light shone around those seated at the table, like the halo about the moon on a fog-shrouded night. Yetzer blinked to clear his vision, but the auras only glowed stronger when he saw them through his missing eye. Pharaoh blazed with an orange light, Mutnedjmet the color of amethyst, while Ameniye glowed an ardent red. About Huy shone a pure white that returned to his features a youthfulness time had stolen.
Yetzer opened his eye. In his natural vision, the halos faded.
“Let sight be granted to him with an eye to see,” said the priest. He winked at Yetzer and nudged Horemheb with his elbow.
Pharaoh offered a grim smile and the slightest of nods, then carved the roasted duck.
“Ameniye tells me you have become quite the scholar,” Mutnedjmet said to Yetzer.
“She is an excellent tutor,” Yetzer replied.
“And what subjects has our princess taught?” asked the priest.
Ameniye almost spilled the vegetables into Yetzer’s lap.
“Pharaoh’s daughter is well versed in the legends of Kemet,” Yetzer said. “By her very voice she gives breath to the tales of the ancients.”
Huy accepted the platter and Yetzer’s answer with a curt grunt, and Pharaoh redirected the conversation to talk of court, the latest inundation, rumors from neighboring lands.
“Will you and your mother be returning to your father’s country?” Mutnedjmet asked Yetzer as the servants cleared the table and refilled the cups.
Ameniye looked with wide, eager eyes at Yetzer who took a long drink of wine.
“Kemet is the very heart of wisdom and learning,” he said after wiping his chin. “As long as Pharaoh and the gods will it, I shall be content to live and learn beside the Iteru.”
Horemheb set down his cup and fixed his eyes on Yetzer.
“And what, exactly, would you learn beside the river, Friend of Pharaoh?”
Yetzer’s mouth went dry. His thoughts raced, but no answer came to his aid.
“As you bear the mark of the savior Haru,” Pharaoh continued, and tapped beside his own left eye, “you have but to ask and all shall be given to you. Knock on any door, and it will open before you.”
Ameniye clasped her hand over Yetzer’s and gave a hopeful smile.
“Pharaoh has been too generous already,” Yetzer demurred. “Your servant can ask nothing more.”
Ameniye’s grip tightened and she cleared her throat. The old priest covered a cough with his hand.
“If you will not ask, then I will offer.” Pharaoh spread his hands, palms down, over the table then turned up his right. “With this hand I offer you all the riches and treasures of the world. I have called you Son. If you wish, you shall be my son before the gods and men, as husband to my daughter.”
Ameniye shook Yetzer’s fingers.
“With the other hand,” Horemheb continued before Yetzer could reply, turning up his left palm, “I offer you the light of the heavens. As I called your father Huram my brother before the gods, so would I call you, and stand for you before the celestial throne.”
Yetzer’s mouth fell open as the import of Pharaoh’s words rolled over him. Ameniye’s eyes shone in the lamplight, full of ardor and joy. The queen absently sifted through a bunch of grapes. Only a few years older than her step-daughter, Mutnedjmet had been near to Ameniye’s age when her father, Pharaoh Aya, married her to his strongest rival, Horemheb. She was still beautiful, but her eyes were as vacant as Ameniye’s became when Yetzer tried to discuss the meanings behind the murals.
“Yetzer abi-Huram,” Pharaoh intoned, “this day I set before you life and light. Choose life and become master of this world. Or choose light, die to the desires of the flesh, and become master of the world beyond the veil.” Horemheb clasped his hands together, set them on the table, and held Yetzer’s gaze. “What say you?”
Yetzer thought to ask for time, but something told him Pharaoh’s offer held as much demand as promise. Hesitate, and all could be lost. He squeezed Ameniye’s fingers, gave her a soft smile, then pulled his hand from hers.
“Give me light.”
9
Makeda
My belly rumbled its discontent. For months we’d survived on hard bread, bitter nuts, and salted fish. I might have complained, but my mother—indeed, all the souls throughout Saba—fared no better. Across the land, people sacr
ificed the better part of their rations to feed the men and women who worked on Mother’s grand project.
At the mouth of the Wadi Dhanah, where the mountains met the desert, laborers went about their grueling tasks. Women trudged in mud troughs, blending dirt and straw and precious water. After they formed the putty into bricks and baked them beneath the burning sun, the men hauled and stacked these in a great wall that spanned the width of the wadi.
Centered on the boulder that had once sheltered me from the flood, the dam stretched from bank to bank and stood the height of three men. From either end, canals ran into the fields, each branching into a network of smaller channels that spread throughout the onetime oasis.
Generations of neglect had left the irrigation channels blocked with silt and debris, and my mother’s goal was to clear the channels and revitalize our fields. While women and men formed and stacked the bricks of the dam, the children and elders dredged out the waterways. I was no exception.
“You will lead these people one day,” my mother had told me. “If a ruler expects to share her people’s bounty, she must also share their trials.”
From the city walls, the fields stretched into the distance, and I chose the channel branches that took me farthest from the city. A wooden stake marked my progress from the day before, and I pulled it up and hummed a little tune as I set to work.
It wasn’t that I relished the work, nor that I wanted to set an example or earn my mother’s approval. What drove me early to the fields and late to the gates was this, silence and solitude. A respite from the other children.
If I happened to draw near to where they worked, there would be joking and laughter and jeers of Mud-skin and Brush-head. I’d inherited the complexion and hair of my mother’s people across the Western Sea in Uwene, and my springy locks refused to be tamed.
“Good morning, Piss-eye.”
I turned at the fresh insult. Mother called my eyes honey or amber or gold. Yanuf said they were the shade of harvest beer, which was more valuable than any of these. Leave it to Dhamar to turn my most favored attribute into a source of derision. The son of Watar of Timnah—and my betrothed, I tried to forget—Dhamar had spent the past year in Maryaba as a surety of peace between our two cities.
“The sun has only just risen,” I said, ignoring the taunt. “Shouldn’t you still be abed?”
“It was cold and I had no company.”
I looked away as he parted his robes and passed water on the sunbaked field.
“Tell me that isn’t your color exactly,” he added, raising his voice over the splattering stream.
I edged away and drove my dredging stick once more into the earth. I tensed as Dhamar crouched behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders.
“And when will the mukarrib’s daughter join me on my sleeping mat?”
A shiver ran down my spine, but I forced calm into my voice. “As soon as Shams awakens from there,” I said, nodding toward the cloud bedecked western mountains. “What of Aisha and Tahira and Magda? Have they so quickly tired of you that you must seek out a child not yet in her moons?”
Dhamar’s relations with the daughters of Maryaba’s wealthiest tradesmen were an open secret. What would otherwise have been a cause for stoning of the young women and a heavy fine for Dhamar was overlooked for the cause of peace and the hoped-for prosperity of all involved.
“Tahira’s pleasure slit is too loose since she gave birth,” he said. “Aisha’s is tight enough, but she stinks of goat sweat. Magda at least smells of incense, but she constantly chatters like a locust.” He reached an arm around my waist and pulled me against him. “And none of them is daughter of the mukarrib.” He slipped his other hand beneath my robe.
I blinked and found myself standing, both hands tight about the dredging stick, and a war cry fading from my ears. Dhamar sprawled on the ground, blood streaming from his temple. He raised a hand to the wound, studied the blood on his fingers then licked them clean.
“You’ve brought forth my blood,” he said, his eyes piercing me. “Now I shall do the same for you.”
“Is this the pride of Timnah?” Yanuf said as he walked up behind the young lord, spear in hand. “Whelping bastards and threatening children?”
“This isn’t your concern, cripple,” Dhamar snapped.
“Your mother summons you,” the old warrior told me, ignoring the insult. “It is time.”
“Time?” I asked.
Yanuf pointed his spear toward the mountains. A year had passed since the flood of the Wadi Dhanah. As the dam’s completion neared, Mother had dispatched messengers throughout Saba to summon the people to the dedication. She’d even sent word across the Western Sea to Uwene, where her brother sat upon the throne of our ancestors. For weeks visitors had streamed to Maryaba, in anticipation of the gods’ renewed blessings. As black clouds flashed with light above the distant peaks, it appeared that time had come.
Thunder echoed off the walls of the Wadi Dhanah. Not the thunder of the gods, but of new goatskins stretched over willow frames. The freshly skinned carcasses lay at the foot of the dam, sunlight gleaming upon raw flesh. People trampled the freshly cleared fields, crowded the banks of the wadi, and drained the overtaxed wells. From atop the dam I studied the sky to find some omen of the gods’ intent.
Elmakah’s clouds streaked with glory far away on the western horizon. Would this day bring the flood so desperately needed? Might life return to the desert and bring peace and prosperity once more to Maryaba, to all Saba? The skies gave no answer I could discern so I turned my attention back to the ceremony.
Yatha, priest of the great god Athtar, stood with bloody hands raised to the sky. His voice weakened by the daylong ceremony, still he cried for the gods’ attention. He lowered his hands when Ismail the tanner stepped forward with the final sacrifice, the joint offering of Timnah and Maryaba.
Ismail’s daughter Tahira wailed as the priest took the offering, her newborn bastard. A pang of sympathy tugged at my heart for the girl who’d fought for Dhamar’s attention, a battle I’d been happy to surrender.
Dhamar stood with his father and the elders from Timnah. I looked for any sign of regret at the imminent sacrifice of his daughter but saw none. Had Tahira produced a son, Dhamar might have protested. As the child was but a girl, he seemed content to let the ceremony proceed. His virility, in any case, had been proven.
“Accept, mighty Athtar,” Yatha intoned, “the return of this child, exchanged for your watchfulness and protection.”
The child made no sound as the priest dangled her by the feet over the edge of the dam. She simply gummed on her tiny fist.
My breath came faster. I fought the urge to seize the child from the priest’s gnarled hand and give her into the safety of Tahira’s arms, but my mother had explained the need to sacrifice a blameless one for the salvation of all. I clenched my fists and invoked a silent prayer.
Return to the gods, Little One. Bid them send us life.
As though taking his cue from my unspoken words, Yatha drew his bloodstained flint across the infant’s throat. Tahira screamed and lurched forward but her father caught her about the waist and dragged her away as the crimson font streamed onto the pile of offerings. When the child’s twitching ended, the priest dropped her lifeless husk onto the sacrificial heap.
Tahira’s cries were overwhelmed by the shouts of adulation from the assembly. Urged on by the priest, the people called for the gods’ mercy. The thunder of the drums grew louder and pulsed through my chest.
As one, the crowd swayed back and forth, arms raised toward the distant, flashing clouds. The very foundations of the dam seemed to tremble in sympathy. I lost my balance and fell to my knees. Yanuf, ever present, helped me to my feet. He set me beside my mother on the shivering bricks of the dam.
The rhythm of the earth grew stronger, outpacing that of the drums. Pebbles danced in the wadi just as they had on that fateful day a year earlier. The day Bilkis had been lost. The day Mother and I had b
een granted our freedom. The strange stillness in the air was not unlike the emptiness that had preceded—
“Athtar’s breath.” My words came so softly I wondered if I’d spoken them aloud.
Mother took me by the shoulders. “What did you say?”
“It’s Athtar’s breath,” I repeated. “The god speaks.”
She cocked an ear toward the mouth of the wadi. After a moment, she flashed a hopeful glance at Yanuf. She stood and placed me in front of her as she faced the people. She raised her arms and the drums and voices gradually fell silent.
“The prayers of the people have been heard,” she proclaimed. “Our sacrifices have been accepted. Witness now the answer, the blessing of the gods.”
Mother turned back toward the mountains, with me between her and Yanuf. On either side of us, the priest and elders and visiting chieftains gathered in a line that stretched the width of the dam.
The world fell silent save for the rattle of the dancing pebbles. Countless heartbeats pulsed in my ears before the slightest zephyr brushed my cheek. The breezy sigh grew to a whisper, then a whine. The earth trembled more violently, and a cry of fear rose from the crowd.
Makeda, run!
There was no mistaking Bilkis’s voice. I spun around. Thousands of faces looked toward me, toward the wadi, but none belonged to Bilkis. The memory’s echo faded.
“What is it?” Mother asked.
I shook my head and turned back. Athtar’s breath was now a scream, cold and dank as it howled down from the mountains. With his breath came the terror of Elmakah. Fear shook me as a dark wall of water appeared in the canyon. The flood snarled and foamed like some horrid fiend as it stooped down to devour the people of Saba.
Screams pierced the air. The men on the dam jostled and trampled one another as they raced toward the banks of the wadi. Even Yanuf took a step back from the dam’s face.
But I stepped forward. “We’re safe,” I told my mother, even as she grabbed my hand to pull me back. “Umma, we’re safe,” I insisted.
