Grandfather pointed out both walls every time I visited him in Djeme, for he’d been awarded flies of valor three separate times while fighting in the wars depicted there. “I’ve spent my life protecting Pharaoh,” he always said, “just as many of our ancestors protected the rulers and kings and pharaohs of their time. Someday you, too, Neset, may be called upon to do the same.” I couldn’t imagine how I, a mere girl, could protect a pharaoh, even if called to do so, but I’d never argued the point with Grandfather. Instead, I’d promised him I would.
I passed through the pylon into the second court. Gold–covered door jambs and lintels and copper–clad doors glittered in the sun, too bright to look at directly. I glanced quickly at the rear of the pylon. There were scenes of Ramesses hunting antelope and wild asses and bulls from his chariot. The second court was partially roofed around all four sides, ringed with carved and painted pillars and colonnades. I knew the pillars represented the plants that sprang up each year after the inundation, repeating the cycle of creation. The scenes on the court’s walls depicted festivals held to honor Sokar and Amen–Min. The court was crammed with excited onlookers; more were streaming in. Mesedptah and the other accused were standing at the front of the crowd on the left side of the courtyard, along with their accusers and village officials and several armed Medjay and a smattering of family members. The containers of grave goods were piled to their left. Several officials I assumed were to act as judges were seated in a row of leather–bottomed chairs under the shaded portico directly in front of the prisoners, talking amongst themselves; everyone else was standing in the hot sun. I elbowed through the crowd until I was within a few steps of my husband. He looked angry and defiant. As I watched, Amennakht cut the rope binding his wrists and those of his accomplices. The men accused with Mesedptah looked terrified. So did Sitmut. Anhirkawi had firm hold of her right arm to keep her from running away.
I’d been inside Djeme countless times in the years before my marriage. I’d helped Grandfather care for Ramesses’ garden and, on special occasions, placed flowers in sacred precincts. Beyond this court were hypostyle halls. On their north and south were rooms to store cult furniture and chapels for the major gods – Ptah, Sokar, Amen, and the deified Ramesses the Great. Other rooms were filled with ointments and gold and clothing. There was a slaughterhouse where priests slew the animals they offered to the gods. Off the second hypostyle hall were rooms associating the third Ramesses with the great god of the Afterlife, Osiris. Sections of the Spells of Emerging in Daytime were inscribed there, with scenes of Ramesses plowing and harvesting in the Field of Reeds. In rooms on the north side Ramesses traveled the sky and the netherworld in a boat along with Re, the vaulted ceiling painted blue and decorated with yellow stars and representations of the hours of the day and night. All the walls and ceilings and statues within the complex were brightly and magnificently painted, the work done by craftsmen from Ta Set Maat. Many objects from doors to lintels to stands for lamps and offerings were completely covered with gold and copper.
That the trial was being held in Djeme underscored its seriousness. Not only was my husband’s crime too grievous to be held before Ta Set Maat’s kenbet, but it was beyond the capacity of local kenbets too. Those consisted of the area’s governor and priests whose rank in civil or temple administration entitled them to jurisprudence. But seated before us was a Great Kenbet. Normally it was chaired by the vizier himself, the second most powerful man in the land, and composed of his peers. It heard cases regarding murder and property, for property was the source of Pharaoh’s wealth. Because land records were stored in the per’aa, to which the vizier had unlimited access, cases like this could only be resolved at his level. If those records weren’t enough or if a Great Kenbet was unable to reach a decision it could call on the divine oracle – the cult image of Amenhotep – to resolve the case. Kenbets usually doled out punishment consisting of confiscation of property, beatings, forced labor, the cutting off of lips or nose or ears or, in drastic circumstances, execution.
The judges of this Great Kenbet would prosecute and examine the accused, then pass judgment on them. A priest filed in rather pompously and took a chair in the center of the row.
“That’s Usermarenakht, First God’s Servant of Amen, the high priest from Ipet–Isut across the river,” someone next to me said.
Usermarenakht was one of the three most powerful priests in the valley – in his mid–fifties, head shaved, shendyt immaculate, golden broad collar magnificent, eyes stern, mouth unsmiling.
“Be brave, Child.”
I turned. My grandfather, Meniufer, had slipped into the space next to me. He was slightly bent and leaning on a cane, his legs and torso scarred from his years as a soldier. Three gold chains with flies of valor glittered around his neck, earned decades ago in service to Ramesses, as well as a nondescript falcon–shaped talisman that had been handed down in my family for more than four thousand years. The talisman was more precious to Grandfather than his awards from Pharaoh. He truly believed it had been given to our original ancestress, Aya, by the falcon god himself. Someday the talisman would be mine, and it would be my responsibility to pass it on to my own child, along with hundreds of family stories reaching all the way back to Aya’s time. Grandfather and Mother had both drilled me on those stories my whole life; I’d memorized every single one. Whenever I saw the talisman I felt I was connected to my ancestors, to everything they’d seen and done in their lives. And some of them had done truly remarkable things.
Grandfather’s skin was leathery from a lifetime of work in the sun. I remembered the old poem about gardeners:
The gardener carries a yoke,
His shoulders are bent as with age;
There’s a swelling on his neck
And it festers,
In the morning he waters vegetables,
The evening he spends with the herbs,
While at noon he toils in the orchard.
He works himself to death
More than all other professions.
“You’ve heard what Mesedptah did?” I asked grimly.
Grandfather gave me a wan smile. “Everyone has. On both sides of the river.” His eyes were sympathetic.
I gripped his arm, grateful for his presence.
“That’s Pentawere,” he told me as the last official entered. “He’s the son of Pharaoh and his minor wife Tiye, well down the line of succession. He just happened to be here at Djeme, arranging the delivery of supplies from the Ramesseum to the army divisions stationed up north at Pi–Ramesses. He’s responsible for the military facilities there. Since Vizier To and Pharaoh are visiting Abu together right now, Pentawere’s in charge today. Mesedptah’s life is in his hands.”
Pentawere was moving down the line of judges, greeting each of them by name, sharing a few words, smiling, laughing. He seemed very friendly and engaging, not the image I had of a royal. To me they were distant and aloof and stern and awe inspiring, as different from me as could be. After all, Pharaoh was a living god, Horus on earth.
“The judges all seem glad to see him,” I observed.
“Pentawere’s famed for his parties,” Grandfather said. “Men practically kill for an invitation.”
Pentawere was richly dressed as befit a pharaoh’s son. He wore a gold broad collar on his well–muscled chest and carried a long staff and sekhem scepter, his symbols of office. His shendyt was white and embroidered with designs in turquoise; his nemes headdress was striped blue and yellow. He didn’t look much older than me. I recalled seeing him from a distance at a festival some years ago. Back then he’d been even farther down the line of succession, but after the subsequent deaths of several older brothers he’d risen higher. Now only his half–brothers Ramesses and Amenherkoshef and Meryatum stood between him and the crown. Pentawere was extraordinarily good looking, a little taller than most men, strong, clear–eyed, self–assured. I’d overheard men in Ta Set Maat speak enviously of his prowess with women. I didn’t doubt it.
His advances would be hard to resist. Despite his youth he looked like a man who wielded authority easily. Unlike the very grim high priest, Pentawere seemed approachable.
“Begin,” the First God’s Servant commanded loudly.
Conversations in the crowd immediately ceased. Usermarenakht was an intimidating man.
Two village elders stepped forward.
“Excellencies, I am Amennakht, scribe in Ta Set Maat. This is Khonsu, foreman of the right gang in the Great Place. We have brought six men before Your Excellencies today.” He indicated the prisoners with his hand. “Mesedptah, Mose, Hay, Pentauret, Qenna and Weserhat. And one woman. Sitmut.”
“Who accuses?”
“The workman Penanuke.”
Penanuke reluctantly moved beside Amennakht and bowed low.
“Speak!” the First God’s Servant ordered.
Penanuke bowed low again. “You are my superiors, Excellencies, and these men, Amennakht and Khonsu, are administrators of the tomb. Pharaoh Ramesses – life, prosperity, health – my Good Lord, has made me swear an oath of fealty, saying ‘I will not hear anything, I will not see any damage in the great and deep places, and conceal it.’”
“Yes, yes,” the priest said impatiently with a wave of his hand. “Get on with it.”
“Mesedptah and Pentauret and Mose and Hay stripped stones from the top of the tomb shaft of the great god, Ramesses the Great – life, prosperity, health – justified. They took golden objects from inside the tomb and melted them and divided the gold amongst themselves. In addition, Mesedptah stole an ox marked with the brand of the temple of Ramesses the Great as well. It’s in his stable.”
Murmurs swept the crowd. I caught my breath at the audacity of my husband’s crime.
“Qenna broke the seal and entered the tomb of Ramesses the Great’s sons,” Penanuke continued. “He carried out Weserhat’s plan, and also stole from tombs in Ta Set Neferu where pharaohs’ wives and children lie.”
More murmurs. Louder.
“Is this all?”
“No, Excellency. In addition, Mesedptah had intercourse with three married women – the lady Menat when she was living with Qenna, the lady Taiunes when she was living with Nakhtamun, and the lady Tawerethetepti when she was living with Pentauret.”
Abject humiliation. I felt the eyes of my neighbors on me, heard their whispers. Grandfather put an arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. My cheeks were burning. Had Mesedptah really done this, slept with so many? These women, in addition to those named by Pendau on my roof? And Sitmut? Had Mesedptah really been so serially unfaithful to me? Most of the looks aimed my way were knowing, not sympathetic. Had everyone in the village been aware of my husband’s infidelities except me?
The priest eyed the accused. “Which of you is Mesedptah?”
My husband stepped from the midst of the others. He looked unconcerned.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Excellency, if what Penanuke said is true, that I slept with Qenna’s and Pentauret’s wives, would they have robbed tombs along with me? Of course not!” He threw his arms wide and his eyes narrowed. “They’d be the first to accuse me!”
Qenna and Pentauret both nodded vigorously.
Either Mesedptah truly hadn’t slept with their wives, or they were more concerned with saving their lives than the honor of their women.
“He makes a good point,” Pentawere interjected, addressing the First God’s Servant.
“Besides, Pharaoh owns everything in the valley,” Mesedptah continued, emboldened. “How could we possibly spend our so–called loot?”
“Excellencies, Mesedptah constructed a fine tomb on the hill overlooking Ta Set Maat,” Penanuke argued. “No doubt he gave what he’d stolen from the justified pharaoh as payment to other craftsmen to excavate and decorate it, and more to those who live in Waset for fine goods to fill it.”
“These containers are filled with objects from Mesedptah’s tomb,” Amennakht interjected. He opened a reed basket at random and pulled out a handful of pendants.
“Every craftsman in Ta Set Maat barters his services with his friends to construct each others’ tombs,” Mesedptah said calmly. “That’s how its been done since the days of our forefathers.” He smiled smugly. “Why shouldn’t I have many fine grave goods? I’m the best painter among the craftsmen. I’ve lost count of how many priests and officials from Waset have traded me goods in return for my work on their tombs. They seek me out, in fact.”
“Is Mesedptah telling the truth about bartering between Ta Set Maat and Waset?” Pentawere asked Amennakht.
“He is, Majesty,” the scribe admitted.
“Don’t let Mesedptah wriggle off the hook, Majesty!” Penanuke cried hotly, taking a step towards the judges. “There’s more. Everyone knows that his woman serves beef and honey–sweetened wine almost daily at his table. He wears voluminous woolen cloaks when it’s cold and his linen garments are edged with colored weavings and embroidery and tasseled at the neck. He’s shod in red leather slippers. Where does he get those luxuries?”
“My wife has given me one child that died within an hour of its birth and two more stillborn,” Mesedptah answered dismissively. “I barter my extra rations for luxuries.”
Hatred for my husband engulfed me, like water rushing over a dike during the inundation. Bad enough he’d robbed a pharaoh – I was absolutely convinced he had after what I’d witnessed earlier at his tomb. But what had I done to him, that he felt no compunction about casually mentioning my barren womb in public? He didn’t seem to care that he’d just humiliated me in front of friends and neighbors and strangers, and Pharaoh’s officials. I’d been a few months short of thirteen years when my daughter Ipu was born and died. Since the death of my third daughter three years after that I’d been unable to conceive despite my best efforts. I’d tried every fertility treatment the women of my village were aware of – gouging sandstone from temple walls and mixing the grains with water and drinking it, making votive offerings at tombs and temples and shrines, exposing myself before the cult statue of the goddess Hathor to try to assimilate her fertility, wearing amulets representing the gods Bes and Taweret and others in the shape of penises and breasts, writing letters to my dead ancestors pleading for their intercession, even wearing a girdle of cowrie shells. Nothing had worked. Mesedptah had long ago given up any hope of children from me, though that hadn’t dampened the frequency or intensity of his ardor. An ardor he’d apparently expressed with the wives and daughters of other men as well. I wondered if he was as rough and demanding and insatiable with them as he was with me.
“Every single day a village girl cooks and cleans in Mesedptah’s house, unlike the rest of us who make do with a servant one day each week,” Penanuke continued. “This one. Sitmut.” He pointed at her. “The most beautiful girl in Ta Set Maat.” Penanuke nodded at me. “There’s his wife. Ask her if you don’t believe me.”
“Come forward,” Pentawere ordered me brusquely.
I froze, embarrassed, scared.
Grandfather squeezed my hand and gently nudged me. “Don’t be afraid, Neset. Go ahead. You must answer Pharaoh’s son.”
I shuffled meekly to stand beside Mesedptah, my eyes focused on the ground. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t want to ever see his face again. I’d served him obediently for eight years in every way a wife should, submitted to him, tolerated him, endured him. But today he’d thoughtlessly and carelessly and purposefully humiliated me. He’d publicly disrespected me. He was going to be convicted of his crimes. His conviction was going to ruin my life and drag me down with him and make me an outcast. I saw that clearly. Standing before the judges of the Great Kenbet and friends and neighbors and strangers, I felt the crushing weight of what Mesedptah had done to me this day.
In that instant stories Grandfather had told me about my ancestors began racing through my head. Stories about Aya, a mere girl who’d answered the falcon god’s call and saved her band from starvation mo
re than four millennia ago. And Tiaa, who’d put a man on the throne of Nekhen and its surrounding hamlets. And Amenia, who’d escaped Nekhen only hours before her scheduled execution and carried the culture of the South to the North. And Ashayt, who’d given her life so King Narmer could unify the valley. And Merneith, who’d ruled the valley as regent for her son, King Den. And Kanufer, who’d risked his life to retrieve the body of the second King Seqenenre Tao, killed in battle, from under the noses of the Chiefs of Foreign Lands. None of them had been any different than me, ordinary people living ordinary lives. All had been thrust into dire situations and had summoned a previously unguessed at inner strength to overcome them. I shared their ka. Somewhere inside me, deep down, was whatever they’d called upon to rise up and impact their world. In that instant I decided I wasn’t going to let Mesedptah’s crimes define the rest of my life. I was going to define it for myself. I took a breath, threw back my shoulders, tilted my chin proudly, pushed aside all thoughts of shame and humiliation. I stared directly into Pentawere’s eyes, unblinking, unintimidated.
He swept his eyes over me from head to foot, slowly. He sat straighter; his breathing quickened. He obviously very much liked what he saw. I drew the same reaction from almost every man I met. I was so tired of it. Unlike my husband, I’d never surrendered to anyone who’d tried to seduce me, either before or after my marriage, and there’d been many. I’d never even been tempted. My marital bed was a place of submission, not enjoyment. I had no desire to experience with another what I regularly experienced with my husband.
“Is everything your husband claimed true?” Pentawere asked me.
“Majesty. Excellencies. Mesedptah and I do eat much beef and drink much honeyed wine, as Penanuke said. But it’s only our normal ration.” I glanced at the friends and neighbors gathered around me. “Surely we get no different than the rest of you in the village.”
The Gardener and the Assassin Page 4
