The Gardener and the Assassin
Page 20
“But there’s more to the story, Mother. Senwosret’s loyalists sent a messenger to inform him of his father’s murder. He happened to be on his way home and was camped nearby. He set out for the capital at night, by himself, so no one would be aware he’d left camp. He didn’t know if he could trust anyone in his army or if they’d been corrupted too. He reached the per’aa quickly enough to nip the conspiracy in the bud. The plot failed. He took the throne.”
“The coup was ill–planned,” Mother said knowingly. “Ours wouldn’t be.”
The last of the horses passed and Amen’s Division came into view. Its commanders halted in front of Father, just behind Amen’s barque shrine. The First God’s Servant moved from the reviewing stand and joined half a dozen high–ranking priests in the street. They censed the shrine with incense.
“Enough of this nonsense, Mother,” I said after Usermarenakht resumed his seat and the soldiers marched on. “I never want to hear you mention patricide again. Father’s a living god. I’m not going to kill him – ever. I’ll wait for him to die. Then I’ll deal with my brother and seize the throne. And I won’t kill him either.”
Mother regarded me speculatively. “You’re still young, Pentawere. You don’t know how hard it’s going to be to wait, to bide your time, to suppress your ambition. But you’ll figure it out, and soon. Then you’ll realize you’re willing to do whatever it takes to seize the throne from whoever holds it at the time or might in the future. And then we’ll have this discussion again.”
***
Akhet (flood)
Neset
***
After the triumph I returned to my room in the per’aa along with Grandfather, amazed by what I’d witnessed. The magnificence of soldiers and horses and chariots, the blare of trumpets, the beating drums, the colors of countless standards – I understood why Pentawere was drawn to being a soldier. I didn’t doubt he could accomplish much leading those thousands of men if given a chance. I certainly wouldn’t want to fight against Pharaoh’s army. I’d watched Pentawere too, surreptitiously, from a long distance, sitting with his family in the reviewing stand. He and his mother had spent most of the triumph conversing, their heads close together. I hoped they weren’t talking about me.
Two young girls were waiting in my room, both beautiful, both wearing wonderful linen skirts.
“I’m Kemtet. This is Kapes. You’re to come with us.”
“To where?”
“They’re going to prepare you for the banquet, Child,” Grandfather said.
“Banquet? I’m not going, Grandfather.” I whirled around. “This is my best skirt. It’s not fit.”
“His Majesty has provided,” Kapes announced.
Provided? “Which Majesty?”
“Pharaoh’s son, Pentawere,” Kemtet replied.
“I told him I wouldn’t go with him, Grandfather. I’d embarrass him.”
“I promised him you would.”
“You spoke with him?”
“I did. He doesn’t want you to miss the experience, Neset. Neither do I. Go. If you won’t do it for you, do it for me.”
Reluctantly, I followed the girls from my room and through the seemingly endless corridors of the per’aa. I kept my eyes lowered anytime we encountered anyone; I didn’t want to see the disgust that must surely show in their eyes at my appearance. Still, I was excited. I’d spent last night regretting turning down Pentawere’s invitation to attend the banquet, for I longed to see the royals and courtiers in all their finery. Now I was going to after all. But I vowed to be strong and avoid Pentawere. If his mother saw us together it could cost Grandfather and me everything.
We entered a room, brightly lit by sunlight spilling through a wide window. Every wall was decorated with images of birds and trees and flowers. Several ebony tables contained jars of ointments and perfumes and reed brushes and cosmetic spoons and palettes and see–faces, orderly arranged. Another contained wigs in several styles on wooden stands. Small stools were pulled up to the tables. Numerous chests, finely decorated, lined one wall. Several linen–wrapped packages lay atop a bed covered with linen sheets, its legs carved like a lion’s paws. On the floor in one corner of the room was a stone trough, divided from the rest of the room by a screen. The corner was, I realized, a bathroom – the first I’d ever seen.
“Whose room is this?” I asked.
“It where His Majesty’s guests stay,” Kemtet replied.
“You don’t think you’re the first woman we’ve prepared for Pharaoh’s son, do you?” Kapes laughed.
Of course not. So much for feeling special. His mother had said it – Pentawere could have any woman he wanted. I was simply tonight’s. What he’d told Grandfather about not wanting me to miss the banquet – a lie. He obviously intended me to be his next conquest. But I wasn’t about to submit to him, Pharaoh’s son or no. I should run, right now. But I have no idea where my room is. And Grandfather would drag me back here anyway. Before I could take action the girls unceremoniously stripped off my skirt. Kemtet distastefully tossed it into a corner. Then she led me around the screen and ordered me to stand in the trough. I noted that the mud–brick walls of the bathroom were all covered waist–high with stone, to keep the walls from disintegrating when splashed with water. The girls methodically and quickly applied oil to every inch of my skin. Then, using a copper razor and tweezers, they removed the hair from my body. Their instruments were far superior to the sharpened flint I used at home. I’d never had such a thorough shaving in my life. Afterwards, Kapes poured jar after jar of water over me. Then Kemtet washed me with a scented mixture of ashes and natron. Kapes rinsed me, then both girls dried me with linen towels, rubbing my skin until it was red. Normally I bathed in the river each evening, letting the breeze dry me on the bank afterwards. Today’s experience was so much better.
But it wasn’t over.
I remained standing in the trough. Kapes and Kemtet brought containers of perfumed oil from one of the tables and anointed my entire body. The oil smelled heavenly; it would have cost me several month’s rations at Djeme. They sat me down on a stool next to an ebony table and Kemtet brushed my long hair until it shone – I refused to wear a wig and, for once, the girls agreed. Kapes then ornamented my eyes darkly with kohl, varnished my fingernails and toenails, and applied henna to my cheeks and lips.
Kemtet bid me stand up. Kapes went to the bed and returned with the larger package and opened it. It contained a vertically–pleated opaque white dress with a single strap over the left shoulder and a gold–embroidered hem.
“Just like Pharaoh’s daughters and granddaughters wear,” Kemtet confided.
I raised my arms and they slipped the dress over my head. I’d never felt anything so soft against my skin, never worn a dress that fit me so closely and perfectly. Then Kapes laid the contents of the second package on the table – an assortment of magnificent jewelry, glittering in the sunlight. I almost feared to touch it – a gold necklace with dangling gold lotus flowers inlaid with carnelian, earrings and rings and bracelets and a girdle to match, an anklet of carnelian beads with gold talons and gold clasps. No one I knew owned anything so wonderful.
I caressed the necklace with my fingertips as Kemtet knelt and affixed an anklet. I couldn’t help be curious. “How many have worn these jewels before me?”
Kemtet looked up at me. “None. They’re gifts. Made in Pharaoh’s workshops. And the dress, by his weavers. Pharaoh’s son is generous to his women.”
Kapes giggled.
I was more convinced than ever that Pentawere would expect something from me in return for his generosity. How I was going to wriggle out of that I had no clue.
Finished, the girls returned me to Grandfather’s room. I felt like an imposter as we wound through the corridors. I might be dressed in finery, but I knew I didn’t belong among the royals and courtiers and high officials roaming this per’aa. By Grandfather’s wide smile I knew I’d been transformed. I thanked Kemtet and Kapes at my doo
r and bid them goodbye. Then Grandfather and I immediately left for the banquet. He led me to the column–ringed central courtyard of the per’aa, then into the packed banquet hall, already loud with music and hundreds of conversations. Men’s heads turned as I passed; I ignored them. I was going to stick close to Grandfather tonight, not get carried away and strike up a conversation with anyone and pretend I actually belonged at the banquet. Scantily–dressed young serving girls, their hair braided in rows, were waiting at the entrance, their arms loaded with garlands of lotus blossoms. One draped a garland around my neck. Just like the ones I assembled for the great festivals at Waset. I lifted the flowers to my nose and inhaled deeply. Only my new perfume was as fragrant.
The hall’s columns were crowned with green– and yellow–painted papyrus capitals and decorated with scenes of Pharaoh making offerings to Ptah and slaying the valley’s enemies, all painted, their reds and yellows and blues and greens vivid. Pharaoh’s names and titles were inscribed on some of the columns in blue faience. The walls were brightly decorated, the white plastered floors painted with scenes of ducks rising from marshes and pools lush with plants and wildlife, the ceiling covered with vultures with outspread wings. Gold and copper glittered everywhere. Flowers spilled from reed baskets. There were hundreds of small alabaster tables with two chairs each facing a substantial three–stepped limestone dais at the head of the hall. A statue of a lion biting the head of a prisoner decorated its bottommost step. Images of barbarians prostrating themselves before Pharaoh were on the sides of the dais. The top of each step was decorated with bound prisoners and the Nine Bows so Pharaoh could symbolically crush his enemies underfoot every time he ascended to his throne. The ebony throne was inlaid with gold, flanked by lions, their legs supporting the seat, tails rising in back. A baldachin arched over the throne, its supports carved like papyrus and its roof topped with rearing cobras, each wearing a sun disk. By day sunlight would have spilled into the room from small clerestory windows near the top of the walls, but since the sun had set the hall was currently lit by torches and burning linen wicks floating in bowls of oil atop countless small copper–clad stands, the flames flickering.
The huge room was so crowded with officials and their wives that movement was nearly impossible. I located the source of the music, a far corner where women were playing clarinets and double oboes and a harp and a lute and a lyre and single and double flutes. Several women were shaking square tambourines, others striking ivory clappers together or shaking rattles, still more tapping darabooka drums and cymbals.
Grandfather spotted an old military comrade across the hall and pressed through the crowd with his hobbling step to talk with him, promising to return to me in time for the feasting. I backed against a brightly painted wall out of the flow of people to wait. I looked around, wide–eyed. I’d never seen so many beautiful women gathered in one place. Many were wearing wigs, some Hathoric, some the tripartite style that framed their faces and fell over both the back and front of their shoulders. The natural hair of others was elaborately done up with ribbons and floral garlands and elegant gold pins. Some wore their hair long, flowing over shoulders and backs, some short, some long and plaited, the plaits fastened at the ends with colored string. Some wore braids that dangled down each side of their face. I was the only woman in the hall with red hair and so I was drawing stares. Most women had cones of myrrh pomade on their heads; as the night wore on and the myrrh warmed it would run down their wigs and release perfume into the air. Many had anointed their bodies with so much aromatic oil that their dresses clung to them, more yellow than white.
The dresses were elegant and revealing – white, sheer, opaque, diaphanous, pleated, some open all the way down the front, some held up with straps – narrow, wide, occasionally just one. Flared sleeves reached to elbows. A few dresses were embroidered with designs in turquoise and gold. Some women wore mantles over their shoulders, the crossed ends tied in the Isis knot below their neck. The jewelry was incomparable – pendants, diadems, earrings, bracelets, belts, finger rings, girdles and anklets – made of gold, silver, carnelian, turquoise, obsidian, lapis lazuli, faience. I looked with envy at a girdle adorned with the lion–heads of the goddess Sekhmet joined with beads of amethyst, others made of gold shells joined with red, blue and gold beads. There were bracelets with rows of carnelian and turquoise and lapis lazuli beads separated by beads of gold, with clasps shaped like djed pillars. There were wondrous broad collars with beads and pendants and hieroglyphs and golden teardrops. Earrings ranged from gold hoops to glass studs to faience plugs.
“Meryatum, Greatest of Seers from Re’s temple at Iunu, Pharaoh’s Son!” boomed a herald just inside the entrance to the hall.
All heads swiveled in that direction and conversation ground to a halt as the priest entered and made his way along a narrow aisle in the center of the hall between the tables to a long row of two–person tables lined up at the foot of the dais, perpendicular to the aisle. I noted that the four barbarian women who’d been given to Pharaoh during yesterday’s triumph were already seated in that row to the right of Pharaoh’s chair. I assumed his wives weren’t going to be pleased with the arrangement.
“Pentawere, Pharaoh’s Son.”
My pulse quickened as he casually strolled the length of the aisle, cheerfully and enthusiastically greeting men and women on both sides. Particularly the women. As was to be expected. Pentawere was the most handsome man in the hall and, as an unmarried son of Pharaoh’s, particularly desirable. Women were clamoring for his attention, as his mother had predicted. Their undisguised hunger was embarrassing. And, frankly, the smiles he turned on them made me a little jealous. I could have been with Pentawere tonight if not for my stubborn pride. Then I became aware of the weight of the necklace dangling around my neck, the dress smooth against my skin. After giving me such finery he’d certainly seek me out at some point. Probably when the banquet ended, expecting me to express my gratitude. Well, I was going to be long gone from the hall before then. Only by avoiding him could I protect myself and my position as overseer. It took Pentawere twice as long to reach the front of the hall as it had Meryatum.
“Setherkopshef, Pharaoh’s Son.”
The boy who’d been so interested in Grandfather’s scars last month in the tower room. He practically galloped to the front and plopped into a chair next to his half–brother, the high priest.
“Amenherkoshef, second of his name, Pharaoh’s Son. His wife Nubkhesbed.”
The half–brother closest in age to Pentawere, the full brother of the co–ruler.
“Amenherkoshef, third of his name, Pharaoh’s Grandson. His wives Henutwati and Tawerettenru.”
The boy who’d become Falcon in the Nest when his father succeeded his grandfather. The latter wife was already pregnant. Assuming she had a boy, she’d be the mother of a pharaoh someday. I wondered how knowing that made Henutwati feel. I supposed the wives considered each other rivals, not just for their husband’s affection, but for position and power. Theirs was not a position I’d ever willingly put myself in. Having been in it unknowingly with Sitmut, and others.
“Amenherkoshef, first of his name, Pharaoh’s Son, Fan Bearer, Commander of Pharaoh’s Cavalry.”
The co–honoree of tonight’s banquet. He was dressed as a cavalryman. He was attracting as much attention from women while moving up the aisle as Pentawere had. Some of the same women, in fact. He was glorying in their adulation.
“Ramesses, fourth of his name, Co–Ruler, Commander of Pharaoh’s Army. His wife, Duatentopet, Pharaoh’s Daughter, Chantress of Khonsu.”
He wore his soldier’s garb and she that of a chantress. They both moved regally up the aisle. Everyone on both sides fell to their knees as they passed.
After a short pause – “Iset, Great Wife, God’s Wife of Amen.”
She entered the hall, glittering with jewels, her dress blindingly white, the gold vulture crown on her head.
“Tyti, Pharaoh’s wife.”
“Tiye, Pharaoh’s wife.”
She moved to Iset’s left. She was two decades younger than the others and her beauty had faded less than theirs, though she too was a dried flower compared to Pharaoh’s new playthings.
Trumpets blew. Pharaoh stepped through the doorway and halted between his wives.
“Ramesses Hekaiunu. Pharaoh. Third of his name. Usermaatre–Meryamen. Ruler of the Black Land and Red, Kemet and Deshret. Ruler of Ta–mehi and the Upper Valley. Master of Sedge and Bee. Horus in the Per’aa. Living God.”
Pharaoh and his wives began moving ponderously up the aisle towards the front of the hall, everyone once more falling to their knees.
“Come sit with me.”
I turned, startled. Pentawere was beside me, smiling. I hadn’t heard him approach, my eyes riveted on Pharaoh.
His eyes drank me in admiringly.
I was torn between dread and excitement. I wasn’t going to be able to avoid him after all. I wasn’t exactly sure I wanted to, now that I was in his presence again. He affected me, weakened my resolve. “Majesty, you shouldn’t have given me so much,” I said, gazing into his dark eyes. “In my whole life I’ve never once dreamed of such finery.”
“What’s the point of being Pharaoh’s son if I can’t give gifts to a delightful woman?” he asked. “And it’s Pentawere, remember?”