The Gardener and the Assassin

by Mark Gajewski

  The third Thutmose’s temple was just past Siptah’s at the head of the east–west canal that joined the two north–south canals together. It alone had no garden fronting it, just a wide dusty plain; Pharaoh had approved my plan to create one but so far I hadn’t had time to work on it. There was a patch of high ground behind the temple, alive with men. We’d found the village’s workers.

  As the village officials approached, several craftsmen who’d been sitting atop the small rise stood up, their expressions defiant. I recognized the scribe Patwere, apparently their leader. Arrayed behind him were stonemasons and carpenters and painters, among them my brothers and father and Mesedptah’s brother. Five Medjay stood nearby, weapons in hand, clearly uncertain about what to do.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Amennakht demanded without preliminary, striding to confront Patwere.

  “We’re hungry!” a stonemason cried from the crowd.

  “And thirsty!” I recognized a stepbrother’s voice.

  Patwere raised his hand for silence. “Eighteen days have elapsed in the month, Amennakht, and we haven’t been paid, even though Pharaoh’s storehouses are full. We’re here because, as these men said, we’re hungry and thirsty. There’s no clothing, no ointment, no fish, no vegetables. Send to Pharaoh our good lord about it, and send to Vizier To, our superior, to make provision for us.”

  “There’s nothing for us and plenty for the gods,” a carpenter snapped. “Every morning the temple receives more than thirty–two hundred loaves of bread, twenty–four cakes, nearly one hundred–fifty jugs of beer, thirty–two geese, half a hundred jars of wine…”

  “And at each new moon an extra three hundred fifty–six loaves and fourteen cakes and thirty–four jugs of beer!” a painter added. “We’ve counted!”

  “Not to mention an ox and sixteen birds and twenty–three jars of wine!”

  “We won’t work until we receive our due!” exclaimed my father, Buneb.

  There were scores of muttered, ominous assents.

  “You’d challenge your masters? You’d go on strike?” Amennakht was incredulous.

  “We would,” Patwere affirmed, crossing his arms.

  Amennakht glanced at the officials who’d come with him. “Such a thing has never happened before in this valley! We must confer!” He led his group to where the Medjay stood. Immediately, the officials engaged in heated discussion.

  I somewhat hesitantly sought Father. He’d resumed his seat with the others on the rise, my brothers behind him. I hadn’t spoken to him or them since the day I’d spent working in the Great Place. I had no idea how he’d receive me after so much time had passed. Not that I much cared. He’d cut me from his life, so I’d cut him from mine.

  “I don’t trust the scribe, or the rest of them for that matter,” he told me as matter–of–factly as if he’d seen me as recently as yesterday, squinting in Amennakht’s direction. Apparently his distaste for the village officials was stronger than his distaste for me. “Months ago when our pay was late he went to Horemheb’s temple to see about it. It’s true that we soon received what we were owed, but that’s also when we learned that Vizier To had been given the whole land to rule and was now in charge of Ta Set Maat. Soon after that Amennakht and Khaemwase cut the number of servants in our village by more than half. Can you believe it, Neset – we have to get by with only six water–carriers, three gardeners and three assistant gardeners to grow produce in our fields, four fishermen, three woodcutters, a potter, a washerman, a storekeeper, and a boy to make plaster so we can improve our houses!”

  “What? No more girls like Sitmut to cook and clean?” I interjected. “Such hardship, Father! How can you bear it? How can Meresamun?”

  Father totally missed my sarcasm. “They even took away our cake maker! Vizier To and Amennakht skimp on our resources. Without cause! The one hundred–twenty storage magazines in Horemheb’s temple could feed the village for ten years. The twenty in the Ramesseum for forty!” He spat. “But what do the two of them care? They get richer and our wealth diminishes. Why, Khaemwase owns oxen worth several years’ of my grain rations. His superior, the scribe Hori, owns several as well.” He glanced at the officials who were conferring. “What incentive do they have to fight for us?”

  “There’s plenty for the gods and the army,” a half–brother snapped bitterly. “But nothing for us.”

  Amennakht kept the strikers waiting for hours as he and the others debated what to do. By the time he finally returned to the rise the men were in a foul mood and Re was nearly touching the top of the western hills.

  “Go back to Ta Set Maat!” Amennakht demanded. “I’ll present your concerns to the proper officials tonight. But I warn you – you’re asking for too much and going about it the wrong way. Your threats will fall on deaf ears. You will fail.”

  With much grumbling and sideways glances at Amennakht and his companions the workers rose and began walking in the direction of their village. I watched them go, many gesturing and talking together angrily and looking over their shoulders at the scribe. I had a feeling this strike was not going to turn out well.

  ***

  I hurried before dawn from Djeme to the flats just outside Ta Set Maat. I was curious about the officials’ response to the strikers and their reactions. Craftsmen were standing in small groups close by the village wall at the head of the dusty path that led to nearby Ta Set Neferu. It was the first day of the work week and they should have already been well on their way there to continue excavating Amenherkoshef’s tomb. No one seemed to know what to do. A few women clustered outside the wall, watching husbands and brothers and sons, concerned, whispering to each other. More observed from their rooftops. I hadn’t spoken to any of those women in years. None, not even my close relatives, acknowledged me.

  The junior gang foreman, Khonsu, who’d been with the chiefs yesterday, moved next to Patwere. He’d apparently joined the strike during the night. “Has there been any word from Amennakht yet?” he asked.

  “No.”

  The absence of Scribe Amennakht and Foreman Anhirkawi was alarming. I feared they’d sided with the authorities against the craftsmen. Based on documents I’d read in Naunakht’s archives nothing like that had ever happened in the long history of the village, where the real authority resided in the families of scribes and foremen. Those men made recommendations to the vizier for all positions in the work gangs, usually their relatives. They also comprised the village kenbet along with the senior workmen they’d promoted. The defection of two such prominent leaders now, in this time of crisis, was unprecedented. The eyes of every worker were on Patwere and Khonsu. They’d seemingly become the village’s unappointed spokesmen. That was equally unprecedented.

  “Does Vizier To think he can ignore us?” Father asked angrily.

  “For all we know he’s at Pi–Ramesses and doesn’t know what’s going on here, Buneb,” Patwere replied, trying to maintain a semblance of calm. “He’s in the North a lot.”

  “Should we cry more loudly then, so the vizier can hear our voices from so far away?” Khonsu queried, throwing his arms wide. He let them drop to his side. “Or should we slink back to work in Ta Set Neferu, silent and hungry?”

  “To the temple!” someone shouted.

  The cry was taken up by everyone.

  I was caught up in the mass of men taking the path through the valley on the north side of Qurnet Murai. Beyond, less than half a mile away, directly ahead, at the midpoint of the pharaohs’ temples, lay that of Ramesses the Great, by far the largest of them all, its storage magazines dwarfing all the rest at Waset combined.

  Two Medjay were stationed before its copper–covered cedar entrance gate. The workers ignored their order to stop and pressed into the crowded temple compound and proceeded through it straight to the vault–roofed mud–brick granaries at the rear, pushing aside everyone in their path. The Medjay followed after impotently, ordering the villagers over and over to turn around and go home. At least they had
sense enough not to draw their weapons; that would have incited the strikers, who heavily outnumbered them. Reaching their destination, the workers spread out in front of the granaries and sat cross–legged on the ground, obstructing all who had business there.

  As I followed the men through the temple I looked about in wonder. The inside of the Ramesseum was magnificent, its doorways clad in gold and silver, columns and statues and walls carved and brightly painted. The hypostyle hall was second in size only to that at Ipet–Isut, a literal forest of stone towering over my head. In the second court four statues of Ramesses in the guise of Osiris reached to half the height of that hall’s columns. But those were dwarfed by a sixty–foot high statue of Pharaoh seated on his throne in the forecourt. Grandfather claimed there was no larger sculpture in the whole land.

  Two doorkeepers and several more Medjay hastily appeared from side corridors and joined the original Medjay who were standing off to one side. I recognized one of them, Mentmose, chief of police in the temple area. We were well acquainted thanks to his regular visits to Djeme. He always took time to stroll through Pharaoh’s garden and chat. He was obviously interested in me; I had no interest in him at all, though I’d taken care never to offend him. He walked up to the workers.

  “Back again, Patwere?” he asked pleasantly. He seemed in no mood to anger the strikers with harsh words.

  “Night didn’t still the hunger in our bellies,” Patwere growled. “We’ve had no answer from Amennakht. We’re not leaving until we’re paid.”

  “That’s right!” several workers cried in unison.

  A few moved towards Mentmose threateningly. Medjay came forward to protect their chief.

  Mentmose warned his men off with a glance. “I sympathize with your cause, Patwere,” he said calmly. “Let me bring Waset’s mayor, Ptahemheb, to you. Surely he can solve the problem.”

  “What does the mayor of Waset have to do with the west bank?” Patwere asked suspiciously.

  “He’s not just mayor. He’s also in charge of collecting what’s due Pharaoh in this nome. He has access to Pharaoh’s granaries,” Mentmose replied.

  Patwere considered a moment, consulted with Khonsu. “We’ll remain here until you return,” he announced.

  “Understood.” Mentmose looked towards the Medjay and waved them farther back. “My men won’t bother you,” he told Patwere. He headed for the temple’s exit.

  The workers settled down to wait once more.

  Patwere summoned me. “Is there water nearby for the men to drink?”

  “I’ll have Grandfather’s gardeners bring skins from the memorial temples,” I said quietly, and followed Mentmose out of the temple.

  When I returned two hours later, along with several filthy gardeners laden with waterskins, Patwere was distributing fifty–five sweet cakes he’d obtained from the ovens of Merenptah’s nearby temple. I circulated among the men as they ate, providing them with water. None expressed gratitude. Several leered. When I was done I sat next to Father.

  “There’s more than enough grain to pay us, Neset,” he growled. “We always received our due on time when pharaohs resided at Waset. But ever since Ramesses the Great moved the court north and established two viziers – one for the North and one for the South – there have been delays in our pay. Each vizier thinks the other or the First God’s Servant should take care of us, but none of them does unless it suits him. Appointing To as the single vizier was supposed to solve the problem, but it hasn’t. Even Pharaoh moving his court back to Djeme hasn’t improved anything.”

  ***

  Late in the day Mentmose returned from across the river. By his frown I could tell he didn’t bear good news.

  “I went to Waset. I told the mayor everything that’s happened these past two days. He had no sympathy for your plight,” Mentmose told Patwere disgustedly.

  Curses rang out from the crowd.

  “He says your pay is a problem for Vizier To or the high priests in charge of the temples on the west bank to solve. He claims Waset has no jurisdiction.” Mentmose sighed.

  “Then let’s go see Vizier To!”

  “He’s in the North. He won’t be back for several weeks,” Mentmose said.

  “What about Pharaoh?”

  “He sailed to Abdju three days ago along with the co–ruler to dedicate a stela to Amenherkoshef’s memory.”

  “Who’s in charge at Djeme, then?” Father asked.

  Mentmose shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea. As far as I know, the only member of Pharaoh’s family in residence is his son Pentawere. He arrived yesterday from Pi–Ramesses for his brother’s funeral. Maybe he is.”

  I froze at the mention of Pentawere. Even after five months I hadn’t been able to shake the memory of the banquet in Pi–Ramesses and what had almost happened between us afterwards. I thought about how that night had ended now with regret. He’d awakened a desire in me that had been dormant my entire life, unguessed at, unexpected. Thinking about him now made my blood run hot. I wouldn’t mind seeing him again, even knowing that might send me down avenues I feared to explore. But, realistically, he’d forgotten me long ago. He’d had so many women in his life – no one had ever turned him down except me, he’d said. That was the only thing that set me apart from them – I’d rejected him. Plus, I was common and none of them had been – hardly a selling point. After I’d turned him down and left Pi–Ramesses it was unlikely he’d so much as given me a second thought. Probably, once he’d had a good night’s sleep and had shaken off the effects of the wine, he’d been grateful I hadn’t gone to his room with him, that I’d spared him the trouble of sending me on my way the next morning, that he hadn’t had to bluntly tell me that sleeping with me had meant nothing to him. He’d probably been glad I hadn’t tried to cling to him, as if that night’s encounter had been the start of something instead of a one–time event. Surely he cared less for me than any of the other women he’d taken to his bed for a night or a week or a month and never seen again. I sighed. I’d like to see Pentawere again, but that wouldn’t happen unless he lowered himself to come to this temple to meet a bunch of striking workers. He’d never do that. He was Pharaoh’s son. The scribes would have to go to Djeme, to him, to plead the workers’ case. I’d not encounter him again.

  “Then we’ll stay where we are until we have satisfaction,” Patwere told Mentmose defiantly.

  The workers shouted their assent.

  They settled down for a long wait. Mentmose sat between Patwere and Khonsu and shared their sweet cakes and they talked together in low voices as Re began to descend towards the crest of the western hills. The villagers drew apart into small groups. I studied the men discretely from a short distance away. Some, like those around my father, were clearly defiant. But an equal number seemed nervous and fearful. I wondered if all the workers would still be here in the morning, or if some would slip away in the night, afraid of what the vizier might do to them. And if any did, if the workers’ solidarity broke, how would they face each other in the future? Would families that had worked side by side for generations snub each other henceforth as the villagers continued to snub me? And if so, how could Ta Set Maat survive? Father’s and the villagers’ cause might be just but they were tampering with maat. And there was nothing as important in this valley as maat. From time to time angry voices were raised in argument and I shivered. I felt chaos closing in around me, engulfing everyone on the west bank. I felt helpless. Re dipped behind the hills and stars winked into the sky. I wondered if Re would appear reborn in the morning, or if the workers’ affront to maat had driven him away forever. I didn’t know. I was suddenly afraid of what might happen tomorrow. If tomorrow even came.

  I slipped away from the others to a small chapel attached to the west side of the Ramesseum built to honor Merytamun, a daughter and wife of Ramesses. I curled up at the base of Merytamun’s white limestone statue. She’d been a beauty, petite, perfectly proportioned. The sculptor had depicted her with an elaborate wig, a
cobra and vulture on her brow, a crown of rearing uraei, large round earrings. I tried to sleep but couldn’t. The instant I drove thoughts of the workers and tomorrow from my mind it was suddenly filled with thoughts of Pentawere. That made me even more restless. To know he was so close, at Djeme, yet as remote and inaccessible as the stars that shone overhead… I gazed up at the statue that loomed over me with its slight enigmatic smile. I wondered what my life might have been had I been born royal like Merytamun.

  ***

  The men were quarreling among themselves when I woke from a fitful sleep and rejoined them a little after dawn. I whispered a prayer of gratitude that Re had survived his nightly journey. Some of the men were arguing vociferously that they should go back to work in Ta Set Neferu, others that they should remain where they were. As I’d feared, yesterday’s solidarity seemed about to shatter. Just as the discussion turned heated the vizier’s scribe Hednakht, another Medjay police chief, Nebsemen, and three keepers of the gatehouse of the tomb appeared.

  Hednakht walked right up to Patwere until their chests were almost touching, gripping his staff of office in his hand. “Why are these men still here?” he asked sternly, his narrowed eyes sweeping them all over Patwere’s shoulder. “You should be hard at work excavating Amenherkoshef’s tomb, not wasting time in this temple.”

  “Hunger and thirst have driven us to this,” Patwere answered, visibly angered by Hednakht’s superior and unfeeling attitude. “There’s no clothing, there’s no oil, there are no fish, there are no vegetables.”