Out of the Black Land (29 page)

‘So therefore, no, although I will confess this to Maat and Thoth, I do not expect that one act to weight against my heart too badly. As long as I don’t do it again.’

‘The mating?’ I objected.

‘The blasphemy,’ she reproved.

‘Ah,’ I was comforted.

‘But what they will do to the author of this abomination,’ she said slowly, ‘Does not bear thinking about.’

We sat together companionably, both considering with vengeful pleasure the centuries it would take the serpent Apep to digest my lord Akhnaten in its boiling belly, and we laughed so much that Meryt released her prisoner, wiped porridge off her face, and asked us what the joke was. And we couldn’t tell her.

Chapter Twenty

Mutnodjme

The decan which followed the abominable feast was very quiet. People avoided each other’s eyes. Husbands and wives were careful of each other and servants walked on tip toe.

Widow-Queen Tiye had heard all about it by the time I came back to her apartments.

‘Blasphemy,’ she snorted. ‘But tame enough, if one thinks about it. I am glad I was not there. I might have said something which even my son could not forgive. For what use has a eunuch for menhep herb? Ah, well, it is with the gods and they are not going to be very happy about this,’ she warned.

It was no use asking Tiye may she live about whether she thought that, by eating the flesh of a sacred beast, Ptah-hotep and I had committed an unforgivable sin. Tiye the Queen had no patience with religion. Her view was that most things could be explained to the Divine Judges, and if they did not exist then they could be explained to the Aten, and she was prepared to berate either or both of them for creating her son Akhnaten.

‘I was strong and loving and so was his father and we birthed and nurtured him as well as we could,’ she argued. ‘If he isn’t the fault of the gods, then whose fault is he?’

It was a good question and I didn’t have the answer.

Nefertiti mourned her dead child fittingly but briefly. Her putative father King Akhnaten cried for a day and then forgot about her. Now there were five royal children of Amarna and I did not like the look of the next little princess, Neferneferure. She was sitting on the floor with Tutankhaten, playing with blocks. The boy was thin but sturdy, taking after his mother like the child Smenkhare. His sidelock had a tinge of red and his complexion was pale rather than dark. The two children were building a city.

‘The temple of the Aten is here,’ declared Tutankhaten, placing a cornerstone and raising his hand. ‘I declare that the Aten is the great god and there is no other.’

‘Then the temple of the Phoenix is here,’ said Neferneferure, placing a block on her side of the construction. ‘Hail the Phoenix, firebird, sweet singer!’

Nefertiti often sent her children to play with the Widow-Queen Tiye’s family. My sister was almost as vague as her husband now and declared that the shrill arguing of the royal children hurt her head. They did not quarrel when with Tiye may she live because the Widow-Queen’s authority, which could command provinces, was just as strong as ever and it was very difficult to sustain an argument under the ironic and intelligent eyes of the Queen.

Also she was not afraid to clip ears or spank bottoms if the patient became really intransigent.

But with Tiye the children knew the rules, and played peaceably with each other. Ankhesenpaaten was engaged in her first attempts at spinning, an accomplishment which all women learn, and was doing creditably enough, spinning a thick thread full of knots. This did not please her and she grabbed the distaff in disgust, about to throw the offending tools across the room, when she caught Widow-Queen Tiye’s dispassionate gaze and decided not to do that after all, but to pick up the distaff and spindle and try again. This time she spun a thread fully as long as her arm before the thread broke. Ankhesenpaaten measured out the spinning and chuckled.

‘You see, little daughter, losing the temper does not help,’ said Tiye quietly. I wished that she had had the teaching of me and my sister Merope. No one had been able to teach me true patience, not even the temple of Isis. I knew how to wait, of course, but I was not patient. Ankhesenpaaten took her thread to show Merope, who was looking better, relieved that her mourning had kept her from the unholy feast.

‘Look, Lady Merope,’ said the little princes. Merope admired the thread and began the spinning again, and for awhile there was no sound in the apartments of the Widow-Queen but the noise of building from the floor and the humming of Ankhesenpaaten as she spun a creditable thread. Most skills, I find, come suddenly. I remembered grubbing along trying to weave, dropping my shuttle, tangling my weft, starting too high so that I could hardly reach my first line and biting my lip so that I should not lose my temper with the irritating threads, until one day I found I could do it. The shuttle flew from one hand to the other, the woven material moved down the web like magic, and I was a weaver. Not that weaving was a female skill, of course, but the Temple of Isis instructed its daughters in all arts of making, never knowing what might be the most useful.

I missed the temple suddenly, the quiet and the learning and the freedom from surprise. That reminded me that I had a message to deliver and I beckoned Widow-Queen Tiye into an inner room.

‘A letter has come from Tushratta,’ I informed her, putting the clay tablet and the written translation into her lap. She read it carefully. Then she read it again.

‘How many letters came before this?’ she asked, her eyebrows rising.

‘Three, and they seem to have gone unanswered,’ I replied.

‘This is bad. And my son has called in the army; the commanders are meeting with him tomorrow. Tushratta is an ally, moreover the Khatti are ambitious and fierce, and he could be overthrown. If so, where will the King of Khatti look for a new conquest? Why not the Black Land? Very rich, very big, and best of all, unguarded, because the King is a lunatic.’

Tiye combed her hair with her fingers, thinking deeply. Then she sat up straight and smiled.

‘I have it. Your Ptah-hotep has a friend, Mutnodjme, a friend of his bosom from the days of the school of scribes. A very pretty young man—now what was his name? Kheperren, that’s it. He’s an army scribe with General Horemheb. This Kheperren always takes the opportunity to visit Amarna when he can, he is sure to have come with his General.

‘Contrive to invite me to meet Ptah-hotep when he has Kheperren with him and the General happens to call as well. What could be more pleasant than a little dinner, perhaps, in the Great Royal Scribe’s apartments? I cannot give orders about the army, now that my son has forbidden women to attend councils of state. I must do this by stealth, daughter— dear daughter. You are the daughter I would wish that I had borne, Mutnodjme. My Sitamen is an admirable woman but she is not here, and you are.’

Then she kissed me affectionately, as my own mother never had, and I went back to watch the children playing. I could not go to Ptah-hotep during the day, when he had work to do. And the task of women in the City of the Sun, it seemed, was to please their lords and mind their children; not to practice medicine or speak wise words, not to learn or advise or contrive. Just to be. It was very tedious.

Presently it grew hot. I do not know why my lord Akhnaten had decided to exclude women from all his councils. This had never been the case in the past. Wise Queens had advised their lords; Queen Tiye had always been with Amenhotep-Osiris, sitting beside him to receive ambassadors and discussing affairs of state with him every evening before he went to lie with one wife or another.

I was damp with sweat and there seemed to be no air in the room. I picked up the embroidery which Merope had half finished, threaded a needle and attached a few beads, then put it down again. I was restless. I wanted to do something, learn something, exercise my mind.

Though I was not allowed to attend councils, there was nothing wrong with the Lady Mutnodjme learning to read. Even the royal children were taught to read. Every woman was taught to read, I reasoned, and the fact that I was about to embark on learning to read cuneiform was not material. The principle, as Lady Duammerset had said, was sound.

I took the wrapped tablet and the translation from Widow-Queen Tiye and told them that I would be back before night. Then I walked quickly to the King’s side of the palace. Of course, my desire for learning had nothing to do with the fact that it must take place in the office of my lover.

I did not want to disturb him. I just wanted to be able to see him, if I raised my eyes.

The office door was open. The Nubian Tani sat inside, leaning on a long spear with a wickedly barbed head. He grinned a big melon-wide grin and let me pass, saying something in Nubian about the insatiable desires of women to which I lacked sufficient vocabulary to reply. I bowed to Ptah-hotep and asked, ‘Lord, I would learn to read the square writing. Can you spare either Menna or Harmose to instruct me?’

‘I have some leisure, Master Ptah-hotep may you live,’ said Menna, a split second ahead of Harmose, who subsided grumbling.

‘You can have her tomorrow,’ said Menna, giving his seat-mate a nudge with a bony elbow. ‘I saw her first,’ he added, and Harmose nodded solemnly.

Ptah-hotep rose and came to where I was sitting, ensuring that I had a piece of soft clay to practice on and showing me how to hold the stylus which imprinted the letters into it.

Into my ear he whispered, ‘Lady, I love you.’

And I said aloud, ‘Indeed, Lord, such is also my opinion. I hope to be able to prove it soon. Oh, by the way, I took the liberty of inviting the Mistress of Egypt the Great Royal Widow Queen Tiye to your dinner tomorrow night with your friend the scribe and his protector—I don’t recall his name.’

My tone was light and slightly bored. ‘I really know nothing of military matters and the Royal Lady was kind enough to offer to keep me company.’

No one could ever call the great Royal Scribe Ptah-hotep slow on the uptake. After a moment’s initial puzzlement when he tried to remember when he had invited me to meet Kheperren and the General Horemheb, he understood and replied easily.

‘Certainly, lady, my friend Kheperren expressed a desire to meet you, but surely you would not find reminiscences of our days at the school of scribes interesting. And I am honoured by the condescension of the Widow-Queen Tiye may she live and will endeavour to amuse you both. Tell the Royal Lady, if you would, that it is just a small dinner, humble fare, but I can offer her good wine. The Tashery vintage of three years ago was superb.’

I saw Meryt, who had clearly been cooking—there was flour on both her cheeks and a wide smear on her haunches where she had wiped her hands—give my dearest love a sharp look. Clearly she did not think ‘humble fare’ a good description of the dishes she was presently preparing. But she allowed the moment to pass and went back to her pots.

Menna had been a royal scribe for thirty years. He was aware that the conversation which he had just heard was loaded with hidden references, but Menna was an old royal scribe and knew better than to comment. Royal scribes, even in the relaxed reign of Amenhotep-Osiris, were discreet, or they were re-employed as labourers on drainage ditches.

Menna laid out on the little table in front of him an inscribed clay tablet, a new clay tablet and a stylus.

‘This is the alphabet, Lady. It is a syllabry, not one letter for each sound, as the cursive which you would have learned—you did learn cursive?’

‘I did,’ I assured him. ‘I was taught first by Khons and then by Duammerset; and my dear friend Snefru allowed me to inspect many of his hoarded scrolls and copied inscriptions.’

I was relying on the spy in the office—Ptah-hotep had confidently identified him as Bakhenmut’s scribe, a young man called Pashed—not knowing the names. They were all common. He would certainly not have heard of Duammerset, the Singer of Isis, and in any case the Lady Duammerset was in the Field of Reeds, probably with Snefru the Scribe, questioning the authors of the most intractable texts as to what they had really meant by them and having a wonderful time, which is what the Field of Reeds is for.

There was nothing that Huy or Pannefer could do to any of the persons I had named. They were all dead, though Duammerset was not the King Akhnaten’s fault. Khons murdered and Snefru dead of shock, however, were.

Menna was a man of great self-control. He raised a papery-skinned hand to wipe tears from his face, but even a close observer would not have noticed that he was weeping, probably for Snefru the Scribe. Everyone knew Snefru and his eternal quest for more ancient writings, everyone liked him and everyone in the field of learning missed him.

‘I was just saying to my colleague, I said, “This is a difficult passage, we’ll have to ask Snefru, he’ll know.” I just said that. And here you are, another of Snefru’s pupils. He has been much in my mind today,’ he explained, very softly.

I said, ‘Master, you have an insect in your eye, let me help you,’ and made a great business of wiping his eyes with a piece of linen and re-drawing his kohl, and by the time I had finished he had recovered himself. He took my hand under the table and squeezed it gently. His grasp was dry, like papyrus. Then he remarked, ‘See, daughter, this little picture which I am drawing is what?’