Reflections in the Nile (7 page)

C
HEFTU REINED IN HIS HORSES
and threw the lead to the waiting slave. He leapt lightly to the ground, then set off quickly to the Great House. Pharaoh had called a meeting, and the messenger had caught Cheftu as he was returning from the house of a dying friend. Cheftu cursed himself as he had been doing since Alemelek's death.

How could he not have known? How could he have been so obtuse? At least the package from the man was safe … for the time being. He passed a quick hand over his headcloth, collar, and earrings as he walked through the palace's empty torchlit corridors. Most of the Egyptian guards had been replaced with Kushites, further indications of how far Pharaoh's paranoia for her throne had gone. He paused before the beaten-gold doors that led to Pharaoh's private audience chamber while his titles were intoned.

“His High Lord Cheftu,
Erpa-ha, Hemu neter
in the House of Life, Seer of the Two Lands, Healer of Illnesses, Proclaimer of the Future, He Who Speaks in Amun's Ear, Beloved of Ptah, Befriended of Thoth.” With the bang of the chamberlain's staff, Cheftu entered the room.

It looked like a council of war. Pharaoh Hatshepsut, living forever! stalked impatiently across the room, clad in a filmy evening robe of silver cloth, the vulture and cobra of her office firmly upon her brow.

High Priest Hapuseneb sat on a stool, one leg swinging in time to Hat's pacing. His shaved head gleamed in the lamplight, catching a glint of gold in the eyes of the dead leopard that was his badge of office.

His High Chief Steward and Grand Vizier to the King, Senmut, was glaring at some documentation, his strong peasant's back turned to Pharaoh and Cheftu.

Two “royal reporters,” as spies were now called, were eating in the company of another vizier. Hat spun round and faced Cheftu.
“Haii,
good my Lord Cheftu.” She extended a hand, over which he bowed with a perfunctory kiss.

“My Majesty, living forever! Life! Health! Prosperity! How may I serve?”

Hatshepsut gestured to a silver-gilded chair, and Cheftu seated himself. “I hear you have just lost a dear friend.” Cheftu looked down. “My condolences, physician. May he dance in the fields of the afterworld. Has he been taken to the House of the Dead yet?”

Cheftu, nervous and suspicious, replied with a modicum of his usual aplomb. “Nay, My Majesty. He was from the East and wanted to be buried in the ways of his forefathers.”

Hatshepsut's lips pressed together in an Egyptian distaste for any barbarian custom. “Very well, my lord.”

Cheftu smiled. “My Majesty shows great favor in asking about the details of my poor life. Although I am sure that is not why I was called here.”

Hatshepsut answered with a smile. “Indeed not, my lord. My high priestess of HatHor,” Pharaoh said, and Cheftu felt his stomach knot, “has taken ill in some strange circumstances. Enlighten him, Hapuseneb.”

The high priest sat straight in his chair. “She was serving the goddess, and for all intents and purposes seems to have…” His voice trailed off, the last words spoken quietly: “I know not what.”

Cheftu forced his voice to be even. “Forbidden contact?”

“Only the gods know,
Hemu neter.
”

“Was she hurt?”

Hapuseneb exchanged a quick glance with his pharaoh. “She was bruised,” he murmured. “Not wounded.”

“She is recovering? Can she tell us who… who is responsible?”

“Aye, she is recovering, but strangely enough, she has no voice to convey what happened.”

“That is a simple enough matter. Hand her papyrus and ink. She is educated and can write her account.”

Hapuseneb glanced at Hat. “I fear it is more complex. My lady seems to be a
kheft-maiden.
”

In spite of his calm demeanor, Cheftu's grip on the chair's arm intensified for a few moments. “I beg an explanation, Your Eminence.”

“She seems lost and confused. Reports have come to me that she did not recognize her own brother, her serving girl from childhood, or Lord Nesbek, her betrothed. She seems to have forgotten the simplest details of life. It is very strange.”

Cheftu calmed a little. “That is of little account, Your Eminence. In my travels I have seen people who receive a blow to the head and cannot remember their own name and nationality, let alone anyone else's. In time it will return. Has the lady been examined?”

“I too have heard of memory sickness,” Hapuseneb said with a grim smile. “But I have never heard of it changing the color of a person's eyes.”

Cheftu's gut clenched. Was this some trick? Calmly he said, “Eye color?”

Hapuseneb leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “I believe you are aware of the appearance of Lady RaEmhetepet?”

Cheftu colored slightly but answered, “I am.”

“Then you are aware her eyes are, or
were,
of the darkest brown.”

“Aye.”

“Well, they no longer are. They are as green as malachite from Canaan.”

“I see.”

Pharaoh turned to him. “You may not see now, favorite, but you will. We need you to go to the priestess. To examine her and see what you can find. It is simple enough; whether her needs are solely physical or if she also needs to have
khefts
cast from her, you can heal her.”

“Demons? My Majesty …”

“I know it will be awkward, given your past associations, but since she is once again betrothed, it will be a simple fact-finding mission. Makab is also here, visiting.”

Cheftu bowed his head in acquiescence. He had no choice. This was one of the joys of being the king's favorite seer. However, it would be good to see Makab. It had been many Inundations. He assumed he was dismissed and began to back to the door. No one turned their back on Pharaoh, living forever!

“Cheftu!” Hat called.

“My Majesty?”

“Do the signs declare anything unusual, my seer?”

Cheftu thought for a moment. “Ancient prophecy is about to be fulfilled in the destiny of Kallistae, in the Great Green.”

“The Keftiu? The same who trade here in Waset and Avaris? What prophecy concerns them?”

“The Aztlan empire has been nearly destroyed twice since Chaos, My Majesty. This time the destruction will be complete. I fear its repercussions not only in the Great Green, but even to Egypt. Perhaps these are the unusual portents you speak of?”

Hatshepsut stared at him for a moment, then her gaze darted to Hapuseneb. “No miraculous births?”

“Births, My Majesty?” Cheftu looked at her in slight confusion. “None that are foretold.” His gaze dropped to Hat's concealed waist and then to the floor. She laughed delightedly.

“Have you never erred since I made you Proclaimer of the Future?”

“By the grace of the gods, I have been correct, My Majesty.”

A secret and triumphant smile played around the edges of Hat's wide mouth. “That is well, favorite. I grant the god's discernment and wisdom in your quest.”

Well and truly dismissed, Cheftu crossed his chest in obeisance and left. Once outside he drew his cloak of office around him as a shield against the cool night air. He leapt into his chariot and took the reins, starting up the wide sycamore-shaded avenue to his house, swearing fluently, all thoughts of the priestess gone.

C
HLOE WAS AWAKENED AND TAKEN TO HER BATH
, where after being soaked, exfoliated, shaved, and massaged she was wrapped in a long white sheath and seated before a makeup table. When they approached her with sandals, Chloe realized she was wearing a dress, not a robe.

What about underwear?

Realizing all the slaves were watching her with more than a little fear, Chloe tried unobtrusively to look at her body in the sheath. The linen was so fine, one could see right through it. She blushed. No wonder they shaved so carefully.

She looked down at the delicate sandals presented to her—and gulped. Size nine was not huge in her day and time—she knew quite a few women with size ten and above—but the way everyone was staring at her long narrow feet, she guessed they were the size of a soldier's today. A male soldier's.

With a weak smile she shoved in her long toes, grasping the thong. Her feet pushed into the upper curve, squished out the sides, and hung out the back. She'd be lucky if she could walk without falling.

She waddled over to the trunk where Basha had pulled out her clothes and opened it. There was nothing except more flimsy, see-through, white wrap dresses. She looked at Basha; you could see every line of her young body through her one-strap dress. And hit, her slave girl, wore only a short shift with beads around her hips.

Apparently, in this hallucination, she was to be an exhibitionist with an enormous podiatry bill.

Sighing, she seated herself at the dressing table and motioned to Irit. Once the girl tore her stare away from Chloe's enormous feet, she painted long black lines of kohl around Chloe's eyes for protection against the sun.

After Chloe's chin-length black hair had dried, Irit plaited strands, periodically winding the ends with silver bands. She reached behind her for a small woven trunk and opened it, revealing a jewelry collection the Louvre would kill for. It was all silver. The “other” admonished her; priestesses of HatHor never wore gold. Bravely Chloe reached for a bracelet and ring.

“Would my lady select a collar?” Irit asked, a little bewildered, Chloe thought. The choice was incredible. She picked a silver filigree collar with enameled lotuses and birds. Irit fastened it around her neck, adding a beautiful falcon pectoral under it, so it rested heavily beneath Chloe's skimpily covered breasts, covering her own ankh necklace. Chloe stood, trying to see her reflection in the polished bronze that passed for a mirror.

This was
too
unbelievable. The jewelry, the clothing details, the faint odor of myrrh that hung over the place, the dissonant chanting that could be heard from time to time … now this. Chloe was not seeing herself. A tomb painting stared back. The fitted white dress, the black drawn-on eyes and brows. Only the reflection of her slanted green eyes was familiar. Chloe looked behind her, sensing she was being watched.

The dark-eyed man from yesterday, Nesbek, the “other” mind suggested, came forward.

He was squat and broad, obviously middle-aged and dressed in a wealth of gold… collar, armbands, bracelets, and rings. His eyes were small and deep-set, filled with some emotion that Chloe couldn't read. The room cleared as if by invisible command.

“RaEmhetepet,” he said, approaching her, “I trust you remember me?” He took a step forward, leering at Chloe's appearance, frowning at her sandals. “It would be a pity for me to have to remind you….”

His tone shifted between teasing and threatening, and Chloe took a shaky step back.

He smiled, revealing blinding gold teeth. “I must leave for my estate in Goshen, but once I have disciplined my Apiru, I will return for my bride.” He glanced around as he pulled up his kilt. “Will you give me something now? A
token
to remember you by?”

Chloe averted her eyes, not even wanting to know what this was about. Was she a real sicko in this hallucination? He made her skin crawl, the way he looked at what her transparent clothing revealed. Instinctively she crossed her arms over her breasts and wished for a robe.

“Aiii,
I can see it is a shock.” He dropped his kilt, straightening the pleats with fat, manicured hands. “A pity that you have forgotten such a”—he paused—“passionate and beneficial relationship. I will take pleasure in reminding you.” He reached for her and was halted only by a velvety, razor-edged voice.

“The lady is still in her serving time, when she must be unknown to any man. If you touch her, the Sisterhood will reprimand you, as will the goddess HatHor, for defiling one of her favorite maidens.”

Chloe's and Nesbek's attention jerked to the doorway, in which a tall Egyptian stood in silhouette. He stepped into the room and Chloe saw him fully, from his floor-length robe to his red-and-gold-striped headcovering. It ran straight across his forehead and fell to his shoulders, framing his strong, bronze features, which even heavy earrings did not diminish.

“My Lord Cheftu,” Nesbek ground out slowly. He turned back to Chloe. “I will await our marriage, my lady.” He walked to the doorway, where the cloaked Egyptian inclined his head. “Life, health, and prosperity to you, Lord Nesbek,” the man said, the words sounding like a curse.

Chloe tensed her muscles, trying to stop their trembling. Nesbek was gone, but this arrogant Lord Cheftu still stood in the room, glowering at her. She met his gaze and was shaken by the animosity in it. “So, my lady,” he said in a deep, chilling tone, “we meet again. Health, prosperity, and life to you. My felicitations on your betrothal. I trust you will attend this time?” Chloe stared at him. He tried again, a cold smile showing white, even teeth. “Are you looking forward to it?”

Chloe shook her head violently.

He arched a painted eyebrow. “Then, if not to your marriage accounts, perhaps to your married bed? With whoever else is invited to join you?”

Chloe gritted her teeth against his comments. This hallucinogenic drug was not agreeing with her at all. The belief that this was a drug-induced episode was growing dimmer every moment. The details were too sharp, the sensory impact too real. What other alternatives were there?

None that were within the realm of sanity.

Cheftu sighed. “I am not here because I enjoy rescuing you from the embrace of your betrothed. My Majesty Hatshepsut, living forever! asked me to examine you, so please, come forward and sit at the table.” So saying, he took off his gold-embroidered cloak. With a clap of his hands he summoned two others,
w'rer
-priests, both about twelve. Their heads were shaved, save their youthlocks, and they wore simple kilts fastened with plain leather belts. One carried a large woven trunk, the other carefully laid aside Cheftu's staff and cloak.

Chloe could only stare. She was still adjusting to the elaborate costuming everyone wore, and Lord Cheftu looked like every depiction she'd seen of an ancient Egyptian—and every fantasy. He was broad shouldered, long legged, and glittering with gold, from the wide collar across his chest, the armbands that hugged his beautifully sculpted upper arms, a tiger's eye-and-gold scarab ring, to his black-encircled eyes, dusted with gold powder.