Suzanne Robinson

It is difficult to acknowledge everyone who contributed or influenced the writing of this book, for they include the many people who in some way helped me decide to write. The most important of these is my spouse and best friend, Wess Robinson. It was he who first urged me to write and wouldn’t let me quit when I got discouraged. The encouragement and support of my family has made me realize how lucky I have been to be surrounded by people who love to read—my beloved mother, Ann Heavener, Brian O’Doherty, Ann O’Doherty (critic and editor), and Nancy and Russ Woods.

Hand-in-hand with all this personal support came the professional expertise of a wonderful agent, Cherry Weiner. I would like to thank several talented editors, including the one who first bought this manuscript, Leslie Cheeseman, as well as Becky Cabaza and Jackie Dowdell. Each has made the publishing process both a pleasure and an invaluable educational experience.

A final thanks goes to those teachers and professors of anthropology and archaeology whose training enabled me to bring to the reader a glimpse of everyday life in ancient Egypt. To communicate the essential humanity of these forebears has been a lifelong goal.

Suzanne Robinson

There was a shout, then the screams of outraged horses as the driver of the chariot hauled his animals back. Anqet ducked to the ground beneath pawing hooves. The horses reared and stamped, showering stones and dust over her.

From behind the bronze-plated chariot came a stream of oaths. Someone pounced on Anqet from the vehicle, hauling her to her feet and shaking her roughly.

A string of obscenities rained upon her. The retort she thought up never passed her lips, for when she raised her eyes to those of the charioteer, she forgot her words.

Eyes of deep green, the color of the leaves of a water lily. Eyes weren’t supposed to be green. Eyes were brown, or black, and they didn’t blaze with the molten fury of the Lake of Fire in the
Book of the Dead.
Anqet stared into those pools of malachite until, at a call behind her, they shifted to look over her head.

“Count Seth! My lord, are you injured?”

“No, Dega. See to the horses while I deal with this, this …”

Anqet stared up at the count while he spoke. He was beautiful. Exotic and beautiful, and wildly furious.

“You’re fortunate my team wasn’t hurt or I’d take their cost out on your hide.”

Anqet’s temper flared. She forgot that she was supposed to be a humble commoner. Her chin came up, her voice raised in command.

“Release me at once.”

HEART OF THE FALCON

It was the fourth month of the season of Shemou, the season called Drought; the time of harvest. Anqet sat in her father’s workroom beside the scribe Nebre and let her eyes run down a column of figures. Nebre’s voice droned in her ears like the ceaseless creak of a water lift, but Anqet paid no heed. Memories of the hours spent in the room with her father crept upon her. They had shared so much: mornings filled with the simple yet pleasurable tasks of record keeping, the challenge of obtaining the best exchanges for the year’s harvest of wheat, moments of laughter and joy. She could almost hear his deep, quiet voice—even now, though he was with her mother in a modest tomb set in the cliffs at the edge of the desert, overlooking the estate he loved.

Anqet’s father had named their home Nefer after the amulet that brings happiness and good luck. When she had asked why, he had smiled and glanced at her mother.

A cough brought Anqet back to the present. Nebre was looking at her. His wrinkled brown hands with their prominent veins toyed with the reed brush he had been using to tally the week’s threshing. Anqet smiled at the worried expression on the steward’s face.

“I’m sorry, Nebre. What were you saying?”

“Mistress, perhaps you are weary?”

“No,” she said. “The work helps. I need to be busy.” Anqet played with the knot in the linen scarf that crossed her shoulders and tied at her breast. “I was remembering.”

“Yes, mistress. I too remember. Your father was a kind man. His journey to the arms of Osiris will be a swift and easy one.” Nebre looked directly into Anqet’s eyes. “But I think you worry about the visit of your Uncle Hauron too. He is a stranger.”

Anqet’s reply was interrupted by the entrance of a plump woman with graying hair and the manner of a harassed mother quail. “Thinks he can come here with his dogs and his chariots, stinking of foreign scent,” the woman said.

“He?” asked Anqet. “Bastis, it isn’t Hauron, is it?” She wasn’t ready to see this mysterious uncle.

“No, lady, that Lord Oubainer is here again. Wouldn’t go away. I told him you were busy, but he says he’ll wait. If he waits long, I’ll have to purify the reception room of his smell.”

In spite of her relief that the visitor wasn’t Hauron, dismay crowded on exasperation as Anqet listened to her old nurse. Not Oubainer again. In the four months since her father’s death, the man had offered marriage three times.

“Bastis, please,” Anqet said. “Get rid of him.”

The nurse folded her arms across her chest and scowled. “He heard that you refused that nice boy Menana last week.”

“I’ve refused others.”

Bastis nodded. “That’s the trouble. You promised your father you’d marry.”

The nurse pursed her lips. Anqet prepared for another lecture, rolling her eyes toward Nebre in mute appeal. Nebre was the only one who could temper his wife’s tirades. Nebre opened his mouth, but he was too late.

“That’s the trouble,” Bastis said. “You refused Menana. You refused old Lord User-het. You refuse everyone. Oubainer thinks you mean to impress him with your desirability.”

Anqet gave another exasperated sigh.

“You’ll do more than sigh if you don’t settle on a
husband, my girl,” Bastis said. “You’re seventeen and blessed by Hathor with beauty. You’ve got a productive estate and no parents. If you don’t choose before your uncle gets here, you may not get a chance. Hauron will pick a husband for you.”

“That’s enough,” Anqet said. “We’ve sailed this route before. I’m not leaving Nefer, and all those men want me to give up my home. I want someone who understands how important Nefer is to me. Other women run estates alone.” She stood up and shook out the white folds of the gown that fell to her ankles above small sandaled feet.

“Widows and mature women guide their own holdings, not little girls.”

Anqet sighed. “Go tell Oubainer I’ll be with him soon. I want to comb my hair.”

“Little Heron,” Nebre said. “Willfulness is a fault that will get you into trouble.”

Anqet met the glance of the old man. She grinned. He had repeated her father’s habitual warning. She gave her customary reply.

“I’m not willful. I just know what I want.”

She hurried out of the room and down the hall to her chamber. It was a room of modest proportions, barely large enough to contain her low bed, the sheer-curtained canopy that formed a small room around it, her cosmetic table, and a few chests that held her clothing. Anqet loved the room, for her mother had hired a gifted painter from the city of Memphis to decorate it with scenes of the gardens and fields of Nefer. Each morning, sunlight illuminated the rich greens and earth-browns of the wall panels. The artist had captured the living hues of the fields that stretched from the house to the banks of the Nile.

Anqet settled before her cosmetic table and lifted a mirror of polished bronze to her face. Large black eyes, darker than the Black Land—the fertile soil of Inundation—glowed at her. Anqet scowled at her reflection. She always thought of her eyes with dissatisfaction because their
ebony was marred by flecks of golden brown. They reminded her of the enormous eyes of the monkeylike creature of the night she’d seen at the market in Memphis.

Making a face at herself, Anqet took a brush and dabbed at the dark lines that highlighted each eye. She regarded her handiwork but quickly lost interest in the fragile jawline and wide, full mouth. She ran a comb through her hair. Shimmering black like the Nile on a moonlit night, it fell in a curtain almost to her shoulders. Anqet tossed the comb down. She wasn’t putting on a wig or jewelry for the likes of Oubainer.

Her guest was waiting for her in the columned reception hall. Anqet choked as a whiff of powerful scented oil reached her. She peeked around the edge of the door at Lord Oubainer. Owner of one of the largest holdings in the Memphite nome, Oubainer was fortunate in his riches, for he had little else to recommend him. He was of middle height (Anqet was taller) and sagged at the waist like a half-filled sack of barley. He had stringy, sparse hair covered by a fat wig and a short beard at the tip of his chin that curled in little fashionable ringlets as though it were a nest of miniature snakes.

Anqet wouldn’t be concerned with his less-than-handsome exterior if it weren’t for the fact that, like his dress, Oubainer’s personality was overdone. The man was full of tiresome enthusiasms, the most prominent of which was his social position. Oubainer had a country estate, a townhouse, and princely connections—and he made sure that all knew that he possessed these things.

Anqet muttered to herself: “Smelly old baboon.”

She shoved away from the door and stepped into the reception hall. Oubainer occupied her father’s favorite high-backed chair of ebony. The chair had slender legs fashioned in the shape of lion paws, and it creaked with the strain of his weight. Anqet hastened to make her presence known so that the man would get up. He struggled to his feet, sloshing wine from the goblet he held onto the woven mat that covered the floor. Some of the wine trickled down the pleats of his kilt.

Anqet waited for him to recover his composure. Sometimes she felt sorry for Oubainer. It must be disheartening to try so hard to be elegant and fail so completely.

Oubainer brushed droplets from his chin and raised his goblet to her in a toast to her immortal soul.

“To thy ka, beautiful Anqet.”

“You honor me, Lord Oubainer,” Anqet said. “I was going over my accounts with Nebre. Your visit is unexpected.”

“Ah, lady, it saddens me to hear the things you are forced to endure.”

“Endure?”

Oubainer sidled up to her. A wave of perfume made her hold her breath.

“Yes. I have come to offer you relief from the burdens you bear with such courage. I know how great is your worth as a bride. I was foolish not to realize it before, and I’m willing to offer much more.”

“Oubainer, I have refused the honor of becoming your wife, now that your first lady has gone to the netherworld. I haven’t changed my mind.”

“But you haven’t heard my offer.” He held up his hand before Anqet could interrupt. “I realize that you fear becoming the wife of a man with no position in the Two Lands. I do have quite a few concubines. And, after all, you are young and lovely, and deserve a position of importance. I assure you that in my house you will have that position. You’ll have your own servants, your own rooms separate from the harem, as many clothes and jewels as you wish, and you won’t even have to help run the household. You will live in comfort and leisure.” Oubainer said this last with a flourish of his bejeweled hands, as though bestowing a godly favor.