“You are wrong. He has no Queen, and wants one. He has not even an attractive mistress. In His heart, and I have lived in His heart on this night, He is raw. There is no Goddess to be the sole of His foot, to kiss His thigh and anoint His sword. He is a Pharaoh without a Crook …”
“Be silent.”
“… or a Flail. I would be His cunt and His rudder, His precious stone and His slave. I need to hear no more from you about my manners, you son of a shit-collector.”
“You are a fool,” said my father. “You want Him so much that you will push Him away. Then He will look at me and think, ‘I have felt fear before the woman of My Overseer.’ He will never forgive me for that.”
“I will have Him,” said my mother, “before this night is over.”
“It will turn out badly,” said my father. “If I lose my position, we will be seen as the servants of Menenhetet, and not much more.”
She did not reply, but I could feel such a large greed live next to such great fear in her, that I did not wish to be near them any longer. Since I could not discover Ptah-nem-hotep nor my great-grandfather in my thoughts, nor have any idea of where they had gone, so did I slip down the first steps into sleep, but my eyes had barely closed before I met in my wanderings no one other than the High Priest Khem-Usha, and he drew close, and his face was as large and round as the moon. He smelled like the incense that is laid into a winding cloth. Although, by opening my eyes, I could still see my parents, they were not in my dream. Instead, the Pharaoh now came forth and stood beside Khem-Usha.
“Speak to us of spells,” said the High Priest to me.
A small force, felt as clearly as a finger pushing on my forehead, brought my eyes up into the large round face of Khem-Usha, and I said, “To set a spell, one must walk around the walls. One must encircle the foe.”
“Hear the child,” said Ptah-nem-hotep. “You will learn much from him, Khem-Usha.”
I do not know why what I had said was worthy of praise, but I spoke the next thought so soon as it came to me. “After you have made a tour of the walls,” I said, “you may look for a way to enter them.” I did not know what I meant so much as I understood that I was now, and most certainly, in some kind of spell. For by its power, Khem-Usha disappeared and I saw my great-grandfather and Ptah-nem-hotep in a strange room, and listened to their conversation.
Of course, I could not be certain whether my Monarch and Menenhetet had been silent during my parents’ quarrel and only began to speak now, or whether all that I would soon hear should have been lost, if not for the power of my spell to bring back their voices.
I do know that I could still see the fireflies in their cages, and my parents lay apart, reclining on separate sofas, the sense of disagreement between them as still as a wall. I continued to lie on my couch but could barely keep before me the pillars of this patio, for I was seeing another room more clearly and it was like the place where painted fish had swum along the floor beneath my feet. Here, however, were paintings of the fields in time of sowing, and the faces of many peasants leading their cattle. I even saw the hooves of these animals spattered with mud, and among them, leopard’s tail in His left hand, the golden crook in His right, was Ptah-nem-hotep standing with His golden sandals on a field of mud, but I knew the mud was painted for His feet remained immaculate.
“You spoke,” He said to Menenhetet, “with such clarity that I decided to take you here. Since no noble other than yourself has entered this chamber, you will be the first to witness what I have brought forth. Come, I will show you,” and He took my great-grandfather by the elbow, a most exceptional courtesy, and led him over to the dais on which was a golden throne. Beside it was a golden trough, and above, a golden shaduf. Now Ptah-nem-hotep lifted the golden seat of the throne to reveal a seat of ebony beneath and it had a hole.
“You were not as alone in your thoughts,” He said to Menenhetet, “as you supposed. You could not know it, but each morning it has been My habit to meditate while I sit on the Golden Bowl. For years, I have been contemplating the afflictions of My Two-Lands, yes, our lack of rain and our beneficent flood (on those rare years, at least, when it chooses to be beneficent!). I brood upon our valley so deep in its black soil, so incomparable in its fertility, and so narrow, such a little strip of cultivation between the desert of the East and the desert of the West. Then I sometimes think that our Egypt is not unlike the crack between two great buttocks. Do you know, that curious thought enabled Me to feel a little veneration for the custom of the Golden Bowl. As you know, everyone says of Me that I am lacking in sufficient piety to be a good Pharaoh, but a wise leader does not look to feel false respect. Each morning when the Overseer would take that little golden pot with its contents—My contents—out to My herb garden, I would be cheered by the observation that the Gods know how to take care of many matters through one Pharaoh. So They would employ My leavings as carefully and usefully as My thoughts, My words, the grace of My gestures, or My decrees. As you spoke, it therefore became clear to Me—and most agreeably, most warmly—that My thoughts which had always seemed so curious to Me, so near to unacceptable (even if I am a Pharaoh) were shared by you. I felt stronger in all that I already believed. Each morning, you see, I had told Myself that whatever in Me was failing to serve the interests of the Two-Lands, whatever I might lack in dedication, piety, raw bravery, and martial spirit—for, alas, I am a prudent man—were, nonetheless, all present in My stool. By that path could My gardeners bring forth the most splendid herbs and vegetables and flowers and spices to enrich those priests, officers, and overseers I consider most devoted to the Life-Health-Strength of our Egypt. For years that has been a most reassuring thought. I have made lists of particular men and women who deserve to receive this produce. Even today, I told a scribe to send eight tomatoes to Rut-sekh, that worthy rock-cutter. Contemplate, then, My horror when I discovered in this last year that the Overseer of the Golden Bowl was a thief. On torture, he confessed that he was selling to sorcerers. My garden had been receiving his excrement in substitute for Mine!
“These are the years when no one in Egypt can be trusted. We do not speak of it, but there are more tomb robberies than ever before—I have studied the records. The grain accounts are calculated by corrupt officials. Theft in high places is frequent. That is bad enough. But the Overseer of the Golden Bowl was stealing from My person. It convinced Me more than any raids on our frontiers that the Two-Lands are weak. I have not gained the respect of the Gods. Not at least as other Pharaohs. They have been able to speak to Them better than I.” He was silent, but when Menenhetet said nothing, He went on.
“It was then I decided to entrust Myself to the old artificer, Ptah, My namesake. If no Overseer could be trusted, then so be it, only the waters raised by a shaduf, pumped by Me, could carry away My leavings. I had the pipes laid out in the garden cleverly by different workmen, piece by piece, and the troughs put in here. No one saw it all. Now the waters incline to My garden outside this wall and, do you know, it serves. My plots, furrow by furrow, receive the trickle of this small river. Whenever there is need of more inundation, I pour another bucket down,” which He did, and a fly leaped up from the hole in the throne and agitated the air between them. “This all calls for perfume, I promise you, and those blind blacks who clean it all are perplexed by so much sweet air. They know this chamber receives no guests. Yet My herbs and vegetables have never been better. They were served to all of you tonight. You could feel it: those onions and cabbages cast a spell.”
“They did,” said Menenhetet.
“Tell Me, to your knowledge: Have you ever heard of such a sluiceway as I have brought forth?”
“Not once.”
“I knew it was Mine alone. Otherwise, I would not have felt such fear at making the change. I want to ask: Do you approve of what I have done?”
“I do not know.”
“Your reply is worthy of Khem-Usha.”
“I must say I fear bad luck. It may weaken all that there
is.” My great-grandfather bowed. “When I was appointed by Ramses the Second to the service of His Great Queen, Nefertiri, She showed me a fine mirror. It was the first true mirror into which I ever looked, and I said, ‘This will change all that there is.’ I was right. Egypt is weak today. I think Your sluice will stir too many pots.”
“No, you do not like what I have brought forth.” Ptah-nem-hotep sighed. “Well, you have the courage to tell Me so. But I would prefer that you had liked it. I feel like a prisoner. So much am I bound by the habits of My ancestors. Sometimes I think that the ills of our Two-Lands begin with these customs that bind Me. Then I say to Myself, ‘Perhaps I am not fit to be a Pharaoh.’ ”
Softly, my great-grandfather replied, “Do You wait for me to say that You are?”
“You are right. I am the one who does not think well of this Pharaoh. But then there are nights when I do not believe that the Gods are indeed My ancestors. At such times I do not feel near to Them, nor do I feel that My people love Me. Do you?”
“You call upon me,” said my great-grandfather, “after seven years of neglect, and wish me to love You. I do not know if I can. One must serve a Pharaoh to express true devotion. One must be trusted by Him.”
“And I trust no one?”
“I cannot say.”
Ptah-nem-hotep touched His finger to the side of His nose. “I see,” He said, “that My candor must equal yours. I did not think I would, but I will talk to you. I must speak to someone. For I have kept My tongue to Myself all these years, and My heart is like a room that is never opened. I fear that behind the door all is ready to wither.”
FOURTEEN
Now, even as He had promised, the Pharaoh spoke for a long time, or so, within the turns of my spell, did it seem long. My parents did not speak, and only the fireflies danced, but with such close response to the Pharaoh’s voice that in truth I saw Him and my great-grandfather most clearly.
“I cannot bear Khem-Usha,” said the Pharaoh. “You may ask—why then did I leave My guests to go with him? What could he have said to take Me out of My chair, and away from you and your family? Well, that, I cannot speak of yet. Say it is a matter between Khem-Usha and Myself, a call on a boyhood friendship—except we never liked each other. Now, however, it is worse. I cannot bear priests. They inhabit My thoughts. They are like ants upon the very food of My thought. And he is My High Priest. When I visit Thebes, he upbraids Me for not coming to the Temple of Amon more often, then he dares to scold Me here for not attending the Temple of Ptah. ‘Don’t you realize,’ I said to him, ‘that I spent part of My boyhood in the Hat-Ka-Ptah, right here in Memphi. Let Me remind you, Khem-Usha,’ I told him, ‘that when I was a child, I caught the eye of the King, My Father, and it created such jealousy in the harem that My mother was terrified one of the other little queens would do away with Me. Don’t you remember, Khem-Usha?’ I said to him, and of course he did. His mother was the little queen of whom My mother was so frightened. There could not have been a harem prince with poorer prospects than My own in those days. There were all those half brothers ahead of Me, and everybody was certain I would become a priest. Nobody knew My kinsmen would die so quickly, did they then?” Now He struck the leopard’s tail across His own thigh. “I tell you too much,” He said.
“Yes,” my great-grandfather replied. “Tomorrow, You will not forgive me for all you have said tonight.”
“I will. You would do well to trust Me. I have decided to trust you, My friend.”
“You are confident that I am Your friend?” asked Menenhetet.
“At the least, you are the enemy of My enemy.” Ptah-nem-hotep gave His short laugh.
My great-grandfather bowed.
“I wish to talk more than you can realize,” the Pharaoh said. “I feel a great wrath toward Khem-Usha. I would end his influence upon Me. I do not understand him. Tonight, while we were alone, he spoke for longer than I have ever heard him go on in My presence. I could not believe it! Khem-Usha, the imperturbable. Can there ever have been a High Priest so calm as Khem-Usha? But tonight, he was full of complaints. He is not so indifferent to the Feast of the Pig as he pretends. On all other nights he may act as if his fingers are in the honey of Maat, and he alone knows the sweetness of eternal calm, but tonight I must have roused him more than I thought. He certainly acted as if it were the Night of the Pig.” Ptah-nem-hotep smiled. “Once he was alone with Me, a few of his complaints came forth. The true ones. I could welcome that. Kings art lied to by all people, so the truth is air to Me and fresh blood. The Night of the Pig feels like the Night of the Blessed Fields. I come to know the mind of others more quickly. That enables Me to rule with justice, not vanity. And if I rule with justice, then, respect Me or not, the Gods still have to offer Their support. That must be true. So I encouraged Khem-Usha to speak. To My surprise, he complained that his duties were too many. That was a most unusual remark. I have never seen any other man take so many tasks upon himself. Khem-Usha understands piety: Duty brings power. So I did not believe it when he said that he could not continue to act as My Vizier.
“Why, after the last Vizier died, Khem-Usha employed every means to be appointed as acting Vizier. He would, he promised, fulfill the task for Me until I could find a truly suitable man. Of course, he knew there were not many able people in the Court any more. While I did not like him much, I chose him. He did the work. Now he is complaining that the task is too hard. Too hard, ne means, unless he is given the full title of Vizier as well. So I decided to tease him. ‘That is true,’ I told him. ‘I think you might give up trying to be both High Priest and Vizier.’
“Do you know, he only nodded when I said this. Then he enumerated his duties as if I were not familiar with them. He just about whined through this speech. I did not appreciate what he was doing. I did not understand how clever he is. On every other day of the year he will never say a word unless he can say it slowly. He has no feelings that are small. His manner looks to move you aside—like a hippopotamus! If I give him a rebuff, he merely adds it to his weight—all the better to bulk him up—one is dealing with a hippopotamus!” Now Ptah-nem-hotep stopped and gave such a curious look to my great-grandfather that I did not know if His mouth was twisted by derision or by anguish, but then I realized He was speaking once more in the exact voice of Khem-Usha, and in his manner as well, that same voice which went on much too steadily for anyone to interrupt. “Each morning,” He began, “after prayers are conducted at dawn, I must unseal the heavy doors of the Court so that the office of the Royal Estate may open. Without me, no day of governing can begin. So, there is no morning when I do not read every report that comes from the authorities of the Crown in each nome of the forty-two nomes. Even the most petty official is required to write to me three times a year—on the first day of Sowing, of Harvest, and of Inundation. By this means am I able to see into many lies these same officials have forgotten, for they contradict themselves, or tell the truth today where yesterday they did not. So I am alert to the seed of upheaval in a modest discontent, and can sniff the beginnings of treason in the smallest reluctance to follow orders. In that manner, no nome can stir without my knowledge. As Minister of War, I review each month the disposition of our troops within the Two-Lands, and abroad. As Minister of Ecclesiastical Affairs, I oversee the scribes who tally the gifts given to the temples. As Minister of Economic Affairs, I must know when to proclaim the cutting of timber and the irrigation of the canals. As Minister of Justice, I review the decisions of all judges in all courts, and I not only perform these tasks daily but each season pay a visit to the nomes, and meet Your Officials, so that I may recognize whether they are to be trusted. And these are but a few of my tasks as Your acting Vizier. Yet, as High Priest, I must meet each afternoon with the Treasurer of the Sanctuary, the Scribe of the Sacrifice, the Superintendent of Property of the Temples of Amon, the Scribe of the Corn Accounts, the Superintendent of the Meadows, of the Cattle, of the Storehouses, of the Painters and Goldsmiths, and I do not even sp
eak of my greater duties, yet which of the holiest rituals in the Temple of Amon at Karnak can take place without my person? At dawn, and again at midday, I serve as proxy for Your Person, inasmuch as You so rarely appear in Thebes. Then I must do it again at evening. In the Temple, I am obliged to serve both as High Priest, and as Pharaoh. How much could go wrong unless I am there to instruct the priests in clearness-of-voice, correct gesture, the divine order of the words, and the sequence of the prayers.
“Yet, with the accomplishment of all these duties—and this is my true pain—I find that each day I have failed to instruct You, for on those rare days when You are in Thebes beside me, I can see, as I offer my sermon, that You do not listen. Nor does it matter to You that in Memphi Your day is spent enjoying musicians, or reading from Your favorite love poems, while ignoring the maxims and deeds of great ancestors. Nor that You spend the afternoon speaking to Your cook, plucking flowers in Your garden, or drinking with officers of the King’s Guard. Or, to the greater glory of the Two-Lands, You entertain, on rare occasion, a visiting Prince. It does not matter that You are renowned in the gossip of Memphi as a Pharaoh Who cannot wait for night, but visits His harem by day to watch His little queens dance, and—by what I near—hardly more than that. Yet none of this would matter if You could listen to me and know my words, for then You could stand as Master of the Earth—in Your own Person!—there to fortify Egypt with the Will of Your ancestors. I see a great breastplate on my Pharaoh, and the Crown of the White Land and the Crown of the Red rests upon His head, yet within the robes, no man sits but Yourself, and Your voice is small!”
“He did not say those last words,” exclaimed my great-grandfather.
Ancient Evenings Page 26