“It’s ceremonial, Neferet,” he continued. “Didn’t the priests tell you that your life is your own? On Ra’s magnificence, being the God’s Wife makes you one of the most enviable marriage prospects in Kemet.”
He had told her this before, but still, she shook her head. Kamose continued, dropping his hands to his side and taking a softer tone.
“An old man, guided by codes and ceremonies, can hardly be a confidante for a young woman’s sex life, now can he?” He let out a hearty laugh. “He probably doesn’t even know what sits in his lap anymore.”
This finally cajoled a snicker from Neferet.
“You are the freest woman in the kingdom, and I wish you to share my bed.” Kamose’s eyes had a trace of longing in them, something she had never seen before. He held out his arms again, and a gasp escaped her lips. Leaving conflicting thoughts behind, she leapt up to huddle against his bronzed chest. He leaned down to kiss her, with gentle, giving lips.
“It will all seem better in the morning. We will work it out. Zayem cannot ruin your happiness.”
She nearly let out a tear as she clutched fiercely to this man she had adored her entire life.
Chapter Five
A line of scarlet peeked over the edge of the Nile, turning the interior of Kamose’s bedroom into a den of red furnishings. Neferet looked over at him, dozing on the goose-feather-stuffed mattress that he had moved over to sidle up to hers. The headrest he gave her, also cushioned with feathers, was softer than the one she had at her own apartments. These were placed over ebony platforms with carved animal-shaped legs. The pillows covered curved wooden headrests.
Over on his side, Kamose slept naked, his lean legs nearly touching hers. She marveled at the taut structure of his body. She discovered a whole new person last night. Because unmarried women lived apart in their own quarters, she hadn’t had much contact with him since they were twelve. When they were children, they’d chase ducks or run away from scorpions together. He had a knack for getting into trouble and talking his way out of punishment with ease. Risk-taking, curious Kamose relished his role as an exuberant, unspoiled royal child. She never knew Kamose, the man, with his broad shoulders, pleasing fingers and sweet words.
She tingled with the memory of the night before, then pulled herself out of bed with reluctance. Neferet reached to the floor and wrapped her linen sheath dress, using the copper mirror on a table to adjust the strap. She grabbed her gold crown circlet, which lay on the floor along with her discarded wig. The wig received a few rough shakes to dislodge any bugs that might have taken shelter there for the night. They were everywhere, and you couldn’t take chances. The sandals Neferet carried; to wear them would only slow her down. She bent over and gave her sleeping lover a kiss on the cheek. He smiled in a private dream. Then she whisked out the door and fled the palace with only one sentry catching sight of her. He saluted.
Back at her own quarters, she dropped the ceremonial accessories on the floor and rushed to the vanity table and bent over, combing out her own hair, which had been pinned close to her scalp to make room for the wig. She looked at her tresses, which had become stick-straight thanks to the pins. It had a bit of swing to it and pleased her. She combed the bangs straight, then stood up. No wig today.
Her servant stood at the door with a tray of food. Neferet half expected a series of questions from the woman, but she acted as if her mistress hadn’t deviated a tad from her usual routine. Neferet shook her head, indicating she didn’t want the offered breakfast.
“I must find Nebhotep, the chief priest. I want to know where he is,” she said. It was a command, not a question.
“He is instructing a group of new priests and having breakfast with them in the middle hall,” the servant said, with a bow. Her eyes gave away no trace of emotion.
“Thank you. I will eat my meal there.” She whisked a cloak over her shoulders, for there was still a slight night chill in the air. Then she hustled to the dining hall.
Every three months, the current class of middle-level priests would be excused to go home to their farms or shops, and a new group would report to the temple. Nebhotep needed to lead some of them through the basic rules of priesthood. Some had served before, but a few were green as the shoots in the farmer’s fields.
They dined on gruel made from local grains, and Nebhotep chewed with deliberate care. It was impossible to keep the omnipresent sand from mixing into the milled product, and he, like most old men, suffered from worn-down teeth. He looked up when he saw her coming and motioned her forward. A few of the young priests sat back in alarm, ready to bow with head to the floor in the presence of the God’s Wife.
“Take your ease, servants of Amun,” she said. She leaned over to whisper in Nebhotep’s ear. She smelled his familiar and welcoming scent of skin and ceremonial unguent. She informed him she needed to confer with him alone, and he nodded. He instructed the men to continue eating and eased himself to standing position — his stiff knees straightening with care — and shuffled off with her into the courtyard.
Birds called overhead, as the priest and God’s Wife worked their way to the stone benches in the sunlight. After sitting a short time, for Nebhotep needed time to adjust to light changes, Neferet pulled back her shoulders and addressed him.
“I need to ask you something that may embarrass you or even shock you.” She still wondered why no one mentioned her absence from the temple last night and was readying herself for a lecture. She may have scandalized half the temple staff already.
Rather than scolding, he made an impatient motion with his hand as if she should get on with things. She let out a long breath.
“Nebhotep, it’s Amun. On the first few nights I went to please him, he came alive.”
“Of course, child. He is the living Amun.”
“No, you don’t understand. He literally became flesh and blood. His lips were soft, and he looked at me with real eyes.”
“Soft?”
“Absolutely. He was a real man. Everywhere.” She turned her eyes down in embarrassment.
“That’s not possible. The drug didi. It must have affected your senses.”
“No, Nebhotep. He moved. He grabbed me. He made love to me, against my will. Roughly.”
“Real love, as in …” he coughed before he continued the sentence. They both knew how to finish the phrase, but neither could say it. Rape in a temple was unimaginable.
“Is that what is supposed to happen?”
Nebhotep shook his aged head and closed his eyes in apparent confusion. He pulled his faded robes close around him, as if he felt a cold draft. Finally, the dried lips spoke.
“Meryt told me you were instructed in the proper love-making ritual.”
“No, she didn’t. I mean, only in an abstract way. Nothing about the … umm ...” Neferet paused in embarrassment. “Nothing about the mechanics. She told me about the dance and the offerings. Then she said I was to be true to Amun only. That was it.”
“True to the Amun, yes, but only in heart. Your body is your own. The idol does not ...” The buildup of shock overtook his old body, and he looked heavenward, “In the sight of Ra and all the gods of the universe, what has happened here?” He fell silent. An ibis flew in from the Nile, carrying a fish in its beak. Neferet took this as a sign of truth, as Tehuti the wise often takes the form of the noble bird.
“I will arrange for one of the female priestesses to talk with you about this most bizarre event,” he continued. “It never should have happened.” His ancient mouth worked open and closed as if he had something important to say, but he uttered nothing more.
They stood, and Nebhotep clapped his hands to draw the priestess. A young woman moved down the path with a dutiful sense of speed. He whispered to her, and the slender woman scurried down the pathway skirting the garden, gathering flowers before returning to Neferet and offering a bouquet. Nebhotep bowed as best he could manage and departed. Neferet relaxed and inhaled the scent of jasmine and lotus when the pri
estess’s voice woke her from her reverie.
“Neferet, God’s Hand, Wife of the Blessed Amun,” the woman said, as she made movements to prostrate herself.
“No. Up. Please sit beside me.”
Her name was Kali, she said, and she had served the previous God’s Wife and even worked as an instructor in the brief time Meryt herself was an Adoratrice. She listened with concern to Neferet’s story, stopping only to put her hand to her mouth in alarm. Neferet left out the recent story of Zayem in the sanctuary, believing his indecent indiscretion was best kept under wraps for now.
After the long story, Kali spoke.
“God’s Wife, I wish you had discussed this sooner.”
“Neferet. Please call me Neferet.”
Kali’s eyes softened, and she continued.
“Not only were you violated in the vilest of ways, but also Amun was defamed. This is a crime worthy of death to the perpetrator.”
“So, the idol should not come alive.”
“Of course not. There are things we say that are symbolic only. Yes, it is the living Amun, but nothing turns him to flesh.” Kali’s eyes took on a gleam that hinted at dark thoughts. If Neferet were to put in a wager, she would bet Kali was ready to order the impostor’s death herself, if such a thing were possible.
Kali went on to describe the pseudo-sexual duties of the Adoratrice of Amun, which were far less physical than anything Neferet had encountered with Kamose last night. A kiss here, a touch there — all as certain prayers were said. Neferet felt her skin redden with shame.
“I’ve been a fool, Kali.”
“It is not true, oh, God’s Wife, I mean ... Neferet. You simply were not trained correctly. For this, I blame myself. I offer myself for correction.” Since a punishment usually meant a whipping, Neferet waved her hand in dismissal. She wondered how cruel a mistress Meryt had been. However, if Meryt had been too strict, Neferet was just bad, lacking enough confidence to get the facts straight about her own job. Why hadn’t she demanded more information? She looked about, feeling lost. I need to feel power, and I still am a confused child. Where do I learn how to act with authority?
“Do you think the same person who abused me was the one who killed my predecessor?” Neferet asked.
Kali let her chin drop, as if in shame.
“Had we known this information before, we would have hunted this man down.”
“Kali. Would he be the same man? The murderer?”
“It seems most likely. And I fear you are in a perilous position.”
#
The table stood at center stage, adorned with an abundance of spring flowers ranging from tulips to freesia, and the young women handing out glasses of champagne bore smiles that seemed to Rebecca as chilly as the beverages they served. She stood at the other side of the hospitality tent with Raven; the refreshment table could have been on the other side of the earth — and she wished it were.
This gala scene was all part of the Rebecca’s hated Stroll the Waterfront fundraiser, which the dance company gave every year at the Ravinia Music Theater in the northern suburbs. Every year, she saw plenty of rich old guys in monkey suits with irritating leers donate big bucks to be able to meet and cut a rug with the nubile Waterfront Street dancers. It meant money in the pot for the board of directors and a libidinous dream come true for the guys with the deep pockets, Rebecca thought.
“They just set us up here as bait,” she complained to Raven as they began a slow march to the festivities. Raven, wearing a wreath of lilacs in her black hair and sporting a doll-like dress far too ingenuous for her, just snorted.
“Well, you know what I mean. The middle-aged Lotharios wouldn’t have a prayer of dancing with a Tanya or an Alicia in any other context.”
Raven flipped her hair behind her bare, tanned shoulders and gave Rebecca an evil grin.
“But you met Jonas here last year. Was he an aging Romeo?”
Rebecca almost stopped in her steps but continued to walk, eyes facing the grassy ground. Yes, Jonas had appeared at the event last year as unexpected as a man who leapt into the family room out of a television set. He was out of place but welcome. Rebecca remembered thinking he was too young, too good-looking, too earnest and well-mannered to be part of that pack of donors. Indeed, he wasn’t a contributor himself but the guest of his employer, a medical society that had given a large share of corporate funds to the dance company. At the right time, he cut into a dance Rebecca tolerated with a man with a sweaty, comb-over hairstyle. Jonas swept her into a waltz that seemed to last the entire evening.
That night, Jonas took the lead with ease, something Rebecca admired. So many men, flummoxed by the fact that she was a professional dancer, would falter or sometimes let her lead. Jonas had no such reservations. His steps were strong and graceful, and they spun around the room as if their dance had been choreographed. They spoke in the language of the flirtatious, commenting on the chintzy decorations in the tent and the unusual color of Rebecca’s celadon-green dress. She asked him what he did for a living, and his eyes sparkled.
“Do you want to know what I do for a job or what I do with my time?” he asked, half teasing.
She figured there would be nothing a doctor could pinpoint. She couldn’t even describe the symptoms adequately, so how was she supposed to give a full medical history to some blank-faced medic? If there were words to describe her condition, they’d be something like void, total blackness, nothing. However, in the back of her mind, she felt a tiny sensation she connected to someone else. She told this to no one. Then she realized with a start that she spoke of it to Sharif. Why? Who is he to me? She had to get in contact with him somehow, and this pointless doctor visit blocked the way. What convinced Jonas to waste her time like this? She raged inwardly, jailed in the examination room with nurses guarding the exit.
She grabbed her purse and rooted around for some candy, something to keep her perked up in this sterile, beige room. Inside the purse, her fingers touched a piece of paper that she pulled it out. Printed upon it were the words “Sharif Cadmus, Ph.D., Egyptology” and an Alexandria, Egypt, address and telephone number. A local number and the words “Until Tuesday” were written on the bottom in her hand. She had no recollection of this note but knew without a doubt that the only way to solve last night’s mystery, maybe the only way to save her job, centered on calling that number. Her hands went ice cold and she shoved the number back into her purse as the door opened and the doctor reappeared.
#
Out on the street, she wheeled on Jonas, shaking a prescription for tranquilizers at his startled face.
“Are you happy now? I have a clean bill of health. I could climb Mt. Everest as far as that guy thinks. I’m just a little ‘anxious.’” She gave a bitter laugh. “Listen, I don’t want to lose that role in ‘Aïda’ and you are making this difficult for me.”
“Rebecca, please calm down. We’re all just worried about you. I’m not going to tell the dance company.”
“More likely you’re just worried I’ll make a scene,” Rebecca yelled, as two middle-aged women clutched their purses and hurried past.
Jonas rubbed his head and turned around as if looking for support from an unseen crowd.
“You can’t go on like this,” he said, turning back with a pleading look in his eyes.
“Well, maybe I can. Maybe I can do just fine without people meddling with my life and dragging me off to doctors I don’t want to see. I’ve got something I have to do today.” I need to find Sharif. Sharif. Sharif. She looked around, frantic to get away, then spun around and tramped off in the direction of an idling cab. Jonas sprang after her and folded his arms around her. She broke free, and he grabbed again, this time with more force.
“You can’t just run away,” Jonas said in an exasperated tone. “You passed out last night in front of several people. You need rest, and I’m going to take you home.”
She knew Jonas wouldn’t understand, but he had to stop interfering like this. Co
ntrol freak. That’s what he was. Now all she could see in her mind was Sharif ’s face. “Until Tuesday.” What does that mean? I’ve got to uncover this mystery now.
“Stop messing with my life,” she yelled at a startled Jonas as she jerked her body free and moved a few feet forward. “I have to find something out. It’s important. I don’t care if you don’t understand.”
Jonas made a lunge for her, but his arms caught the breeze. Rebecca ran and grabbed the cab’s door handle.
“Don’t even think of trying to stop me,” she said. She jumped into the cab before he could reach her.
“Rebecca,” he called through the open door. “You gotta let me help you.”
She shook her head so hard that it hurt, then slammed the door shut. “Twelve Water Street,” she instructed the cabbie. The vehicle accelerated, and she watched Jonas’ form grow smaller through the rear window. In her frustration, she felt little for him. That both surprised and excited her. This wasn’t a break up, just a tiff, and she’d never left the shelter of Jonas’ arms before.
She saw Jonas out on the street reach out with a single hand, as if trying to catch the air she once breathed. She didn’t care. Her entire mind and body was focused on the dark, lanky man from Alexandria.
#
She clutched her cell phone in the coffee shop next to the Waterfront studio — a dive Jonas never frequented. She could count on being uninterrupted. With quivering fingers she dialed the number. A voice answered in a tongue she guessed to be Arabic.
“Sharif ?”
“Yes.” He switched languages with ease.
“It’s Rebecca.” She heard him breathing and didn’t know how to continue. What do I want?
“Yes, Rebecca.” The voice, reminding her of something rich and elegant. Espresso coffee or dark chocolate. The spell began to wind around her. Her breathing began to speed up.
“I need to know what happened last night.”
“Then I want to see you.” He sounded careful with his words, not wasting a syllable.
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