by Paul Doherty
Shufoy grimaced and, turning, bellowed in a deep voice, ‘Make way for the lord Amerotke, chief judge in the Hall of Two Truths! The divine servant of beloved Pharaoh! Scribe of justice! Holy priest! Blessed and touched by Ra!’
‘Shut up!’ Amerotke seized the dwarf by the shoulder. Every evening they went through this parody.
‘But, master.’ Shufoy’s disfigured face broke into a sly smile. ‘I am your most humble servant. My task is to sing your praises so that all we approach know who you truly are.’
‘I am a judge,’ Amerotke replied. ‘A very tired one! The last thing I need, Shufoy, is you bellowing across the marketplace.’
Shufoy tried to look hurt. He loved this tall, enigmatic priest, this objective judge who seemed so harsh; Shufoy knew him to be kind and gentle, even though a little too solemn.
‘I am only doing my job,’ he whined playfully.
‘And I do mine.’ Amerotke began the usual arguments.
They left the forecourt and entered the marketplace.
‘And what is your job, master, really?’ Shufoy leaned on the parasol as if it were a staff of office.
‘To watch, to listen, to judge.’ Amerotke kept his face straight. He pointed across to a swarthy, gaudily dressed man with gold amulets on his wrist and rings in his ears: he lounged beneath a palm tree where a grey-haired woman was selling cups of bitter Nubian beer.
‘Now, take a man like that,’ Amerotke said. ‘Look at him, Shufoy. What do you think he is?’
‘A Syrian?’ the dwarf replied. ‘A merchant?’
‘Lounging under a tree, drinking beer!’
Shufoy looked again.
‘I shall tell you who he is,’ Amerotke continued. ‘His face is weatherbeaten, burned dark by the sun, so he works in the open. He wears no sandals; his feet are hard and coarse-skinned yet he is no beggar, as he dresses well. The dagger he carries in his sash is curved and not made in Egypt. He sits with his back to a tree on hard ground yet he is relaxed and comfortable. I would wager he is a Phoenician, a sailor, a man who has brought his craft down the Nile, sold whatever cargo he has and allowed his crew the run of the city for the night.’
‘How much?’ Shufoy asked.
‘A deben of silver,’ Amerotke replied, stony-faced. ‘Go and ask him.’
The dwarf waddled across. The stranger looked him up and down but answered his questions. He turned, smiled at Amerotke and said something else. Shufoy angrily waddled back.
‘You are correct,’ he said, tucking his chin against his chest and looking up under bushy eyebrows at Amerotke. ‘He’s a Phoenician sailor! He’s here for two days and he sends you his regards. He knows the lord Amerotke!’
The judge burst out laughing and walked on.
‘You are a cheat!’ Shufoy gabbled, coming up behind him. ‘I don’t owe you any silver!’
‘Of course you don’t. I mean, how would my humble servant be able to afford such a wager? I pay you well. But you are not a merchant, are you, Shufoy? You have nothing to sell. No trade?’
Shufoy blinked and looked away.
‘I’m hungry,’ he grumbled. ‘My stomach’s rumbling! It’s a wonder I don’t charge you for letting it beat like a drum to let everyone know you are approaching. Perhaps that’s what I should do. Let it rumble away and everyone will say: “Here comes poor old Shufoy, the starving servant of Amerotke, the chief judge must be close behind!”’
‘You eat well enough,’ his master replied. He patted the dwarf on his balding head. ‘In fact, I’m fattening you up as a sacrifice.’
Amerotke walked on, down the basalt-paved alleyway. Shufoy trailed behind, now angry at his master’s teasing. He was quoting proverbs about: ‘Those who laughed would soon mourn and those who mourned would soon laugh while empty bellies would have their fill!’
Amerotke walked through the marketplace. It was still busy. Barbers armed with curved razors were clustered round their stalls under the trees, shaving heads, making them as smooth as pebbles washed by the river. Sailors, drunk on cheap beer, staggered about looking for a pleasure house, a brothel, where they could spend the rest of the night in revelry. They were closely shadowed by the police, armed with thick cudgels, watching for any sign of disturbance.
The market filled every available place in the small open squares and along the narrow lanes. Amerotke sensed no tension. The shops were open. The fleshers and sellers of meat had long finished trading as anything that was fresh at the beginning of the day had now turned putrid in the heat. However, other traders still had their awnings stretched over poles. A group of the unclean clustered around a cookshop, waiting for bread baked in the hot sand in the garden behind the house. Another stall sold onion seeds, a sure way, the stall-owners bawled, to block snake-holes. Other ‘delicacies’ lay on the board: gazelle dung to keep off rats; giraffe tails to serve as whisks next to honey pots and boxes of caraway seeds to serve as sweeteners.
The crowd was cheerful and noisy. Children ran around screaming and playing, getting in the way of oxen-pulled carts piled high with produce, hurrying down towards the city gates before the conch horns blew and the curfew was imposed. Powerful merchants, squatting in their makeshift litters slung across two donkeys, shouted and gestured with their fly whisks for the crowd to stand aside. Two Nomachs, governors from the provinces, also tried to make their way down to the House of Silver. The crowd ignored the banners carried before them displaying the Nomachs’ insignia, one a hare, the other two hawks. They were more interested in the teller of tales from the border town of Syena, a small, wizened man who had trained two monkeys to hold firebrands on either side of him as he told of his wanderings across the great sea to lands the people could only marvel about. His rival, a female dancer and contortionist a few paces away, was trying to attract the crowds with her clacking castanets and the bells which jingled all over her body. She turned and twisted while a young girl beat a drum and another played a flute. A crowd of men gathered round, sitting down on their haunches, clapping their hands. The teller of tales, frightened that his stories would be ignored, became more fanciful.
Amerotke smiled and passed on. He turned, expecting to see Shufoy trailing disconsolately behind him, but the dwarf had disappeared. Amerotke bit back his impatience. He’d threatened to put a collar round his waist and lead him like a pet monkey. Shufoy was constantly distracted and he kept wandering off. Amerotke was secretly fearful for him; with his disfigured nose and stunted size, the sellers of flesh might well kidnap the little man, bundle him on to a barge and sell him to some rich merchant, a collector of the curious. Time and again, in the Hall of Two Truths, Amerotke had seen such cases. Using his stick he pushed his way back through the crowds.
‘Shufoy!’ he shouted. ‘Shufoy, where are you?’
He espied the little man, at the front of a crowd which had gathered round a tamarind tree. From one of its branches hung a sign extolling the exploits of a physician, a specialist, a ‘guardian of the anus’.
Muttering under his breath, Amerotke pushed his way through. The physician had his patient lying down on a reed mat, legs extended, and was about to treat a fistula between his buttocks. Amerotke closed his eyes. He could never understand Shufoy’s deep interest in the workings of the human body. He grasped the dwarf by the shoulder.
‘The lady Norfret will be waiting.’
‘Aye.’ Shufoy took one last look at the physician as he bent down over his patient. ‘So she will!’
He followed his master back through the crowd and on to the trackway which wound down to the great city gates, two huge pillars dominated by soaring towers.
For the first time that evening, Amerotke noticed a difference. Usually city watchmen lounged about, more interested in their games of chance than who passed or when the gates were closed. Now a corps from the crack regiment of Amun stood on guard, their leather greaves and breastplates shimmering in the light of torches lashed to spears thrust into the ground. Officers stood by scrutinising all who jou
rneyed out. One of them recognised Amerotke and bowed slightly, waving his hand for the chief judge to pass untroubled.
Amerotke and Shufoy passed through the gates and on to the basalt-paved causeway. To his right Amerotke could see the Nile glinting and the stretched sails of a ship; children were playing down among the papyrus reeds. To his left sprawled the mud-baked dwellings of peasants who flocked to the city. These were unable to afford or build a house within the walls so they dug mud from the banks of the Nile and built their own: a jumbled maze of mean, one-storey tenements which housed not only workers from the quarries or the city but also fugitives from the law. It was pleasant enough, people sitting outside their front doors chattering and joking, watching naked children play. The air was pungent with the smell of salted fish, cheap beer and the hard bread these people cooked. A few got to their feet as Amerotke passed, studying him carefully. The chief judge heard his name mentioned. The men sat down. Soon he was through the Village of the Unclean. The causeway rose steeply. Amerotke stopped on the brow to revel in the cool breeze. Across the river he could glimpse the lights from the City of the Dead, its workshops and funeral houses.
Amerotke thought of his own parents’ tomb on the other side of the rocky cliffs; he vowed he would visit it as soon as possible. He must check all was well and that the funeral priest he’d hired still left food before the entrance and went there daily to say the prayers. Amerotke also thought of the thefts. How skilful the thief must be! Most grave-robbers simply broke in but, in doing so, soon roused the suspicions of others. In the end they were always caught and cruelly punished. However, according to Asural, these thieves were different: slipping in and out like shadows. The judge wondered if these robbers had found the grave of the Pharaoh at whose court he had been raised, the old warrior Tuthmosis I. Amerotke shivered as he remembered the stories. How Tuthmosis had driven hordes of slaves and criminals into a lonely valley where the tomb had been secretly dug, its entrance cleverly concealed. The workmen were later barbarously murdered so they couldn’t betray the secret to anyone else. Was it true, Amerotke wondered, that the Ka, the spirits of these dead, moved across the Nile at night to visit the homes of those they had loved and left?
‘Master, I thought we were in a hurry? And, by the way, did you see those soldiers?’ Shufoy had apparently forgotten his sulks at being dragged away from the physician.
‘What soldiers?’ Amerotke asked.
‘Those at the gates. Is it true, master, that the House of War will soon replace the House of Peace?’
‘Divine Pharaoh has gone to the far horizon,’ Amerotke replied. ‘His son Tuthmosis III is his heir. There will be some tension over who controls the regency but, in the end, all will be well.’
He tried to sound confident but, even though Amerotke turned his face away, Shufoy knew his master was only reassuring him. Sitting under his palm tree selling his amulets, Shufoy had listened to the chatter and the gossip. The royal circle, those close councillors round the young Pharaoh, were divided. A leader would emerge and seize power but who would it be? Rahimere the Grand Vizier? General Omendap, commander of Pharaoh’s armies? Or Bayletos from the House of Silver? Other names had been mentioned especially dead Pharaoh’s wife and half-sister, Hatusu. The merchants were worried and had voiced their concerns for all to hear. Chariot squadrons and infantry battalions were being pulled back from the borders. And what would happen then, they asked? Would the sand-dwellers, the Libyans, the Nubians, interfere in their trade? If the war galleys were moved up to Thebes would pirates once again prowl the Nile?
‘I think you should be very careful.’ Shufoy drew alongside Amerotke and, moving the parasol, grasped his master’s hand. ‘I heard about your judgement. People are wondering how a Pharaoh can be bitten by a viper but not die until he enters the house of Amun-Ra.’
‘And what do the people say?’ Amerotke teased.
‘That all this is a judgement. The gods are going to deal out justice.’
‘Then we’ll have to see.’ Amerotke sighed. ‘But for the moment, Shufoy, I am tired and I am hungry.’
They walked on, passing the high walls of other palatial residences, their great wooden gates locked and sealed for the evening. Every day new houses were being built in this pleasant, lush area, only a short distance from the Nile where water could be brought in by canals and garden wells were plentiful.
Eventually they reached Amerotke’s house. Shufoy knocked at the small door built into the great wooden gates.
‘Open up!’ Shufoy shouted. ‘Make way for the lord Amerotke!’
The door hastily swung open. Amerotke stepped inside. He always loved this time of the day. Once that door closed behind him, he felt as if he were in a different world. His own paradise, spacious gardens, vineyards, beehives, flowers and trees. The porter was grumbling at Shufoy. Amerotke glanced around. Everything seemed in order. Alabaster jars full of oil had been lit and placed in their stone holders. He glimpsed the summerhouse, its roof in the shape of a small pyramid, which overlooked the tiled lake and the statue of Khem the god of the gardens.
He walked down the avenue of trees which ringed the main house, a great three-storeyed building, then climbed the steps, went through the painted columns and into the hallway where rich cedar beams spanned the pink ceiling. A frieze of fluted flowers ran along the top and bottom of the red walls. The air was sweet with the perfume of myrrh and frankincense.
Servants brought a jug and basin for Amerotke to wash himself. He sat on a stool and took off his sandals. As he washed his feet in the basin and dried them with the rough linen towel he could hear his two sons laughing and shouting from the floor above him. Shufoy handed him a cup of white wine to wash his mouth and clean his teeth. He heard a sound and looked up. Norfret had come down the stairs. He marvelled at her beauty. How much she reminded him of the statue of Ma’ at: her sloe eyes sparkled, emphasising the dark rings of kohl around them, her full lips were painted with red ochre. She wore a pleated robe with fringes and an embroidered shawl clasped at the front by a cluster of precious stones. She walked across, her silver thonged sandals slapping on the floor. She had put a new wig on, plaited and oiled, interspersed with gold strips. At her neck hung a collar of blue and yellow stones, which shimmered in the light from the oil lamps. Syrian servants clustered behind her. Amerotke caught the gaze of one of them, Vaela, who glanced away; the girl’s hot-eyed stares always made him feel uncomfortable. She wasn’t impudent or forward but, now and again, he would catch her staring at him, studying him closely. Norfret stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheeks, then his mouth. She pressed her body close to him.
‘I expected you earlier, what happened?’
Amerotke looked over her head at the servants. Norfret turned and snapped her fingers. The servants, apart from Shufoy, disappeared. Norfret led him into the huge banqueting hall, its columns painted a light green and decorated at their top and base with yellow lotus flowers. Dishes of bread and fruit had been placed on the small polished tables. At the far end, the huge wine vats built into the wall gave off a pleasing fragrance. The furniture, of the best cedar and sycamore and inlaid with strips of ebony and silver, included couches with headrests, chests with curved lids and chairs and stools cunningly carved. Coloured matting hung on the walls and rugs of dyed wool covered the shiny floor.
The doors closed behind them. Once again Norfret kissed him on the lips and ushered him to a chair near one of the tables. She served him a goblet of wine, light and refreshing.
‘What happened?’ she repeated. ‘I’ve heard rumours …’
Amerotke glanced into the wine cup. Was she so eager to find out, he wondered? Did it mean so much to her?
‘Meneloto is innocent,’ he told her. ‘Only the gods know the truth behind Pharaoh’s death.’
He took a sip and tried to ignore Norfret’s long but hasty sigh. Was it relief?
‘He looked well,’ he continued. He raised his cup and smiled over the rim at her. ‘He bore hi
mself well. He had the courage of a lion. But he was always like that, wasn’t he?’
Norfret just smiled. Amerotke wanted to pinch himself. She didn’t seem at all disturbed or alarmed. He realised how stupid he was. The case brought before him had been the talk of Thebes. Why shouldn’t his wife be interested! What proof did he have, apart from rumour and gossip, that she had been close to Meneloto? And, even if she was, did that mean that they had lain together?
‘Father! Father!’
There was a pounding on the doors, which were thrown open. Amerotke’s two sons, Ahmase and Curfay, naked except for loin cloths and pursued by Shufoy pretending to be a baboon, raced into the room.
‘Have you eaten?’ He tugged on each of his son’s side locks. Were there really two years between them? If Ahmase wasn’t a few inches taller, he’d find it hard to tell the difference.
‘We will eat upstairs,’ Norfret announced. ‘We will be able to catch the breeze.’ She smiled dazzlingly at Shufoy. ‘You can join us!’
They went to the upper room where servants had laid out roast goose, pots of honey and dishes of vegetables. Oil lamps were lit. Their master’s favourite high-backed chair was placed near the open doors which led to a balcony. The sky was clear, the stars so bright Amerotke felt he could stretch up and touch them. The boys were chattering. Norfret sat, head close to Shufoy. Amerotke could never understand their relationship. He knew Shufoy made her laugh with his descriptions of the marketplace, the guile and tricks of the merchants and traders.
‘Tell us a story!’ Ahmase demanded, once they’d eaten. ‘Father, you promised us a story!’
‘Ah yes.’
‘You did promise,’ Shufoy echoed, eyes gleaming as he rubbed the ugly gap where his nose had once been. ‘I can smell a good story!’
The boys and Norfret laughed.
‘There was once a Pharaoh,’ Amerotke began, ‘who built a very, very strong treasury. It had secret doors which only he could unlock, but no secret passageways or windows. He poisoned the architect, the man died and the wicked Pharaoh ignored the plight of the poor widow and her two sons.’