Bird in a Snare
Page 35
“That I should have lived to see such a thing,” Hani said aloud, shaking his head.
Much had changed in the four years Nefer-khepru-ra had ruled alone after the death of his father Neb-ma’at-ra the Magnificent. And Hani, for one, would have said none of them good. His family tomb had been desecrated. His wife, a chantress of the Hidden One, had been locked out of the Ipet-isut, great temple of Amen-Ra, along with all the other clergy. Hani had been forced by his conscience to drop out of active service in the diplomatic corps, no longer able to enforce a foreign policy he neither understood nor respected. But no one had seized his property, at least, and so he had his garden—his retreat, his hidden place of safety. His little slice of the Field of Reeds on earth.
Drawing a deep breath, Hani let his eyes flow fondly over the trees he and his brother had planted thirty years before, the flowers, the long pool where his beloved ducks played. His cool, whitewashed house set in the middle, where he and Pipi had played as children and now Hani’s own children lived happy lives, as they would until they grew up and moved off to their adult homes.
Dawn had just begun to spread its sweet pale light over the walled garden; the birds awakened, twittering and calling. Qenyt, his pet heron, stalked slowly and silently around the perimeter of the pool in search of unwary frogs, lifting her burnished legs with angular grace. In the sycomores, the crickets were falling silent, and cicadas had not yet begun their roar. Hani drew a deep breath, until the farthest corners of his lungs filled with the pure, fragrant air of morning. This was his favorite hour. Even with the disturbing news that every new day inevitably brought, dawn was a moment that restored his sense of balance, of ma’at. Restored his certitude that everything would be all right in the end.
Having sung mentally his little song of joyful greeting to the rising sun, like the baboons of Ra, Hani made his way back through the mat that hung over the door of the house to keep out the flies. No one else was up yet except for some of the servants; he could hear the splash of water in the kitchen and a small thunder of wood for the stove dropped on the earthen floor. No longer did Pa-kiki, his second son, have to get up at dawn to go to school at the House of Life—the Per-ankh was closed, along with the temple that housed it. Hani and his father, both scribes, now put the finishing touches to the boy’s education. Soon Pa-kiki would go to Akhet-aten to live with his brother and work at some low-level job in the Hall of the Royal Correspondence, beginning his rise through the ranks.
Hani planted himself in front of the little shrine in his salon, where a small statue of the Hidden One and homely images of Ta-weret, the Great One, and the dwarf god Bes, protectors of women and children, were honored with flowers and bowls of grain. These days, every shrine was supposed to feature some stele of the Sun Disk and the royal family, even in private devotions, but he didn’t feel that kindly toward his ruler and his ruler’s god. If he brought an Aten stele home, Hani could imagine what his wife Nub-nefer would say, she whose father and brother had served as Third Prophet of Amen-Ra. Yet Hani was uneasy about giving some officious visitor an opening to carry dangerous tales about his lack of loyalty. He had enough against him already. Perhaps I ought to get at least a small one...
Hani drifted toward the kitchen, following his nose. He hoped the heavenly fragrance of baking meant the cook would soon take some fresh bread out of the oven. Hani was hungry—hungry for bread and hungry for life. It was dawn in the season before the Inundation, after all. Time for good things to begin once more. One could believe, on such a morning, in the cycle of creation—that after the grim, confusing years of the immediate past, good would roll around again.
Later that morning, Hani’s secretary and son-in-law Maya arrived, ready to begin dictation. The little man, too, was in a twinkling mood. He and Sat-hut-haru must have had a rousing evening. Hani chuckled. It still seemed impossible to him that his seventeen-year-old second daughter was a nebet per, a mistress of the house, that she had traded her maiden’s braids for the long locks of a married woman.
“Good morning, Lord Hani. I have these fair copies of the letters for you. Shall I read them aloud for your approval?” Maya seated himself cross-legged on the floor and unhitched his pen case from his shoulder. Thanks to the understanding of his superior, the high commissioner Lord Ptah-mes, Hani had been permitted to work in a domestic capacity rather than resign outright from his post. He hadn’t been sent abroad for a year now but had seen to his duties from home and showed up at the capital from time to time—just enough not to be conspicuously absent from the roster of assignments.
“Go ahead, Maya. I’ll stop you if I hear anything I want to change.”
Acknowledgment
The author gratefully acknowledges all those who have helped her n the production of this book. To the wonderful women of my writers’ group, for their critique and encouragement, my thanks. To Lynn McNamee and her editorial team at Red Adept—Jessica, Sarah and Irene—profound gratitude (and Lynn, for so many other forms of help). To the flexible and talented gang at Streetlight Graphics for the cover and map. To my cousin and her husband, my technology guru: thanks, guys. To Enid, who urged me forward by her support, I can’t thank you sufficiently. And most of all, to my husband, Ippokratis, who put up with the months of fixation it takes to write a novel, many, many thanks.
About the Author
N.L. Holmes is the pen name of a professional archaeologist who received her doctorate from Bryn Mawr College. She has excavated in Greece and in Israel, and taught ancient history and humanities at the university level for many years. She has always had a passion for books, and in childhood, she and her cousin (also a writer today) used to write stories for fun.
Today, since their son is grown, she lives with her husband and three cats. They split their time between Florida and northern France, where she gardens, weaves, plays the violin, dances, and occasionally drives a jog-cart. And reads, of course.