by D. S.
“Nay, that’s not how it was,” Narmer said, “The slave lost her head is all, it happens to Habiru sometimes.” He shrugged, “Father always said, ‘never trust a Habiru.’ And you saw her. She tried to kill the Princess too.”
Smenkaure turned away from him. “If the slave had meant to kill her she had time enough to go about it.” He rubbed his chin. “But if she had merely meant to absolve her mistress of suspicion and so take all the blame on herself, what better way than to feign an attack on her?”
Narmer laughed. “Now that’s loyalty and no mistake.” He shook his head. “You have it wrong, brother. No Habiru would do as much, even for the kindest master.”
“It was an act,” Smenkaure said, “The Princess is the villain in this, the slave merely her tool.” He held his brother’s eye, “And call me fool if you will, but you saw the way they looked at each other, and how the Princess jumped to protect her. Something is not right with those two.”
Narmer placed a hand on his shoulder. “Guard your tongue, brother. Amenophis will take offence if you speak against his wife.”
“It’s a poor king that’s offended by truth.” Smenkaure turned and gave Akil’s midriff a rather lacklustre kick. “Have you no more of worth to tell me?” He kneeled and slowly he turned the man’s head, bringing the serpent brand towards the unmarked cheek. He allowed it to hover mere inches from the flesh. “Please …. Please no! Please!” He brought it closer. The animal screamed and convulsed in terror, searching for anything that could rescue him from the cruel metal. “They said … they said the baby died!”
Smenkaure paused, “Baby? What baby?”
Akil’s head jerked and lolled in a fit of pain or terror, blood and phlegm bubbling at his lips, “Tiye!” he wailed, “Tiye!”
At those words a man emerged from the shadows. He held a thin golden chain in hand. He gave it a little tug and a collared slave boy clad in nothing but perfume followed in the manner of a pet hound. The man held a scented linen cloth before his noise in an attempt to block out the stench that seemed to hover about the shuddering meat at the brothers’ feet. “What did he say?”
Smenkaure glanced at the grand vizier and shook his head. “He grows delusional. The fires oft have such an effect before the end.” He caressed the blackened shaft of the serpent brand with genuine affection.
Papis kneeled by Akil’s side. He produced a small vial of water from somewhere under his robes and brought it to the man’s lips. Akil gulped at it eagerly, gagged and almost retched. The vizier made a few tender noises, “Sssh child, be still, be still.” He leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead. “I remember you, Akil. You once spared Amun from the fires of Heliopolis. There is no evil in you. Speak now and perhaps I can convince these brutes to spare you further torment.”
The thing that had once fought for Tuthmosis the Great looked into the grand vizier’s eyes, pleading, begging for some release from the pain. “I … I …” his eyes rolled back in his head.
Papis shook him. “Speak!” Akil’s head flopped to the side and the high priest of Amun graced Smenkaure with an irritated glance. The man’s methods needed refinement. He was about to let go of the dead thing when its eyes shot open, “Yuya … he said he killed the Prince!”
“The Prince? What prince?”
“He must mean Tenamun, younger brother to the Dreamer.” Narmer said without undue surprise.
Papis nodded. “Aye … Tenamun … of course. I always told Pharaoh as much. I had a force of Companions ready and waiting to take righteous vengeance and burn the heretics of the Sun Temple from the map for good and all. Pharaoh refused to give the order though.” Papis shrugged, “I suppose he feared it would cause untold strife between the Two Lands.”
Smenkaure glanced at the vizier strangely as Papis turned back to Akil. “What prince?” He whispered.
“He said … he killed the Prince,” Akil repeated with unseeing eyes, “The Prince of Shepherds…”
The vizier shot Smenkaure a bemused look. “You’ve broken his mind.”
Akil coughed. “Yuya … n … not Yuya … the slave … the slave … lovers … the babe … they said twins … the slave … Tiye smuggles her to Heliopolis … the slave … Shiri knows…”
His head lolled to the side again and this time, try as he might, Papis could not get his eyes to open. He rose, “What do you think he meant by that?”
The ghaffir shrugged. “Nothing he hasn’t said a hundred times before. Apparently Tiye sneaked her bodyslave onto a small barge bound for Heliopolis yestermorn. Gods know how she managed it; I had half a hundred men watching for just such a thing by the docks.” He wiped bloody hands against his breastplate.” All I know is that slave killed our king, killed him on the orders of a mistress that would rather murder a Pharaoh than bed him.”
Papis wrung his hands excitedly. “No, no he said something about Lord Yuya, Lord Yuya and the slave?”
“Yuya? This has naught to do with that one.”
The vizier made a face. “You think mere women could plot the death of Pharaoh? Nay, there’s more to it than that. There was an assassin, an unseen assassin and mark me the Jealous God had a hand in it. Who now could deny Amun the chance of unleashing war and vengeance upon the false one?”
“I’m not concerned with the wars of priests.” Smenkaure said, “I’ll say it again, Lord Yuya has naught to do with this. Even if he has it could never be proved without putting that slave to question, and of course her Royal Highness has forbidden that.”
“A decree from Amenophis would see it done,” Papis said.
“He’ll give no such decree. He’d not risk his pretty wife crossing her legs when he enters her bed.”
Papis smiled and tossed a rolled sheath of papyrus at the Companion. Smenkaure knelt to pick it up. His eyes widened. “Amenophis … he gives permission to put the slave to question … so long as no word of it comes to Tiye.” He spun, gesturing for his brother to follow. “We make for Heliopolis at once!”
The vizier watched the pair leave in a rush of shouts and curses. He turned from the body at his feet and tugged on his chain. Obediently his pet followed behind him. Once clear of the stench he grinned, feeling rather pleased with himself. A gesture sent the boy to his knees and a second had his hands searching beneath his master’s kilt. The vizier’s smile grew broader as gently he stroked the slave’s hair and pinched his cheek until the boy’s eyes watered, Habiru always look prettier with tears in their eyes. “And so you see my love, Amenophis is not such ‘a poor king.’
XV
Dawn was in his eyes when squinting to the south, he saw the sail. The ship bore the blue and gold devices of the Royal House but no word of its coming had preceded it. Nevertheless, a few solemn votaries were on hand to toss pale lilies into the waters, as silent but for the soft splashing of oar and anchor it drew up by the docks. A woman was on deck – some lady of the Royal House by the look of her. Her face was hidden behind a thin shawl of Theban cut, but despite that it was clear that she was not staring at the docks.
Her gaze travelled further afield, out across the white towers of the Temple District and further still, off past the red Memphite Desert towards the far distant Wildlands where sand and rock met sun and sky. Her dress was a frothy excess of lace and linen that played about her like a thing half alive. As she moved it swished around her ankles, glinting pink and amber against the light of a rising god. When she turned towards the gangway the insistent morning breeze took hold of the shawl and for a moment the pale and precious visage beneath was revealed. Quickly the lady caught it and covered herself once more.
Josef took a breath. “Shiri!” He launched himself forward like a hound from the traps.
Old Solon caught his arm. “You’ve led this one a merry chase for long enough. Her heart is not to be played with anymore. I’ll not have you give her lover’s eyes and secret smiles just to turn around and bed another woman in the room above her head.”
Josef paused
and looked at her again. “You know as well as any, I had little choice...”
“But a choice all the same, and you made it, now I say let it rest. If I see you bring her to tears again you’ll have me to deal with, and no mistake.” He met Josef’s eye. “There are other men, slaves all, but thanks to you in Heliopolis that is not such a bad thing. Many and more speak of Shiri and would do well by her, why young Eli is five years her junior but ever does he glow crimson and look to his feet when she is near. He’s a handsome lad is Eli. And Nun, the stonecutter, deems her a queen amongst slaves, twice before you refused him permission to court her. You mean to deny her not only yourself but every other man too?”
“You would have me give Old Nun permission to ask for Shiri’s hand?” Josef looked horrified, “What point in that? I doubt she even knows he exists. She’d have no desire to wed him.”
“Aye,” Solon said, “belike your right, but still, is that not her choice?”
Josef shook him off a little irritably. “Aye, fine then, have it your way, Old Nun can ask her all he wants.”
Solon looked on as Shiri descended the gangplank. “And young Eli?”
“And Eli,” Josef said.
Even through the shawl, Solon could see her expression change when she saw him. He saw her pause and struggle to remain aloof before yielding and breaking into a quivering smile. Solon shook his head, small chance any other has there. Again, he caught Josef’s arm as the high priest made to go to her and this time the man spun, clearly angry, “Damn it, Solon I…”
“Promise me this at least.” The old bowyer sounded resigned, “Be the man she fell in love with, not the man she left.”
The captain introduced her as Nebet of Abydos, a distant cousin of Tiye herself. Josef and Solon had looked at each other then, but nodded obligingly. Once the ship and crew were left behind, Shiri allowed herself to relax, but all the same she found herself talking only to Solon. She offered Josef little more than the occasional sideways glance, but when they reached her old gardens behind the Sun Temple, the bowyer had found reason to excuse himself and leave them alone.
After that the conversation grew stilted and awkward. She wanted to shout at him, scream at him, hit him, kiss him. Instead they talked of Tiye. “Two moons maybe three,” she answered quietly. “Yes, she’s happy. He favours her above all others and is to name her Queen at his coronation.” Her mood darkened when his questions switched to her unexpected return and darkened further still when he asked what she knew of Pharaoh’s murder. “He kissed the wrong lady,” she said and would say no more.
He nodded, stared into the Sunpool for an age and turned to her, “Young Amran requested permission to ask for Yocobel’s hand. I gave it.”
She looked at him strangely. “That boy declares love for anything lacking a beard, yet still you gave your consent for him to ask for her hand? She deserves better.”
He bit his lip. “Aye, well I’m no Gypto and I’ll not deny my people the right to chose. And truth be told, I’ve never seen the pair happier.” He paused as high above, the mellow song of a lark welcomed the ever climbing sun. From the depths of the gardens a tender response came from its mate. He sighed, life is simple for the birds. “Amran is not the only one to have come to me with such requests.” He turned to her, “Old Nun asked permission to court you.”
“Nun?” she looked confused, “The stonecutter?”
“Aye, he requested permission before you left for Thebes and no doubt when he discovers you’re back he’ll ask again.”
“And you mean to allow it?” She didn’t appear overly pleased with the prospect.
“Aye, well as I said ‘tis not for me to...”
“Do you want me to marry him?” Her voice sounded a little strained.
He looked away. “I … I just want you to be happy. Solon reckons young Eli may also…”
She turned from him and made a face that he could not see. “I could never be happy if I loved one yet married another. I … I think perhaps we are different in that.” She moved swiftly away from him without looking back.
She heard his footsteps behind her, felt his hand on her shoulder. “What would make you happy, Shiri? Is there nothing I can give you? Nothing you want?”
Something was in her eye. She brushed it quickly away before fisting him in the chest. “Sometimes I think you’re the stupidest man in the whole bloody Lower Kingdom.” She turned again and quickened her pace.
He didn’t let her get far. He grabbed her arm and spun her about. He knew what she wanted, what she had always wanted. He grinned that old grin of his, looked to the heavens for a moment and returned his eyes to hers, “To hell with it,” he said. He pulled her to him. “No. I don’t want you to marry him. And no … we are not so different.”
He tried to kiss her. She turned her cheek. “Please … please don’t … not again … I can’t … I can’t take this game anymore.”
He ignored her, brushed a hand through her hair, turned her face to his and kissed her. She couldn’t find the strength to resist him, she could never find the strength, but this time at least her trembling lips refused to part for his. He drew back a little. She was in his arms making no effort to push him away but opposing him with passivity all the same. She was staring at him with the strangest look in her eyes; they seemed half despairing half hopeful. She wants me to say it, needs me to say it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I … I love you, Shiri.”
He saw her gulp, saw her eyes water. “But…”
He put a finger to her lips. “And nobody is going to keep us apart anymore. I swear it.”
Tjuya found them in each others arms. They were wrapped together under the great willow, their reflections playing in the Sunpool. In half a daze she watched her husband push the Habiru back against the bough, listened as he made her sigh and gasp with a pleasure and passion that his wife had never known. Their lips were crushed together, his hands everywhere. She could sense the warmth of their bodies, feel the strength of their love. The whore was saying a name. Again and again she was saying it – and the name was not ‘Yuya’.
“Th … thank you, Meira,” a gesture sent the slave away. Tjuya took a faltering step towards them, but still they didn’t seem to hear. The slave jumped into his arms, her legs wrapping tightly around him. He pushed her skirt higher, a hand fumbled briefly under his kilt. Tjuya knew when it happened. A moment the slave’s mouth left his. She gasped, proclaiming her love in shallow rapid breaths before finding his lips again. Once more their lips briefly parted and he answered in kind. Only when at last their movements slowed and hot earnest kisses turned to a soft lingering embrace, did his wife’s senses begin to return. She heard the whore say that name again, saw her find his lips again, watched as they held the kiss, held it for what seemed like an eternity, their mouths and tongues engaged in the slowest, closest of dances. And then Tjuya heard her own voice, horrified by how harsh and ugly it sounded, “I see your whore has returned.”
In a single rapid movement her husband let his whore go and spun red-faced. The slut fumbled with her skirts and attempted to pull her bodice back into place and cover a partially exposed breast. All the while the Habiru looked to her with wide eyes, a mixture of shock and fear on her face. Yuya stuttered and stumbled, “I … I had not thought you were returning ‘till noon.”
His wife spoke impassively, “That much is obvious.”
He glanced to his whore. “I … I’m sorry, Tjuya. I … I had not meant for you to find out like this…” His words petered out and ended in a shrug. “I’m sorry.”
“Find out what? That you like fucking whores? Fine then, fuck all the whores you want, see if I care.” She pointed at Shiri, “Any whore save that one.”
“She’s not a whore … and…”
“Send her away!” she screeched. There were tears in her eyes now, “Send her away! Sell her! Auction her off in the Memphite markets!”
Yuya stepped forward and his wife threw herself into hi
s arms. She glanced at the slut over his shoulder. “This … this must end,” she whispered just loud enough for the slut to hear. “You must choose,” she said, “your wife or your whore. Sell her, or smuggle her to freedom in the Wildlands if you must. I don’t care anymore, just be rid of her. She’ll fair well enough, her type always do. She’ll fuck her away across the Wildlands and like as not shack up with the first old shepherd that prefers her to his sheep.”
Her husband held onto to her for a moment. She sniffed back a tear and peered accusingly at the slave. For a moment the slut looked like she expected him to push his wife away. When he didn’t she took half a step forward as if she meant to move and try to take him from her. Tjuya plunged in and kissed him. All the while her eyes fixated on the whore. When he didn’t instantly break the kiss she saw the Habiru’s shoulders slump. Tjuya allowed herself to smile as the whore lowered her head and turned silently away. She began walking slowly towards her old basement.
Yuya placed his hands about his wife’s arms and stepped her back. He looked over his shoulder. “Shiri wait.” The slave didn’t stop and then to Tjuya’s shock her husband left his wife’s side and ran after his whore. She stared after him, open-mouthed. He took the slave by her hand and whispered something into her ear. Together they turned. And then the slut met her eyes, met them and for the first time since the day they first met, half a lifetime before, she held them.
“I’m not sending her anywhere,” he said slowly. “I’m sorry, Tjuya but…”
Tjuya’s breath came in anguished pants. “You …. You mean…”
“I’ll move into the eastern cloister, or … or if you prefer you can live in your father’s old villa.”
She said nothing, just stood there hot tears and cold anger warring in her eyes.
He grimaced feeling upset and annoyed with himself. “Tjuya … I’m sorry … you bear no fault in this. I know you did your best with Tiye and you … you were a devoted mother to our son, and I … I tried Tjuya … I did try.” He looked pained. “I did everything you asked of me but...”