by Anton Gill
She paused, letting her gaze drift past Huy to settle, unseeing, on an ornamental glass vase in the shape of a fish, blue and yellow, which stood on pedestal in a corner of the room. Huy remained silent. Iutenheb had no need of prompting – indeed, prompting might destroy the mood she had settled herself into.
‘He seemed to need no sex at all. He took no second wife, not even a concubine; he did not visit the senior civil servants’ brothel in the North Quarter of the city. He worked hard, and was more at the temple and in his work room than he was ever at home. I gave the boys as much love as I could, but perhaps love had died in me, too, or perhaps I could not give it to children who did not seem to want it.’
She was silent again, They exchanged glances. Huy wanted to know what her relationship with her sons was, but he knew better than to prod with questions. All would have to come out at its own speed, in its own order.
‘It was not for years that I realised that his sexual taste was for children – not boys; he had never shown any inclination for men; but for girls before the age that they begin to bleed.’ Again she stopped. The pauses had become more frequent and Huy wondered whether, in the face of some great guilt of her own, she would now cease to speak to him entirely. But she was prepared to be her own judge.
‘He was discreet,’ she continued. ‘He tampered with peasants’ children, and the children of slaves. People who could not complain, or would not be believed if they did. I found out that he paid well, and he did not – at least at the beginning – hurt the children, or mean to hurt them. I found out because one day he took one of the house-servants’ daughters to his work room, in the middle of the Seqtet boat’s voyage when everyone was asleep. She told her father what had happened and he complained to me. He was a good servant and had come with me from my father’s house.’ She broke off, but only for a moment, to look around the room as if seeking comfort from it, or from some ghost within it, for her eye did not rest on Huy. ‘I told him there was nothing I could do. I sent him and his family back to my father. I told Ipur that he had requested it, that he did not like the sea. Ipur had no objection; but from that moment I could tell that he knew that I knew his secret; and from that moment we became accomplices.
‘I know that I might have divorced him – I would have had every right and although it would have broken him, what would that have been to me? My own fortune and my sons’ inheritance would not have been in danger. But I could not break the unit we had become, the family I still thought we were – though we were never anything more than the mockery of a family, four people lying to themselves and to each other, children growing up in an atmosphere of falsehood and false hope. But even that, I told myself, is not uncommon.’
Spoken in truth, thought Huy. Lies are what seem to make life bearable. If we could face the truth, civilisation would progress.
‘Reason does not mitigate guilt,’ she said. She pressed her lips together and parted them, making a small clicking sound with her tongue as if her throat were dry. ‘For ten years I knew what he did. He did not do it often, perhaps three times a year, more latterly. And latterly he became more violent.’
‘Did your sons know?’ Huy asked at last.
She looked at him quickly. ‘They never gave me a sign, but they must have done. Ipur spoilt them. They had everything. Sometimes I thought he was buying their loyalty away from me; but he need not have bothered. Senofer and Meten were never loyal to anyone but themselves.’
‘To each other?’
‘Perhaps that too. They formed a unit against the world, a team to exploit it.’
She stood up and walked restlessly up and down the room, as if it were a cage. Huy thought again of the restless spotted cats in the menagerie at the Southern Capital, their freedom taken from them for the amusement of the wretched creature who formed the gods in his image – but who gave them animals’ heads. Huy thought of the Aten, who had no form. But even the Aten had shone upon the favoured few. On them he shed a warm light, from which they could always retreat into shade if it became too hot. On the backs of the poor his heat had burnt pitilessly. Iutenheb came to a stop by the window and stared unseeingly out of it. The house-servant stood motionless as a statue in the shadow of a corner. What did she think of what she had heard? With whom would she gossip over it? Or not at all?
The silence grew long. ‘Will you tell me more?’ asked Huy.
‘I will tell you only that to seek my husband’s killer is a thankless task and one upon which the gods will not smile. He deserved to die, though I accept that he should have died by just means. But what justice would ever have entrapped him? He was the law. He and his friends owned this city. They could shape its destiny to their will.’ She turned to look at him. ‘I pray that you do not find Ipur’s killer. To do so will bring you more unhappiness than that which I see by your face you already carry within you.’
Her words made Huy uneasy, though she spoke them in a simple, matter-of-fact way. In truth he would rather forget the unfortunate matter of Ipur’s death, though his curiosity about it had been aroused fully now, and concentrate on finding Heby.
‘When do you go to Kharga?’ he asked her.
‘Perhaps as soon as tomorrow,’ she said. ‘We will not meet again.’
Though she had barely helped him, some perverse loyalty to her husband or to the couple they had once been sealing her lips before the final confidence, Huy thought it a blessing that he had seen her at all. Once more, the gods were arranging things according to their pattern: he would have to continue patiently along the path they had prepared for him.
*
Atirma breathed hard. He could not believe that he was out of breath after so short a run. But he consoled himself with the thought that running was something he did not need to do. Hurry was the mark of a servant. Atirma was in a position to make others move fast to do his bidding. He looked down proudly on the growing convex curve of his belly, glistening with the sweat of his exertion in the early sun. Business had kept him in the town, and he always ate heavily when he was working. He had taken care to send Hemet out here.
He had needed the exercise. It helped him arrange his thoughts. Now, he would have his body-servant give him a shower and a scrub. He would put on his morning business robes, summon his wife, and talk to her. He had let things fester in his heart too long. She was his principal wife, and he would not be made a fool of by her. He thanked the gods that his late father had insisted on a severe limit to what she could claim of his property in the event of a divorce. If he could prove her adultery, she could not take even one shat of silver. On his way up the dusty slope to his country house, some way out of the town but still within sight of it, crouching by the jewelled sea, his determined walk faltered. Did he want to lose Hemet? The mere thought of her still excited him and in a way he scarcely dared admit to himself the thought of her with someone else excited him more; though if he ever caught her at it he would have the man’s nose and ears cut off, and he would slice off Hemet’s breasts himself. He imagined doing the deed, and further violence he would inflict on her, kicking her in the stomach, in the teeth, and his head shook with anger and pleasure, as his penis rose and pushed against the soft linen of his kilt. Then he felt lightheaded and the house ahead of him shimmered before his eyes, taking on an unreal quality. He rested a wrist against the mud-brick wall that flanked the path he stood on, and regulated his breathing with an effort. He thought he might faint, and tasted bile in his mouth. This worried him. To be out of physical condition did not matter so much, but to be ill was a fearful thing. He thought of his brother, Mersekhmet, dead at twenty from a growth in the head – on the brain, of all things; how could such a humble organ carry the gifts of life and death within it? He thought, too, of his mother, whose limbs had been twisted out of shape by the Bone-Warper. Might either such fate await him? He was approaching his twenty-fifth cycle of the seasons. It was time to begin to take care.
He found her on the north terrace, leaning on the balust
rade and, eyes closed, holding her face out to the caress of the wind. He frowned in disapproval: too much of that and her fair skin would darken and wrinkle. She would look like a bargeman’s daughter. He felt sleek and cool now, and could smell the scented oil which his man had rubbed into his skin. His byssus kilt and cloak caught the wind and drifted with it, cooling him further.
She turned at his step and he caught a glint of the sun off her golden nose-ring. She looked at him with eyes that were neither pleased nor sorry to see him. He wanted to take her in his arms but he was afraid to. Who was it that she gave this body to? He remembered how she had been with him once, and what had excited him at the end of his run – the thought of her writhing with someone else – now filled him with an aching emptiness. How could she turn from him?
She was still looking at him, and he found himself tongue-tied, as if they were strangers. He did not know how to address her. Then he reminded himself that she was his wife. He could not confront her with her infidelity – and how much he still hoped he was mistaken in it – but there was something else he needed to know which was also close to his heart.
‘Kamose tells me you were seen talking to the scribe, Huy.’
‘Yes. I met him at my father’s house.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘It was days ago. I cannot remember.’
‘Try.’
‘’You should have asked me earlier. Or asked the servant who eavesdropped on us.’
‘Try to remember.’
She looked away, back towards the sea. Sometimes it seemed to mock her with its freedom.
‘I did not know you were so concerned about Heby’s disappearance,’ she said.
‘I am not. Are you?’
She closed her eyes. When she opened them they were dark with anger. ‘I told Huy what a good man his son is. Such men are rare here.’
He ignored the taunt. ‘And did you speak of Ipur?’
‘No.’
‘And of me?’
‘I told him who you were. I hinted that you were a man to be reckoned with.’
Atirma was irritated. ‘Why did you do that? We have no need to be defensive toward Huy. What has he to do with us?’
‘I believe you have your secrets. Huy is one who delves deep.’
‘You cannot know that.’
‘I can see it in his eyes. They are restless. They are questioning.’
Atirma came closer. She did not move away, but he saw her body stiffen. Almost imperceptibly, but nonetheless. In that stiffening, that infinitesimal bunching of the shoulders, he saw his hopes crash. Would he be able to accept this from the gods? He had known it for a long time but he had not accepted it yet. Would he wait for further confirmation? The ache in his belly pulsed. ‘Did he want you?’
‘What?’
‘Did he want you? Did you see that in his eyes?’
Hemet looked at her husband with something like pity. She took no trouble to conceal the look, and it hurt him far more than her indifference. Once again he had played into her hands.
*
It was hot in the city and hotter still in the room where the three men had gathered. The wind had dropped and the air hung still and heavy, only sluggishly responding to the weary strokes of the fanners as they wielded their huge black and white feather fans. The beer was warm and sticky and the bread had turned doughy and sweaty, attracting a swarm of small black flies with creamy white heads and red eyes.
One of the men stood up and stretched himself, walking slowly to the archway which gave onto a terrace, but the sun beat down there so much that even on the threshold he could feel the heat unbearably through the leather soles of his sandals. He looked across the dazzling sea to the north-eastern horizon, squinting his blue eyes to bring it into focus, as if he half expected to see Horemheb’s fleet, returning victorious, loom over it at any moment. Then he turned back to the others in the room.
‘Did you see them, Kamose,’ said one of the other two. ‘Are they coming yet?’
‘No.’
‘We will see more slave ships before Horemheb comes back. My news is that there is still one outpost of Kheta which will not give up the fight.’
‘You are optimistic, Userhet.’
The military commander shifted in his chair and half reached towards his beaker, disturbing the flies clustering round it. He withdrew his hand in disgust, and slumped back.
‘I am realistic.’
‘I think we should rather consider how we can wind this business of ours up,’ said Kamose. ‘You, particularly, Userhet, must bring all to order now that the General’s return is imminent.’
‘He will send ships ahead to warn us of his return. No such news has come yet.’
‘You are too confident. Or too greedy. We have done well. Now let us accept that the harvest days are done.’
‘It takes time to sell slaves,’ said Duaf, the third member of the party, drumming his long fingers on the table in front of them. ‘How many do you have in the stockade now?’
‘About a hundred,’ replied Userhet. ‘Some have died but most are in good condition and there is no disease.’
‘And the next trader from Alasa will put in when?’
‘The ship is expected any day.’
Duaf placed his hands palms together. ‘Then let us sell them these hundred and at the same time tell them that therewith the business is closed. I doubt if many more will come, and if they do, we can keep them in the stockade and sell them according to Horemheb’s wishes when he returns, under his nose.’
‘It is the best plan,’ said Kamose immediately. Userhet spread his hands and smiled.
‘I bow to the majority,’ he said.
‘It is a pity to see such a good business die,’ said Duaf; ‘but we always knew that it would not continue forever. And we must rejoice that the war is ending.’
‘We must also rejoice that so much of Ipur’s share falls to us,’ added Userhet drily. ‘You are certain that his sons know nothing of the true amounts?’
‘Not unless Atirma has told them, and I hardly think that likely,’ replied Duaf. ‘I never gave Meten the true figures when he wrote out the accounts which we are to present to Horemheb.’
‘Do you think Horemheb will check?’ asked Kamose.
‘No,’ said Duaf. ‘It is a risk, but only a small one. Horemheb will be too keen to get back to the Southern Capital. There is no reason for him not to trust us. We can show him the accounts Meten has prepared, and if he wants to see Kheta and Khabiri soldiers turned into farm-working slaves, we can show him the ones Atirma bought from us. He need never know that the outlying farms and estates mentioned in the accounts are but as dreams.’
‘Well, they exist in Alasa,’ said Userhet, catching Kamose’s eye.
‘Where the price of slaves is fortunately double that of what it is here,’ remarked Duaf, smiling lightly. ‘We would have been fools not to take such an opportunity.’ He looked at Userhet. ‘There is something that worries me, however.’
‘Yes?’
‘An Alasa ship was in at the military jetty when Huy visited you. Did he see it?’
The commander shrugged. ‘If he did, it would have meant nothing to him. But it was dark and he had no time to look about him.’
Duaf spread his hands. ‘We shall have to be content with that.’
‘We could kill him. That would make sure of him.’
Duaf looked dismayed. ‘He is under the king’s protection. It was a good idea of Kamose to make Huy look into the matter of Ipur’s death. It shows us to be conscientious. But we would not want to wreck that advantage by inviting a fresh enquiry from the Southern Capital – and an official one at that.’
‘You need not worry about Huy,’ said Kamose. ‘There is nothing for him to bite on in this town.’
‘Will he find his son?’ asked Duaf.
‘Has Nofretka heard from Heby?’ said Kamose, ignoring the question.
‘My daughter has told me nothing
.’
‘If she has not heard from him, he is dead. Do you not also assume that, Userhet?’
The commander frowned. ‘I must. But the circumstances puzzle me. Heby would not have deserted without a strong reason.’
‘Perhaps he was swept overboard and drowned.’
‘Perhaps. It does not matter. If he is dead he cannot harm us. If he is alive he will either have to live in exile or he will turn up some day. And on that day he must die, by the law.’
Chapter Six
The heat was unbearable. Huy sat in the shade of a broad linen awning stretched between the wall of the guest house and two poles made of stripped-down tamarisk saplings, but the baked earth seemed to exhale fire back at him and the air was too hot to breathe. He fanned himself and drank water, but could do little else but wait for the evening to bring the freshening wind. For the first time in his life he felt himself to be old, acknowledging that the time ahead was less than the time past; but he found this idea more stimulating than depressing, because of the increased value it gave to the remaining years.
The apparently tireless Psaro emerged from the house with a jug of fresh water, cold from the deep baked-earth jars in which it was kept, and placed it on the table that stood before his master. Then he returned to the cool of the kitchen, where, Huy felt sure, he must now lie down and take his afternoon rest.