by Scott Peters
Chapter Forty-Six
Ramses left his door open and knelt down in front of the chest. The fine paper smelled clean and fibrous, the best money could buy.
He put his elbows on the trunk and massaged his forehead. The lid was still cracked from when Aunt Zalika tossed it outside onto the pavement. He pressed his face into his hands.
This is not what he wanted. He just wanted his old life back.
Footsteps sounded outside his door.
"Ah, there you are. Ready to work?" Weris said.
Ramses nodded. "Yes. But not here. My aunt will find me."
Weris glanced around. "What a hovel. I can’t believe she makes you sleep out here." He scoffed. "Come on. You can draw in my room."
As he strode after the tutor, thinking of his aunt made him grit his teeth. Even if Weris hadn’t threatened to take Sepi’s life, he’d never change his mind. Not now.
Inside, a lone serving girl sang a soft, melancholy song as she cleaned up the mess in the dining room. The air smelled foreign, of stale incense and sweat. In the hall, the shrine looked sorely neglected: at the household god’s feet lay the curled rind of a dried up lemon, along with a crumbly bit of old bread.
Weris ushered him into his room. After lighting several lamps, he crushed and prepared the ink himself. He laid the papyrus out on a small desk, and made Ramses comfortable in a low chair. Then he retired to a corner.
The house had long since fallen silent when Ramses handed over the finished drawing. "Well?" he asked.
The tutor took it and studied it a moment. A slow smile lit his golden eyes. "Boy, I think this might just work."
"I’m going to bed."
"Very good." Weris placed the drawing in a wooden chest. "My two friends from your field crew will get you in the morning. In case you need an escort."
"An escort? If you don’t trust me, why don’t you just use my drawing yourself? Or are you too much of a coward?"
"Not at all. I would, if I could."
"Then do it."
Weris smiled. "I wouldn’t last a day. It’s pretty evident I can’t draw. Once they realized it, I’d be over."
"That’s for sure."
"Look. I could care less about drawing. Just do your job so I can do mine."
Ramses scowled. "I said I was going to, didn’t I?"
"Well wipe off that pathetic grimace. You’re going to be a craftsman. That’s the second wish I’ve granted you. That and your silly harvest, which you seemed so concerned about. Or have you forgotten?"
A dozen replies blazed through Ramses’ mind. In the end all he said was, "I haven’t forgotten anything."
Outside the door, the gurgle of Uncle Hay’s snores rattled the hall. Ramses hand ached strangely, probably from holding the paintbrush. He tiptoed past his aunt and uncle’s door, pressing it to his leg.
In front of the family god’s altar with its pathetic offerings, he paused.
Crouching down, he swept the old rind and dried-up bread into his arms. As he did, his aching palm started to burn so hot that it felt like it was on fire. He gasped and wrenched open his fingers, letting everything fall to the ground.
A splash of moonlight washed through the window, over his burning flesh.
He bent close and stared in disbelief.
The raised mark of Maat that had burned itself into his skin had long since faded away—until now. Somehow, it had returned. And this time, it was slightly different. Her feather no longer rested behind her ear.
It had fallen free.
It was halfway to her feet.
Ramses swore. He left the foul offerings where they lay, trampling them underfoot as he exited the house and headed for the blackness of his cell.
There he curled up, unseeing, as each hour drew him closer to the start of the exam.
Let Flatnose and Scar-Eye come for him.
It was time for this to be over.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Neferet tried to focus on cutting bandages in the physician’s whitewashed workroom. Like a curse, Akil’s disturbing drawing flashed in her mind. It kept appearing, and she couldn’t make it stop.
Shaken, she put down her knife.
Maybe it was a curse. Dark magic.
If only she’d never gone to Tui with her idea for this stupid exam! Everything would’ve turned out differently, starting with the day she’d met Ramses. She would’ve gone home, told her father about Ramses’ drawing of Ptah, and her father would’ve insisted on finding him. Without the exam, Akil would’ve never come there at all.
She wound the bandages, shoved them into a basket and put them away on a shelf. It was time to get home and arrange the house for tonight. In a few hours, the men would be meeting to plan out tomorrow.
When she reached her front steps, her chest ached. She wouldn’t cry. She bit her lip at the thought of Akil living in her home. Him with his leer, waiting to whisper news of some curse he’d cast on whatever craftsman stood in his way.
The sound of laughter tore her from her reverie.
Someone was in her house.
Recognizing Layla’s snicker, Neferet’s hand froze on the knob. She cupped her ear to door to listen.
"Are you done yet?" Layla said.
"Almost," came Kiki’s whine.
"Hurry up!" Layla said.
"I’m trying." There was a clunk of pottery slamming down.
"Good enough. Miss Dirt-face is getting a little too full of herself, don’t you think? I can hardly wait to see what happens when she tries to use those—"
Neferet shoved open the door. "What are you doing in my house?"
Layla whirled. Her lips curled in a smile. "What does it look like? As you can see, we’re helping." She waved at the table.
"Yes. Helping you," Kiki said, arranging fresh sycamore figs on a platter.
This was the last thing she needed right now. What had they done? Neferet crossed her arms, her stomach tumbling with worry. "You can’t wait to see what happens when I try to use what?"
Layla rolled her eyes. "What are you going on about? You can’t just walk in on a conversation and expect to know something."
Kiki giggled.
"I don’t even know why I’m bothering to help you," Layla said
"I don’t want you to," Neferet replied, before she could stop herself. She grit her teeth. If her father caught them fighting again—"Hold on, what by the gods . . ."
Her laundry, which she’d spent all yesterday washing, had been kicked over. A sandal-print stained the middle of one of her father’s white tunics. "Were you up in my room?"
"Don’t be silly," Kiki squeaked.
Neferet started going over everything she had up there—clothing, some herbs she’d gathered and still needed to bring to Merit’s. Nothing Layla could possibly be interested in. "What were you doing in my room?"
"You’re annoying. Why would I—" Layla broke off and glanced over Neferet’s shoulder into the street.
"What are you girls doing?" a man growled. It was Wosret, Layla’s father. As always, the stone sculptor’s face was dark and brooding.
"Hello." Neferet tried to put on a bright face.
He sneered back, making no secret what he thought of girls. Everyone knew he cursed the fact he’d had a daughter instead of a son to follow in his footsteps.
"Where’s Nakht?" he demanded.
"Not home yet. But I’ll tell him you—"
"Forget it. Layla, what are you doing here?"
Layla’s voice sounded constricted. "Coming, I was just—"
"Just what? Gibbering, like a chicken?"
Layla’s throat moved in a swallow.
"Get home and do something useful, for once."
"I am useful," Layla said, so low Neferet barely heard her.
"Is that another wig?"
Layla touched the wig’s gold-beaded strands. "This?" she said in a pinched voice. "Of course not! I borrowed it from Kiki. Right Kiki?"
"From m-me?" Kiki stuttered. "Oh
—yes! Of course. I wear that one all the time. So much, I’m really very tired of it. It’s getting a bit old, I think, because—"
"That’s enough," Layla said. "You see, father?"
Wosret ground his jaw, the muscles bulging as he glared at his daughter. "Get home, now," he said, and stomped away.
Layla waited until he was out of earshot. Then she tossed her wig’s shiny, beaded braids over her shoulder. "Bring the dishes back clean, dirt-face." she said.
Twilight settled over the village. Lying on a carpet on the roof of her whitewashed house, Neferet listened glumly to the men gathered in her front room below. Over the general buzz of voices came her father’s deep one, resounding through the vents.
"Everyone, please find a seat."
Stools and cushions rustled as the craftsmen found their places. The men grumbled, they sounded unhappy.
"Now. I’m sure you’ve all heard—the officials in Thebes have advised us to expect at least two thousand contest entrants tomorrow."
At this, Neferet gasped. Two thousand? Even if Ramses came, could he compete against that many? She pulled her blanket around her shoulders and shivered.
"That’s a nightmare," came Wosret’s voice. "And there’s no point to it now."
"I agree. Let’s accept Akil and be done with it," said another.
"We’ve given our word," her father said. "The exam continues as announced."
Neferet let out a sigh of relief.
"Fine, but with that many, how long will this take? Weeks!" Wosret growled.
"It’s taken too much time already," a second man said.
"We need to get back to work," said a third.
Wosret cut in. "We need to get back to Pharaoh’s tomb, not dally around here meeting two thousand hopefuls."
Neferet’s father called for silence. "Quiet, quiet please everyone. The contest will not be extended."
"Then how do you expect to perform this miracle?" Wosret demanded.
"Simple," her father replied. "Painter or not, everyone in this room has an eye for craftsmanship."
A general agreement followed.
"So here’s how we’ll handle it."
Neferet whisked a fly from her ankle with an impatient gesture and strained closer to the vent.
"There are fourteen of us here tonight. Our sentries will direct the two thousand entrants into fourteen lines. We’ll each man a station at the head of a line. You’ll have approximately one hundred and forty boys each."
"After the entrant presents you his papyrus, examine it and decide if he’s skilled enough for further consideration. If the answer is no, direct him to a sentry who will guide him out of the examination area. If the answer is yes, keep the scroll, make a note of the entrant’s name, and send him to the waiting tent. At the end of the day, we’ll all meet to review the scrolls we’ve kept."
Everyone started talking at once, all of them sounding relieved. Excited even.
"Now how about another round of beer?" came the voice of old Tui. "I’ve seen far too many serious faces lately."
Her father’s gruff laughter was followed by the sound of footsteps in the kitchen. The floor cellar creaked open. "Someone give me a hand with these jars," he called. "If you want beer, you’ll have to work for it!"
Cups rattled, the large containers were hammered open. The noisy mood spilled into the night. What if Ramses didn’t come? She pictured his friendly laugh and bright, honest smile; compared it to Akil’s frightening one. Neferet reached for the amulet at her throat. Her fingers closed around empty space.
She rolled over and covered her head with the linen sheet.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Dusty blades of morning sunshine pierced the gaps in Ramses’ door. He lay like a mummy, his breathing so soft an intruder would think him dead.
Any minute, Flatnose and Scar-Eye would come looking for him. By all the gods how he wished they’d hurry. How he wished they’d get here so this monstrous day would be over. He rolled away from the light.
Fists pounded on his door. "Ramses!" a man shouted. "Help! Are you in there?" The door swung open under the barrage. Hui, a field worker, stood pale-faced and panting.
"What’s going on?"
"I need bandages!"
"Bandages?" Ramses shook off his sleepy fog. The fright in Hui’s eyes sent him leaping to his feet. "Hebony’s room. She has a supply chest." He pushed past the man.
Hui ran after him, breathing hard. "Four hippos attacked a fishing boat. Sobek helped fight them off, but—"
"Sobek?" He grabbed Hui’s wrist. "Is he—"
"Hurt? No. But he pulled two dead fishermen out of the river."
"Then who is?"
They’d reached Hebony’s door. "You know those two new farmhands?" Hui said. "I think they’re cousins or somewhat."
Ramses hand slipped on Hebony’s door handle. Flatnose and Scar-Eye. He steadied himself and pushed it open. "What happened?"
"It was unbelievable. This huge hippo charged at Sobek, and we all stood there, like a pack of idiots. Except that guy with the flat nose—he ran into the water shouting, and drew the hippo off. I thought he was going to get away, but the hippo trapped him in the shallows. Crushed him. The other cousin got in there and the hippo laid its jaws into him too. Sobek finally drove it away . . ." Hui paled. "It was horrible. One has broken legs, the other’s bleeding to death."
That’s why Flatnose and Scar-Eye hadn’t come for him? Because they were saving Sobek’s life? He remembered working alongside them, the three of them cutting as a team. They hadn’t had to work. He realized that now. So why had they?
He found the bandages and ran, fabric flapping as he crossed the fields.
Sobek saw him first. His face went from surprise to relief to anger. "What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the Place of Truth?" He grabbed the bandages hurried toward a heap of figures on the riverbank.
"Are the cousins—"
"They’re my responsibility. You need to go!"
"I need to help you."
Sobek wheeled on him. "You need to go. Hear me? Now!"
Ramses watched his friend’s retreating back. Sobek was wrong: he didn’t need to do anything—not any longer—not with the cousins too hurt to force him.
Disappointment washed over him; disgust quickly followed. He’d been freed. He should be happy.
Sobek glanced back at him. "Don’t just stand there, go!"
Ramses’ legs shook as he walked away.
Back in his cell, he closed the door. He’d be all right. He’d have to be. Days would pass, then weeks and months. Sobek and Hebony would forget, he’d repay them for the papyrus eventually, and Hebony could barter his new outfit in the market. The gods didn’t want him. The old priest had been right—he was cursed.
And it was time to stop struggling.
Shadows shifted across his room as the sun disk marched across the sky. The day moved swiftly onward, dying a little with each hour. He wanted to run outside, run to the Place of Truth before it was too late.
Instead, he forced himself to remain still.
Finally, stiff with agony, he slipped into a half-sleep.
He was standing in a dark room, lit only by a small lamp. Drawings covered an entire wall. He took a breath of cool, dry air and glanced around. A drawing on one wall was half completed. He moved to it, and bent forward to study it. In the way of dreams, the lamp appeared in his hand and he brought it close to the wall.
It was a half-drawn figure of Ptah. But there were lines that didn’t belong. Was it a kind of grid? He tilted his head sideways. Yes, the gridlines crossed at different points of the body—one under the feet, another at the knees, a third at the waist and so on. A thrill ran through him; here was a technique, a simple but brilliant technique to create the perfectly proportioned figure! If he were to use this, every time he drew a figure, they’d all be equal! They’d be—
Hebony’s voice came to him. "Look at the hour! Do you think Ramses is back?"<
br />
Two sets of footsteps paused in front of his door. Please don’t come in! Please don’t find me here!
"He can’t be. He would’ve come to find us," Sobek said.
"Oh, I hope they want him!"
"So do I—there’s nothing for him here now."
"It’s just not fair, he’s their nephew! And he’s a good boy."
Sobek lowered his voice. "It’s worse than you think."
"What do you mean?"
Ramses crept to the door and leaned against the rotted wood.
"Zalika is selling the farm."
Coldness filled his chest. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t dare. This land, this home, it wasn’t hers! It had never been hers!
"Selling . . ." Hebony gasped. "Why?"
"Zalika’s terrified he’ll find a way to claim his inheritance. If she sells the farm, Ramses will have nothing to claim."
"Oh Sobek . . ."
"I heard that tutor, Weris, got her started. They’re going to take the money and go into business together in Memphis."
"It’ll take ages to find a buyer," Hebony said, her voice hopeful. "And we can all stay here, even if the owner changes."
"Kontar’s made an offer."
"But she hasn’t accepted, has she?"
"He’s already talking about getting rid of the wheat and grazing cattle instead. And getting rid of the living quarters too."
"The house?" Hebony whispered. "Our wonderful home?"
"He has a house. It’s just land to him."
"Where will we go? What about Ramses?" she asked.
"That’s why he needs to the apprenticeship. I couldn’t tell him, I didn’t want him to know, but Zalika’s planning on selling him. As a slave."
The cell’s stench felt suddenly overwhelming. Ramses wanted to retch.
"May all the gods protect him," she said softly, starting to cry.
Their voices faded as they walked away. She couldn’t destroy his parent’s house, everything they’d worked for. And Sobek and Hebony’s lives too?
If the price of freedom meant joining Weris, so be it. What did he care about Pharaoh’s sacred tomb? The gods hadn’t protected him any more than his aunt had. They’d forsaken him, and he’d do the same. Let his soul be destroyed forever—while he was alive, he still had the power to act.