The Twice Born

by Pauline Gedge

  He held out his arms and unwillingly Huy waded after him. The water seemed warmer than the air. Huy could not swim and did not want to immerse himself completely, but under his uncle’s urging he took a deep breath and plunged beneath the surface, coming up to Ker’s clapping. “Now we go back to the shore and get the natron,” he ordered, and together they regained the sand. Huy found that he rather enjoyed the rough feel of the natron against his skin, and besides, the rubbing was heating him. He returned to the river with a new confidence to rinse off the salt, dried himself competently, and managed to tie his kilt around his waist without any assistance. Suddenly the boat erupted in a chorus of cheers and, startled, Huy realized that the sailors had been watching his efforts. He grinned, embarrassed but pleased. Ker produced a short stick of dried rush, peeled it, and crushed the end so it was splayed. Huy knew what it was for. Taking it, he brushed his teeth vigorously.

  Ker handed him a tiny green faience bottle. “Civilized people perfume the mouth every morning. This is lemongrass in a base of ben oil. When you have cleaned your teeth, put one drop of it on your tongue. I will bring you more when I visit you.” This was a hopeful prospect. I have learned to wash myself, dress myself, and clean my teeth, all in one morning, Huy thought proudly, and with the surge of pride came a moment of self-assurance. Perhaps school won’t be so bad after all.

  But his first sight of Iunu would have daunted any stranger to it, child or not. Long before Ker’s barge slowed and began to angle towards the east bank, three obelisks came into view, towering above the massive brick double walls that surrounded the inner city, and the roofs and upper pylons of the temples could also be glimpsed through a curtain of palm trees. Buildings of every description sprawled between the walls and the wide sweep of watersteps running the whole length of the environs, where the river could hardly be seen for the press of craft of every size moored to the dozens of posts protruding from the water. The watersteps themselves, gleaming in the mid-morning sun, were alive with a steady stream of people coming and going in between those sitting on the warm stone, eating or gossiping or simply enjoying the activity. Many paths led from the steps to one wide road that disappeared into the tightly packed jumble of houses in the direction of the wall. All the paths were thick with the flow of humanity.

  Huy, standing on a box that raised him above the level of the guardrail, stared at the colourful scene in utter confusion as the rowers shipped their oars and the helmsman expertly guided the barge towards one narrow opening. “It’s time to put on your sandals,” Ker told him, and Huy obeyed, sitting on the deck and struggling to tie them as the barge swayed and rocked. One of the rowers lowered himself into the water and secured the vessel to a mooring post and four others ran out the ramp, turning to bring forward Ker’s litter that had been stowed against the cabin.

  Ker took Huy’s hand. “It will be quieter and less crowded once we pass through the wall,” he said as together they gained the steps and waited while Huy’s bags were placed in the litter. “The buildings you see are mostly storehouses, the homes of the poor, and the stalls of merchants displaying their wares for the attention of pilgrims and visitors. The nobles and the rich of Iunu live well away from these watersteps. Their estates stretch to either side amongst sheltering trees and walled enclosures. Up you get!” Huy pulled himself over the edge of the litter and onto the cushions. It was obvious that the gods were not going to destroy the city so that he could go home.

  It was indeed a relief to leave the noisy maelstrom of the watersteps behind. Huy had expected the centre of Iunu to resemble Hut-herib, a muddle of narrow, crooked streets jammed with donkeys, dogs, and people in no particular hurry to get anywhere, but Iunu was vast and ancient, its atmosphere one of solemn purpose and worshipful disposition, its air often hazed with the columns of incense pouring from the temples, its lordly thoroughfares thronged with white-clad priests, its markets thick with the servants of gods and nobles drifting from one laden stall to another in search of the perfect cut of beef, the freshest mint, the greenest cabbage. Huy, captured in spite of himself by yet another new experience, was thrilled to see the litter overtaken by a chariot that sped by in a swirl of dust. “The plumes on the horses are blue and white!” he said excitedly to Ker, who nodded.

  “Iunu is an important religious and commercial centre,” he commented. “The man standing behind the charioteer is probably a royal herald or an Overseer of some kind. We are approaching the temple precincts, Huy. This is where you will be living.”

  Huy leaned out. Ahead he could see the glint of sunlight on a canal, growing wider as the litter approached. The bearers swung right, walking now on grass, and soon were passing a large lake that had opened out from the canal. Resting on its blue water was the most magnificent boat Huy had ever seen. Its planking was gilded and sparked fire at him as he passed. Its cabin was also gilded. On its prow and on the flag fluttering atop its mast was a falcon head surmounted by the scarlet disc of the sun. “This is the temple of Ra and that is his boat,” Ker explained. “We must get out now, and walk.” The litter was lowered, and Huy looked about him with wonder.

  Before the lake was a huge concourse of stone flags, already hot under his sandals. Dazzling to his eyes, it ran away to where a pylon reared up against the dense blue of the sky. To either side, tall columns cast foreshortened shadows over the paving, and Huy could see that many more of them marched out of sight, just within the solid wall that surrounded the precinct on three sides. A few people paced beneath the pylon, but on the whole the immense space was empty, baking in the heat the flagstones generated. Lawn dotted with several sycamores and the greyish feathers of tamarisks flanked both lake and approach, and groups of priests had gathered in the trees’ shade, the sound of their conversation falling dead before it could reach the man and his small companion.

  Ker’s litter-bearers had retreated from the sun without being ordered, and Ker and Huy began to cross the concourse, Ker carrying Huy’s two leather bags. It seemed to take a very long time, but at last Huy found himself standing under the welcome coolness of the pylon. He had no time to appreciate it, however. Ker led him on into the wide outer court and across it, coming to a halt at the farther end where a huge double door was set into a stone wall on which were carved the mighty sun-crowned falcon heads Huy had seen on the god’s boat. A man who had been sitting on a stool to the left of the doors rose and bowed. “Greetings. I am the Door Opener of Heaven. The reverent, the gift bearers, and the petitioners may enter the inner court. If you wish to proceed, you must remove your sandals.”

  Ker returned the bow. “I am Ker of Hut-herib, here to deliver my nephew into the care of the Overseer of the School. We are expected.” The man nodded, and taking hold of a ring on one of the doors, he pulled it towards him. The inner court was smaller than the outer but still bewilderingly vast to Huy. Far ahead of him lay the Holiest of Holiest, the place where the god dwelt. Its door was tightly closed. The court was roofed, making a not-unpleasant dimness but for the clerestory slits high up in the walls, and to right and left more doors stood ajar.

  “If you will wait here, I will send him to you,” the door opener said, and glided away, his bare feet making no sound. Huy, standing there beside a motionless Ker, felt all at once unreal. He could sense the contours of his own room around him, the hills and hollows of his mattress beneath, and knew that in a moment his eyes would truly open, not onto this phantom world but onto Hapzefa’s familiar face as she set his breakfast down beside him with a rattle of cup and spoon.

  It seemed to him that he was inhabiting a timeless place, that he had been gripping his uncle’s fingers forever, but at last one of the smaller doors was pushed fully open and the door opener came towards them, another man beside him. The latter was smiling, his hand outstretched. The door opener vanished back to the outer court, closing the door behind him.

  “You have arrived at a most opportune time, my friend,” the stranger said as Ker returned his grasp. “Morning l
essons are over and the pupils are eating their noon meal. So this is Huy.” He bent and peered into Huy’s face. “What a handsome boy. I can see the resemblance between you, Ker. Huy, I am Overseer Harmose. Are you hungry?” The question startled Huy. The man’s dark eyes were crinkled affably and he smelled of oil of jasmine. Huy nodded. “Good. I won’t make you eat with the other boys today. We will go to my cell.”

  He led them through the door from which he had appeared into a narrow corridor. Huy soon realized that it ran beside and then to the rear of the Holiest of Holiest, where another door opened onto a large grassy area surrounded by blocks of living quarters and dominated by a fish pond in the centre. “This is where you will live,” Harmose told Huy. “Your classmates are still in the dining hall. The teachers live here also. They have duties in the temple. I also.”

  They followed him across the lawn, past the pond, and through a gap in the farthest block to yet another square of greenery, this one bordered by herb and flower beds. Several little houses flanked the area, and Harmose made for the nearest, ushering them inside. A man who had been sweeping the tiled floor paused and bowed. “Go to the kitchen and bring us whatever the little locusts have left, Amunmose,” the Overseer ordered, “and a jug of wine. Come through to my reception room, Ker. I keep the front room as an office.” Beyond the reception room Huy could see another tiny space taken up with a sheeted cot, a table, and the edge of what had to be the man’s tiring chest.

  “You may sit down, Huy,” Harmose offered, and Huy gratefully obeyed, sinking onto one of the cushions strewn about the floor. It had not escaped his attention, though his knees were trembling from anxiety, that he might very well have been rebuked if he had simply flung himself down without permission, as he would have done at home. His uncle and the Overseer took chairs and began to talk of Ker’s journey, the satisfying depth of the Inundation, the state of the perfume trade, and other adult subjects. Huy dully listened to the sound of their voices. As well as being hungry, he was becoming sleepy. He thought of the cabin of Ker’s barge with longing.

  The food, when it came, was good, although much of it was strange to Huy. There was a hot, tangy soup with poppy petals floating in it, and a kind of bread full of poppy seeds. A pickled cabbage salad chopped up with dried dill and specks of black pepper preceded grilled beef, a meat Huy’s father could seldom afford, with a side dish of chickpeas in a garlic and ginger sauce. Finally Harmose held out a dish of nuts Huy did not recognize. “They are almonds,” Harmose said. “A great treat for us. The High Priest has managed to cultivate one precious almond tree in the garden of his home and occasionally he shares the nuts with the temple staff. He sends a large sackful up to Weset.” Huy took one and crunched down on it. He decided that he liked almonds very much. The Overseer got up and, going to the door, called, “Amunmose, fetch me young Harnakht.” Coming back, he waved Huy to his feet. “You must say goodbye to your uncle now,” he ordered the boy kindly. “Harnakht will look after you. Ker and I have a few things to discuss before he leaves.”

  For the last time, Ker opened his arms. Huy flew into them, burying his face in Ker’s neck, but he was determined not to give way to the panic threatening to engulf him. His uncle’s eyes, when he set Huy back on his feet, were moist. “I shall miss you, Huy. But I remember my own time at school and I know that you will grow to think of this temple as your other home. May all the gods bless you.”

  Huy did not trust himself to reply. He was blinking away his own tears, praying that he would not disgrace himself before the Overseer, a stranger, when he was saved by a step in the outer room. A boy of perhaps eleven or twelve stood in the doorway. He was tall and bony, with elongated features to match the thinness of his body and ears that stuck out comically from his shaven skull, but his glance as it lighted on Huy was sympathetic. He bowed twice to the two men.

  “This is our new pupil, Huy,” the Overseer explained. “Huy, this is Harnakht. You will be sharing a cell with him for a while. It is his duty to look after you for the next month. Off you go. Harnakht, take the bags.”

  Harnakht swept up Huy’s belongings, jerked his head at the boy, and set off across the grass. Huy ran to catch up with him, suddenly terrified that he would disappear around some corner and Huy would be lost in this huge, maze-like place.

  “Was that your father?” Harnakht wanted to know. “Where are you from?”

  “No. Ker is my uncle,” Huy replied breathlessly as Harnakht strode on. “We live at Hut-herib. Uncle Ker makes perfumes for the King,” he added proudly.

  Harnakht seemed unimpressed. “Oh. What does your father do, then?”

  “He grows the flowers and trees and things for the perfumes.”

  To this there was no comment. Harnakht led Huy back into the first court, passing the pool and stopping halfway along the row of cells for Huy to catch up before he gestured for Huy to enter. The room was stark. Two dressed cots, two small tables, and two tiring chests all but filled the cramped space.

  Harnakht flung Huy’s belongings onto one of the cots. “My friend Kay usually shares this cell with me, but the Overseer has moved him in with another new boy who arrived yesterday. You should get undressed and onto his cot now, because it’s time for the sleep. Afterwards you can unpack.”

  With head down, Huy began pulling feebly at his kilt, and Harnakht, seeing tears begin to splash onto the linen, stepped forward and put an arm awkwardly around the small shoulders. “It will be all right,” he said brusquely but not unkindly. “My task is to help you in any way I can. If I fail in my duty, the Overseer will punish me!” It was a weak attempt at a joke. “We have all suffered from homesickness and we have all recovered.” Harnakht patted Huy’s arm and retired to his side of the room, tearing off his kilt and dropping it to the floor. He lay down on his cot with a yawn. “Do you snore?”

  Huy giggled in spite of himself. “I don’t think so.” He looked about for a chair on which to lay his kilt and, seeing none, followed his companion’s example and let it fall. He scrambled onto the cot.

  “One of the servants will bring fresh linen later on,” Harnakht reassured him. “The priests here are fussy about cleanliness. We all wash three times a day and change our kilts and loincloths twice.” He yawned again loudly. “I will take you to the bathhouse when you wake up, but until then be quiet. I have shooting practice this evening.”

  Huy propped himself up on one elbow. “With a bow and arrows? Will I learn shooting too?”

  “Perhaps, if your father has paid extra for you to have lessons. I don’t know. Go to sleep.”

  Huy decided not to mention the fact that it was his uncle who was providing him with an education. “Harnakht, what does your father do?” he asked warily.

  Harnakht sighed theatrically. “My father is the mayor of Abtu, where the head of Osiris is buried. Now close your mouth or I will get up and slap you.”

  Huy lay back on his pillow. There were no comforting cracks in this ceiling, just white plaster that undulated almost imperceptibly with the imperfections of the mud bricks beneath it. Despite the aching hollow in his heart he was becoming drowsy. He wondered whether his uncle had left the city yet, whether he was safely on board his barge and floating cheerfully home to Hutherib. He began to cry again, but silently, his hands over his mouth, before his pain dissolved into unconsciousness.

  He woke to a moment of frightening disorientation. A babble of voices interspersed with young male laughter and raucous shouts was drifting into the room, giving him an instant of terror that subsided into fragile acceptance. With a flood of longing he imagined the quiet of his own house, the sunlit playground of the garden, and Ishat’s skinny brown limbs as she came running towards him. He was alone. Harnakht’s cot was empty, but as Huy swung himself onto the floor a shadow fell across him. It was a man bearing a basin of steaming water, a bundle wrapped up in sackcloth tucked under his arm, and a stool.

  “You slept for a long time,” the man said, setting down the stool and placi
ng the basin on Huy’s table. He unrolled his bundle on the cot. It contained several compartments, each holding a knife. “I am Pabast, one of the servants to the pupils of the cells. But you are not my master, so do not try to give me commands. I have come to shave your head before you go to the bathhouse.”

  Huy touched his black curls. “My hair must come off? But why?” Pabast indicated the stool. Reluctantly Huy sank onto it, still heavy-eyed from weeping and fuddled with sleep.

  “Because every child here, regardless of his parentage, must wear the youth lock. It seems that you are not the son of a noble or you would be shorn already.” There was the slightest hint of disdain in the man’s tone, and Huy, with a child’s acute sensibility, did not miss it. He was suffused with shame. You have all your hair, he wanted to say. You are not noble either. You are only a servant, like Hapzefa. The strength of his emotion, though it burned him, dispelled some of the heaviness of homesickness.

  The man made no further comment, and though his words had been insulting, his touch was gentle. Huy sat still while his hair fell softly onto the floor around him. His scalp was oiled, and then he felt the stroke of a knife being drawn swiftly and expertly over his skin. Occasionally he heard a tinkle as the blade was swirled clean in the basin. He held his breath, waiting for the sharp sting of a cut, but Pabast dropped the knife in the water and ran his hand over Huy’s skull with a grunt of satisfaction. The ordeal was over.

  Pabast set a vial of oil on the table. “Your head will itch for a while and be tender in the sun. Oil it often. I will return every week and shave you again. Be sure to oil your lock as well, every time you bathe. The hair is not long enough yet to braid and I do not have a white ribbon for you. I will bring one later.”