So great was my anxiety that I had almost decided to retrieve the concoction and toss it out, when Hui greeted me irritably one morning.
“I must go at once to the palace,” he told me as he walked past me to the passage. “The Great Lady Tiye-Merenast is ill. There is not much I can do. She is very old and her heart is weak. While I am gone, find her scroll and make up the medicine you will find already recorded there. It is pepper, kesso root, poppy and a drop of oleander juice if I remember correctly.” He halted and turned, fixing me with a sharp look. “Are you ill, Thu?” he asked abruptly. “You have dark circles under your eyes. Is Nebnefer working you too hard?”
“No, Master,” I replied truthfully. “I have not been sleeping well of late.”
“Fast for three days and then go without meat for a further three,” he said. “I will instruct Disenk to that effect in case you are tempted to ignore my advice.” He smiled absently and was gone. I heard him call for a guard and his litter as I was reaching for the chests of scrolls in the outer office.
I found the instructions regarding the care of Pharaoh’s mother without trouble, and leaving the appropriate chest open on the desk and taking the scroll with me I unknotted the cord of the inner office and went inside. I lit the lamps and began to assemble the things I would need. As I was breaking the seal on a new pot of ground kesso I heard movement in the outer office and my heart skipped a beat. It was Kenna of course. I felt him come to stand behind me and I kept my fingers from trembling as I picked up the tiny measuring spoon. I did not look round.
“He has been called away unexpectedly,” I said without preamble. “You can clean if you want to.”
“How very gracious of you, Majesty,” he replied with heavy sarcasm. “Thank you for your royal permission.” I gritted my teeth against the equally biting rejoinder that had slipped into my mind with frightening speed and continued with my task. The medicine was for an important royal woman and required all my attention. I heard Kenna return to the passage and shout for his beer. Everything in me came alert but my concentration did not falter. The powders were mixed to the correct proportions and shaken into the waiting phial. A little warm wax sealed it. My hands were still steady. Kenna was weaving his hostile dance around me with the twig broom. He went out and returned with the bowl of hot water, set it on the floor by my feet, and threw his rags into it. I reached for my jar. Kenna was on his hands and knees, sprinkling natron over the floor. I removed the seal.
The smell was immediately overpowering, a rank, disgusting odour of rotting vegetation, and the water was brown. Kenna had not noticed anything. He was rubbing the tiles now, the dissolving natron rasping slightly as his wet cloth crushed it. I lifted Tiye-Merenast’s scroll and the jar and stepped into the outer office. The beer had been brought. It sat on the desk, limpidly innocent, cool and inviting to a thirsty man. I glanced back. Kenna’s white-clad buttocks were presented to me. His shoulders moved rhythmically. Holding my breath I poured the contents of the jar into the beer. Fleetingly I wondered when to stop. At half? Three-quarters? But water diluted everything and I did not want my disturbed nights, the panic that swept over me now, to be for nothing. I added it all. The dregs were oily and black.
I found that I was still holding my breath as I quickly stood the jar inside the chest that lay open beside the cup of beer, laid the scroll beside it, and closing the lid, moved away from the desk and went to the far wall. As I was replacing the chest Kenna came out. I walked past him, back into the inner office, sure that the sudden weakness in my knees would make me stumble, but he was already lifting the cup and did not even look at me. My heart was now palpitating wildly and I rammed my fist against my chest, forcing myself not to glance his way.
I began to pull jars and phials off the shelves at random, blindly, and I heard his sigh as he set the cup back on the desk with a click. Oh gods, I thought wildly, feverishly. What have I done? He was coming back. He sank to his knees behind me and I believed for one ghastly moment that I had erred, that he was dying at once, but he picked up his cloth and resumed his slow circles on the floor. I was frozen, my fingers stilled among the motley collection of herbs I had set haphazardly about. Then I became aware that he was standing beside me. “I want to wash the table,” he said. Numbly I moved aside while he set water on the tabletop, dipped a fresh rag into it, added natron, and began to vigorously push the jars aside. Once I saw him pause, and a frown crossed his face. But he returned to his scrubbing and at last was finished. Giving me a cold stare he removed the bowl and left.
I heard him gather everything up but I could not stir. I was in the grip of the greatest fear I had ever known, but under it flowed a thin stream of excitement. Would he take the cup? The outer door closed and I ran to see. The cup was gone, leaving nothing but a wet circle on Hui’s polished desk. I wiped it off with the hem of my sheath, then I went to the chest, retrieved the jar, added water from one of the flagons under the table, swirled it about, stood on Hui’s chair, and threw the contents out the high window. It was foolish, I knew, but every outside entrance had its guard or watchman and I did not want to run the risk of being seen carrying anything unusual that day.
Forcing myself to remain calm I replaced all the jars on the shelves, left the medicine I had been ordered to prepare in a prominent place on the table, then blew out the lamps and retreated. I had done it. It had been terrifying, but surprisingly easy. Perhaps Kenna was even now beginning to feel sick, tired, wanting his couch. With any luck it would be a week or two before I would have to look at his sour face again. I was smiling as I ran up the stairs to my room.
He was already very sick by the time Hui returned at sunset. I had spent the afternoon practising my lute music and even attempting to compose a song of my own, applying myself more diligently than usual to the instrument. I would have preferred to learn to play the intricate, sensuous rhythms of the drum, but drummers were almost always men and Harshira had denied my request for different instruction. I felt virtuous as I plucked the strings. I may have made Kenna ill but was I not at heart a good girl, obedient and hard-working? My music teacher congratulated me for my perseverance when she left, and Disenk asked me to sing my composition again.
I was facing an enticing meal of broiled fish with coriander-flavoured leeks and chickpeas when there was a peremptory knock on the door. Disenk went to open it. Harshira leaned in and beckoned to me.
“The Master has sent for you,” he said. “You must come at once.”
“What is it?” I asked. I did not need to simulate alarm. A pang of fear shot through me at the sight of his solemn face.
“Hurry up!” he commanded, and I left the table. He closed the door behind me and turned along the passage that now held the gathering shadows of the approaching night.
“I have no sandals on my feet,” I protested, wanting reassurance, wanting to hear his voice, for deep in my heart I knew where we were going, and why.
“It does not matter,” he rumbled back over his shoulder. We came to the foot of the stairs and crossed straight to one of the two doors opposite their foot. He opened it, indicated that I should enter, then shut it again. He had not followed me.
The first thing that struck me was the smell, a foul, primitive miasma of vomit and faeces speaking of flight and terror and death. Choking, I paused for a moment, forcing myself to slowly accept it. Having worked with my mother I was no stranger to the distasteful stench of a sickroom, but this was different. Here the terror was a palpable thing, weaving heavily with the odours of the body and the thin smoke from the half-dozen lamps to fill me with panic. That too I struggled against, pushing it consciously away and looking about.
The room was the same size as mine but it seemed crowded. A pile of soiled linen lay heaped on the floor. Beside it was a large bowl of filthy water in which a cloth floated. Two slaves moved quickly and silently around the couch that stood in the middle of the space, easing fresh sheets under the half-obscured form lying there. Hui sat on a
low stool with his back to me, and I was shocked to see that he was naked but for a simple loincloth. His undressed hair tendrilled white and dishevelled down his back and his skin was streaked with sweat. The table beside him was a litter of pots and phials.
In the far corner a priest stood, the sombre yellow light sliding over his shaved skull as he swayed. In his outstretched hand he held a censer-pipe. The spotless crispness of the wide lector sash across his smooth chest and the gossamer linen of his kilt contrasted brutally with the chaos surrounding him. He was chanting, his ritual drone at last piercing the numbness that had fallen on me.
“I know charms that the All Mighty wrought to chase away the spell of a god … to punish the Accuser, the Master of those … who allow decay to seep into this mine flesh …” His eyes were closed. The incense curled lazily into the foetid air but its fragrance was lost.
The words buffeted me like physical blows. I had done this. The dreadful scene before me was entirely of my own conjuring. I was the Accuser, the one who had allowed decay to seep into Kenna’s vulnerable flesh. “… Head, shoulders, body, limbs …” the priest was continuing to enumerate the stricken members as he tried to bind the gods to the healing of Hui’s servant. I was out of my depth, a child who had waded into the shallows and flirted with the bottomless darkness, only to be grasped and pulled down to where volition no longer existed.
No, I thought with such stridency that I was sure the word had gone shrieking and echoing against the walls. I was not pulled down! I jumped, I dived, I left the shallows gleefully of my own will!
“… I belong to Ra,” the priest’s doom-laden voice sang on. “Thus spake he: ‘It is I who shall guard the sick man from his enemies …’” I summoned up every ro of courage I had and went unsteadily to Hui’s side.
He barely glanced at me. He was stirring something in a cup, his pale face tense, and as I came up to him he reached for a reed straw. “Lift his shoulders and cradle his head,” he ordered brusquely. “These idiots are clumsy and are causing him distress.” I hurried to do as I was told, going around the couch and easing myself gingerly beside the damp pillow. Kenna was clammy to touch. Carefully I raised his flaccid head, bearing the weight of his upper body against my breast and holding him still while Hui inserted the straw in his mouth. I could smell his breath, rank and hot. He groaned and tried to pull away but I prevented him, horrified at how little effort it took. The dose was too high, I thought fleetingly. Next time I must make it less. Next time …
“What is wrong with him?” I whispered to Hui. He was stroking Kenna’s forehead with the gently loving gestures of a concerned father while he steadied the cup close to the foam-flecked lips.
“I do not know,” he replied absently, all his attention fixed on Kenna. “I thought at first that he had eaten something rotten but the symptoms do not fit. It is like a poison. Come, faithful one,” he urged. “Try to drink. You must get well, for no one can care for me the way you do.”
Kenna groaned. His chest heaved and fluttered. I felt him swallow once, twice, then with a cry he stiffened and vomited over Hui’s hands. Immediately the slaves were there with clean water, working quietly and efficiently. Hui sat back and Kenna slumped against me, his cheek turned into my neck. “What are you giving him?” I asked. The man’s diseased breath was like the panting of a wild animal, burning my skin, heating my blood. I wanted to throw him away from me.
“I purged him with durra and black alder at first,” Hui told me. He was holding Kenna’s hand now, his thumb moving comfortingly back and forth over the servant’s prominent knuckles. “But when I realized that it was something more serious than stale food I tried to stop the violence in his bowels with garlic and saffron in goat’s milk. I can do little more.” Now he looked directly at me. “What is your opinion?” I met his gaze and held it with an effort I knew did not show on my face.
“But it must be an Ukhedu that has entered him through bad food or drink, Master,” I said huskily. “What else could it be?” He searched my eyes for several long moments.
“What indeed?” he agreed drily. I fought not to look away, remembering with a surge of horror that he was not only a physician but a Seer, and then Kenna began to moan and writhe. I clasped him tightly as his head rolled back and forth. Hui snapped his fingers and a slave bent with bowl and linen. Carefully Hui wiped his servant’s greying features.
I felt Kenna’s attempt to speak before a word came out. The muscles of his chest tensed, went limp, tensed again, and I too became taut with the need to clap a hand across his mouth. How clear was his mind in this extremity? Had he been able to deduce the cause of his illness? He turned towards Hui and his fingers came up, scrabbling against the other’s naked skin. “Bitter,” he whispered harshly. “Bitter.” A tremor shook him and he sagged in my arms. Immediately Hui took him from me and laid him down.
“He is unconscious now,” he said tersely. “It is a good thing. He will not vomit again and he feels no pain.” He stood wearily. “Take the stool and watch him,” he ordered. “I want to question the other servants and look closely at the things he ate and drank from today. Did you see him, Thu?” I nodded as I walked around the couch and sank onto the stool he had just left.
“He came to clean the herb room as I was making the prescription for the Queen,” I said. “It was as it always is.” I kept my attention fixed on Kenna’s oblivious form, and heard the Master stride across the room. The door closed.
“… I am one of those of whom a God wishes that he may keep me alive …” the priest was intoning. I felt very cold. Behind me the slaves were removing the soiled linen and the bowls of dirty water. Light all at once leaped, sank and steadied as one of them moved about, trimming the lamps. I began to shiver. Kenna was breathing in shallow little gasps, each outgoing breath a whimper. My heart was as frozen as my body. I folded my arms across my knees, hung my head, and waited.
A long time later Hui returned, coming silently to draw up a chair on the other side of the couch and lean against the rumpled sheets, one arm across Kenna’s body. The hours dragged by. Sometimes Hui would mouth words I could not catch, prayers perhaps or some strong spell, and once he sighed and touched Kenna’s cheek. There was no response. He took up a sharp pin, pricking the forearm, the neck, drawing down the linen to expose Kenna’s lithe, flat stomach and drawing blood there, but Kenna remained insensible.
Hui resumed his former position and an ominous silence fell, broken only by the sick man’s tormented breathing. I had ceased to shiver but it was as though my limbs had been formed out of alabaster and it would have required a great effort to move them. I closed my eyes.
Kenna died as the first light of dawn began to battle the thinning glow of the lamps. There was no warning. His rasping breath simply stopped, and the sense of relief in the room was immediate and overwhelming. Hui got up, peering into the calm face. He laid a hand on Kenna’s motionless chest and stood there, concentrating, then his shoulders slumped. With a wave of his hand he silenced the priest. “It is over,” he said. “Harshira!” With a sense of shock I swung round. The Chief Steward had been standing just inside the door. “Send for the sem-priests to take him to the House of the Dead. Then proclaim to the household that we will be observing the full seventy days of mourning for him. He has no family but us to grieve for him. Thu, come with me.” I stumbled as I obeyed. I was stiff from sitting so long. Following Hui through the adjoining door and having it closed behind me I found myself in a very large room of airy proportions.
A neatly made couch strewn with cushions stood on a dais in the middle. The blue-tiled floor gleamed, spotless. On the walls from floor to ceiling, beautifully executed paintings in vivid scarlet, blue, yellow, white and black showed scenes of vines, flowers, fish, marsh birds, sand dunes, papyrus thickets, all flowing one into the other like a pleasant dream. Hui raised the mat over the window and a shaft of pale morning sunlight splashed across the couch, the gilded chair, the small, ornate tables with their cunnin
gly contrived gilded legs that resembled clusters of reeds. On one of the tables I noticed a tall vase and beside it a vial of oil, both flanked by incense burners. So Hui practised his gift in the privacy of his own room I thought, but vaguely, for the opulence of the surroundings rendered me briefly uncomfortable.
Various chests for clothes and cosmetics hugged the walls, but my attention was drawn to a collection of sordid plates and cups laid out on one of the tables. Hui crooked a finger at me and I went slowly to stand over them. He was haggard in the unforgiving daylight, his red eyes swollen and darkly circled, but his glance was keen.
“I have just lost a faithful friend and a devoted body servant,” he said without preamble. “These are the things he used today. The food he did not eat went back to the kitchen and was fed to the servants’ cats. They are very much alive. He drank goat’s milk this morning in the presence of one of my cooks, with whom he spoke for some time. The cook also drank from the same milking. The cook also is very much alive. The water the servants use to quench their thirst is kept in vast flagons here and there about the house. No other servant is even slightly ill. That leaves the beer.” He picked up a cup and with a thrill of foreboding I recognized it. Traces of foam had dried inside it. I did not want to touch it but Hui thrust it at me. “The servants draw their beer from sealed jars delivered straight from my brewing hut,” he went on in a level voice. “The Under-Steward is responsible for its distribution. Seven servants drank from the same jar yesterday, and one of those cups drawn was for Kenna, at work in the herb room with you. Look into the cup, Thu.” Unwillingly I did so. There were dark, viscous dregs in the bottom, a foul-smelling sediment from which I involuntarily drew back. “Do you recognize the odour?” Hui pressed. I shook my head, passing him the cup and placing my hands behind my back. “It is love apple,” Hui said. “Kenna was poisoned by someone very naïve and stupid, someone who probably did not know that the love apple works twice as quickly when mixed with alcohol, someone who thought that by the time he became ill all the evidence of his poisoning would have been cleared away. ‘Bitter,’ he said. I am not surprised. Bitter indeed. Bitter for him, bitter for me.” He took my chin in a rough grasp and pulled my head up so that I was forced to meet his fiery eyes. “Kenna had an enemy,” he said, still in that flat, level tone, but his eyes were burning, red flames of anger and loss. “He was not an easy man to love, but neither was he petty, and his heart was mine. He grumbled but he meant no harm. Who did not understand this?”
House of Dreams Page 19