by Marc Graham
“Yet here you sit, an Adept of Amun, Master of the Seven Arts.” Mika saluted Yetzer with his cup.
Yetzer took another sip from his own chalice. He mused on the path that had led him from a slave’s rags to the adept’s robe. The scourges and starvation had played no small roles, the echoes of their pain frequently rippling through Yetzer’s back and belly.
The subtler disciplines—the arts of shaping men, of molding them into a unified band—he might never have learned as a master over them, as an initiate of the House of Life. But as one of them, as a slave himself, he’d found the thread of shared humanity that bound one man to another.
“What I wouldn’t give,” Mika said, dispelling Yetzer’s thoughts, “to have seen Merisutah’s face when you spoke the word to him.”
“He was … ” Yetzer thought back to the moment, to the tensing in the hierophant’s body, the lion’s grip on Yetzer’s hand as he whispered the adept’s word into Merisutah’s ear. “He was gracious.”
Mika almost choked on his wine. “Gracious? Bah!”
“He freed me,” Yetzer continued. “No one else heard me. He could have denied I’d given him the true word, could have had me slain right there.”
“He could have,” Mika agreed, and splashed more wine into the cups. “He could have rid himself of a half-blind foreigner who had no place entering the Temple to begin with.” The eunuch gave a crooked grin, raised his cup and drank deeply. Mika’s humor overcame Yetzer’s defenses, and he smiled for the first time in he knew not how long. He lifted his own cup and took a long drink.
“Merisutah may be many things,” Mika said, “some of them not entirely evil. For all his faults, not even he would stand against Pharaoh or Amun. What is whispered between men does not escape the gods’ ears.”
“Or those of Pharaoh’s steward?” Yetzer ventured.
Mika gave a shrug. “I have many little bees who buzz about through all of Kemet. Such pollen as they gather becomes honey that I might pour in Pharaoh’s ear. Had Merisutah denied you, he would have been cast among the nameless ones. Pharaoh would have seen to it.”
Yetzer sipped again at his wine while he recalled the courtyard of Amun’s temple. The corbeled vault with its rounded back, where he’d stood with Merisutah. The matching alcove on the other side of the yard. The priest who’d stood within the second vault.
“The whispering arch,” Yetzer said.
Mika nodded. “A lovely little feature. And a most valuable tool for the builder who knows how to make use of it.”
“It was Pharaoh,” Yetzer said. “The reason I was moved from place to place. Pharaoh was behind it.”
“He let it be known that he wished you to be looked after,” Mika allowed. “He was not pleased with Merisutah and Ameniye’s deception, and he wanted you yet to have the opportunity to prove yourself.”
Yetzer sat in silence beneath the weight of Mika’s words. Pharaoh Horemheb—Master of the Two Lands, brother of the gods—had remembered his friendship with Huram, had remained Yetzer’s guardian.
“May I see him?” Yetzer asked.
Mika shook his head. “Pharaoh is traveling to inspect all the districts. It will be some time before he returns.”
“When did he leave?” Yetzer asked.
“Last new moon,” Mika said. “He should have reached Yebu by now, but … ”
Yetzer grimaced. The forty-two administrative districts spanned Kemet from the Great Green Sea in the north to the wild waters of the Iteru’s first cataract, well south of Uaset. If it took a month to reach the first sepat of Upper Kemet, it could well take twice as long to make a proper inspection of all the southern districts.
“And Ameniye?”
Mika drained his cup and set it on the serving table. With a somber look, he laced his fingers together and leaned his elbows upon his knees.
“She is here,” he said with a heavy sigh. “She is well. And she is betrothed.”
Pain lanced through Yetzer’s heart, fixing him upon his stool as though impaled. He could not breathe, could not think. There was only a searing heat, a flood of emotions, and in their wake, a cold void.
“Betrothed.” The word squeezed from his throat with all the strength of a mewling infant.
“To Ramessu.”
It took a few moments for Yetzer to place the name of the wazir, second in power only to Pharaoh. The old man had more years than Horemheb. Though he’d never led men in battle, the wazir commanded Pharaoh’s trust and the respect of a nation.
And now Ameniye.
“She is destined to be queen one day,” Mika said, his voice grave. “And woe to the king who attaches her to his throne.”
“You speak of Pharaoh’s daughter,” Yetzer snapped. “She is a princess of Kemet, descended from the gods.”
“She is a spoiled child who breaks whatever toy she tires of, then demands another.” The eunuch fixed Yetzer with a patient look. “You know this better than most.”
Yetzer tried to meet the gaze, but tears flooded his vision. His chalice fell to the floor, spilling its contents upon the rug.
Yetzer covered his face with his hands as grief folded about him like a burial shroud. His body shook with sobs as the pain of his losses crashed down upon him. His father, taken by the quarry. His mother, gone to her distant homeland. His dignity, stolen by the overseer’s whip. And his love lost to a ruler’s scepter and a woman’s restless heart.
“What do I do?” he said when at last he could speak.
“Leave Kemet,” came Mika’s immediate reply. “Go to Retenu—to Kenahn.”
Yetzer looked up at that. For a Kemeti to use the indigenous name of a land, rather than the conqueror’s epithet, was a feat of great compassion. The eunuch smiled at him.
“Go to the land of your ancestors. Take your father’s body and let him rest among his people, guarded by his own gods. Return to your mother.”
He picked up Yetzer’s chalice. After recharging both cups with wine, he handed back Yetzer’s and half-drained his before speaking again.
“Kemet is changing. We once welcomed foreigners, enriched ourselves with their goods, with their ideas.” He drank yet again. “There are many loud voices now that claim the recent unpleasantness was due to foreign influence that must be rooted out.”
More than twenty years had passed since the end of Akhenaten’s heretical and tyrannical rule, but to the people of Kemet it was still that recent unpleasantness. When they referred to the disgraced pharaoh it was only by hint or innuendo, never by name lest merely speaking the word should wake him from his slumber and cast the Two Lands once more into ruin.
“Pharaoh travels not merely to inspect each district,” Mika continued, his words misshapen by the wine. “He goes to erase the very being of the ill-favored one and those of his household, to strike their names and effigies from every monument, every scroll. Between Yebu and the Great Green Sea, not one memory of the heresy will remain.”
Mika set his empty cup on the floor and stretched out on his couch. His great belly, swollen with wine, gleamed in the lamplight.
“And you’re next.” The words staggered from his tongue as he waggled a finger at Yetzer. “You Kenahni, the Hatti, Habiru, Keftiu—all those of foreign lands, with strange gods and strange dress will soon find no place in Kemet. Go home, boy. There’s nothing here for you anymore.”
The eunuch dropped one hand to the floor, the other splayed across his chest. His wine-thickened breathing quickly turned to snores. Yetzer stared dumbly at Pharaoh’s steward. Emotions spent, will crushed, only reason stood to counsel him. Mika had spoken true, whether from wisdom or wine. Yetzer rose to go.
Mika mumbled something. Yetzer assumed it to be drunken rambling and continued toward the door.
“The dispensation,” the eunuch said more forcefully, and gestured toward a small scroll on the table.
A golden cobra, its body about as thick as Yetzer’s little finger, coiled around the lambskin parchment. The snake’s m
etal scales and carnelian eyes shimmered in the dancing light of the oil lamps as Yetzer slid the scroll from the serpentine embrace and squeezed the coils over his wrist.
In the name of Amun-Ra, the dispensation began, its message inked in the glyphs and script of Kemet, as well as the broad, arrowhead strokes of Akkadian, used from Kemet to distant Subartu, the land between the two great rivers of the east.
He who bears this is the friend of Pharaoh Horemheb-Djeserkheperure, Chosen of Ra. Into his hands shall be given whatsoever he desires, even should he ask for half my kingdom. The blessings of Amun be upon all who come to his aid, for such a one shall have aided Pharaoh himself. But woe betide any who turns his back, for Pharaoh shall surely turn his back upon such a one, who shall be made nameless, forgotten among gods and men.
“Your father is in Pharaoh’s House of Eternity, in Anpu’s Quarter,” Mika mumbled from his couch. “All you need is there.”
The steward’s head rolled back on the pillows and fell back into snoring before Yetzer could question him. Scroll in hand, Yetzer crossed to the door and slid back into the sunlight.
37
Bilkis
Bilkis suffered through the endless procession of Urusalim’s nobles, who offered obeisance and blessing to her son. She occasionally had to pinch the boy’s arm to keep his attention on the proceedings. Yahtadua came fully awake, though, when the priests arrived.
Abiattar strode into the audience chamber, his footsteps punctuated by the tap of his staff on the flagstones. The priest of Yah bowed grandly. Upon rising, he extended the head of his staff toward the king, and Yahtadua eagerly plucked an almond from among the golden branches.
Abdi-Havah followed. The ancient priest leaned upon the arm of the prophet Gad. Behind them, struggling with the burden of Abdi-Havah’s great oak staff with its bronze serpent, came young Natan. Abdi-Havah stooped over the bier to kiss Tadua’s hand and cheek, then priest, seer, and acolyte bowed before Yahtadua. Before they could rise, Abiattar let out a piercing wail and flung himself across Tadua’s body.
“Oh, that I had gone early to Sheol, there to greet my king, my lord. Sorry is the day I first drew breath, that I should bear the loss of one so noble.”
Bilkis made a swatting gesture toward Benyahu who stepped around the bier, dragged the simpering priest off the corpse, and hauled him before the throne.
“Take your hands off me, swine,” Abiattar protested.
“Your tears do you credit, priest,” Bilkis said, ignoring the man’s struggles to break free of Benyahu’s grip. “I wonder, did you mourn the king when you sought to usurp his throne for Baaliyah?”
The color drained from the old man’s features. “I never—”
“You never thought to consult your king before you proclaimed his successor?” Bilkis demanded. “You never thought to inquire of your god before choosing his anointed one?”
Abiattar opened his mouth to protest, but Bilkis interrupted him again.
“Stay your tongue or I’ll have it ripped from your mouth. Seer,” she said to Gad, “come forth and inquire of the gods for me.”
The young man did as commanded. Yahtadua’s face lit up and he leaned forward on his throne.
“Ask what you will, my lady,” Gad said as he pulled on his gloves.
“Has Abiattar acted in the right toward the throne of Yisrael?”
Gad muttered under his breath and rocked back and forth. His eyes rolled back and he reached into his pouch.
“Black,” Yahtadua said when Gad revealed the seer stone. The king pointed at Abiattar. “You have not acted in the right.”
Bilkis placed her hand over her son’s, but the boy pressed on with royal zeal.
“What shall be his punishment?” the boy asked. “Shall I have him executed?”
“My lord—” Abiattar began, but Benyahu choked off the protest with a sharp tug on the neck of his robe.
“No,” Yahtadua said, crestfallen when Gad again revealed the black stone.
“Shall he be removed from his office?” Bilkis asked before Yahtadua could interject another question.
White.
“Shall his lands be forfeit to the crown?” the queen continued and fought to keep her anger in check when Gad revealed the black stone.
“Who will replace him?” Yahtadua asked while Bilkis gritted her teeth. “Is he in the hall?”
White.
“Is he to my right?” the king asked from the very edge of his throne.
Black.
Yahtadua scanned the left side of the audience hall where Eliam, Abram, Abdi-Havah, and a dozen others stood in perplexed silence.
“Ask,” the king commanded them. “Ask him.”
The men all shared looks, then Eliam cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Is it I?” the merchant asked.
Gad, still facing the king with eyes rolled back, reached into his pouch and revealed the black stone. Abram asked next, and along the line until all the men had inquired and all received a negative response.
Yahtadua sat back in his throne and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“What does it mean?” he wondered aloud.
In reply, Abdi-Havah stooped down and whispered in the ear of his acolyte. Young Natan looked at the withered old man and whispered something back. The priest simply smiled and patted the boy on the shoulder.
“Is it I?” Natan asked in a soft voice.
The seer again reached into his pouch and withdrew his gloved hand to reveal the white stone.
“It’s him! It’s Natan!” Yahtadua cried, and clapped his hands together.
“This is an outrage,” Abiattar exclaimed. “To be usurped by a child?”
“I was younger still when my father named me his heir,” Yahtadua said, his voice matter-of-fact. “Think you the gods make use only of bearded men? Or do you doubt the very seer stones that affirmed your calling upon a time?”
The old man stammered a reply, but Yahtadua waved him to silence. “As the gods have spared you and preserved your inheritance,” the king said, “you will go to your lands, never again to leave them. Should you venture away from that place of sanctuary, your blood shall be upon your own head.”
“Yes, Lord,” Abiattar said in a meek voice as he bowed and backed away from the dais. “It shall be even as you say.”
“Wait,” Bilkis commanded, and gestured for Benyahu to intercept the old man. “Remove from him the tokens of the priest’s office and bestow them upon their rightful bearer.”
Benyahu wrenched the seven-branched golden staff from the former priest’s hands and gave it and his stole to one of the guards. The old man yelped as the general swatted off the white turban, then tugged Abiattar’s beard and drew the chain of the breastplate over his head. The golden chest piece was studded with gems of various colors. The thirteen settings formed a six-pointed star, one jewel for each of Yisrael’s tribes. As Benyahu loosed the scarlet rope that secured the breastplate around Abiattar’s waist, Bilkis noticed the center setting was empty.
“There is one missing,” she said in a soft voice. The old man blinked at her while Benyahu continued to strip away the rings and robes of the god’s servant. “One of the jewels entrusted to you appears to have been lost,” Bilkis observed. “Or am I mistaken?”
Abiattar said nothing as Benyahu pulled the tunic over the priest’s head, leaving him only his breechcloth.
“You are of the tribe of Levi, yes?” the queen continued. “Then as the gem has been displaced, so shall the people of Levi be. Let them be scattered among their brother tribes, their inheritance entrusted to safer hands.”
The stripped priest opened his mouth, but only a mewling whine came out.
“Be assured,” Bilkis went on, “you shall be secure on the lands of your fathers. As our guest. And when your bones are gathered unto the earth, we shall dispose of them as the gods direct. Go now.” She fought to keep the gloat from her voice, the smile from her lips. “Do not let the sun set before you have reached
sanctuary.”
Abiattar turned away. All in the chamber watched him leave, their breath stilled. Only the sound of his bare feet slapping the paving stones filled the place. When he disappeared through the doorway, Bilkis clapped her hands once. Several of the attendants jerked, startled by the sound. All heads turned back toward the dais.
“Our king thanks each of you for the honor you do him and his father,” Bilkis said. “You may go now, that we might prepare to gather King Tadua to his ancestors.”
The people continued to stare at her. Bilkis caught Benyahu’s eyes and gestured to him. The warrior nodded and beat the hilt of his sword three times against the heavy timber of the door jamb.
“The queen has spoken,” he said in a voice that filled the chamber. “Clear the hall.”
Still silent, the assembly shared confused glances then turned and filed to the doorway.
“Except you, Gad,” Bilkis said.
The young man looked back, his expression flat as a pond’s surface. Bilkis smiled.
“I would speak with you alone.”
“What does it take?” Bilkis asked.
She sat upon the king’s cushioned chair in the private chamber behind the great hall. The queen poured two cups of wine and gestured Gad to the seat near her, across a low table. The young seer set his shoulders firmly and remained standing.
“What does what take, my lady?” His words were respectful, but his tone was cold as winter rain. Bilkis gave him a pout.
“What does it take to hear the words of the gods?” she said. “More to the point, what does it take to put their words in your ear, their answers in your hand?”
Gad’s lips formed a grim line, his eyes flicked away. “I am but the vessel of the gods, moved by them to reveal their wishes.”
Bilkis barked out a laugh. “They may be the gods’ wishes, but surely the deities are in league with your teacher. Do not mistake me,” she added before Gad could object. “Abdi-Havah is as a grandfather to me. I trust his judgment. If not for his wisdom, my son might not wear the crown.”
The young man’s eyes drifted back to meet Bilkis’s gaze, his defiance melting into confusion.