The Gardener and the Assassin

by Mark Gajewski

  Scribe Amennakht caught sight of us, glanced from me to Neset and back again, shocked. “Majesty! My Lord Pentawere!” He fell to his knees.

  Others took up his cry. In an instant Neset and I were surrounded by women and men and children who’d rushed to us from every direction, all clamoring for my attention, all regarding Neset with wonder. She was trying hard to suppress a smile of satisfaction. Between her bringing me to her former village today and previously convincing me to deliver the villagers’ rations and end their strike she’d turned the tables on everyone in Ta Set Maat who’d ostracized her. I was so happy for her. Now they were the ones lowering their eyes in shame when they caught hers. I smiled broadly, turned in a slow circle, patiently greeted everyone around me familiarly. I was in my element, drinking in the adoration of Father’s subjects.

  “My Lady Neset has invited me to share today’s feast with the people of Pharaoh’s village,” I announced after the crowd came to some semblance of order.

  I saw surprise and envy and grudging respect on the faces of Neset’s relatives and former friends. For a woman they’d driven from Ta Set Maat to be acknowledged by a son of Pharaoh as his lady was unprecedented in the annals of the village. For that matter, according to what Neset had told me, the visit of a pharaoh’s son to the village at all was beyond belief.

  The chief drover brought the caravan to a halt a few paces from the edge of the crowd.

  “I have a message from Pharaoh Ramesses, third of his name – life, prosperity, health!” cried the scribe accompanying the gifts. He consulted a papyrus and read in stentorian voice: “Oh workers, well–chosen, skilled and strong, your provision will be bountiful and you will not go short, for I know what truly arduous work you do, and how you can only rejoice in your work if your bellies are full.”

  The villagers cheered.

  Neset and I moved forward to inspect what Father had sent.

  The first two dozen donkeys carried fish and cakes of rough salt.

  “The villagers will fillet the fish and use the salt to dry them in the sun on the roofs of their houses,” Neset told me. “They all have individual small hard cones of salt they grind to season their food.”

  Ten oxen came next, destined to be slaughtered.

  “They’ll save their blood for later, but all the meat sent by Pharaoh will be spit–roasted whole today.”

  Smoke was already rising from fires a little ways down the valley, in the shade creeping eastward from the cliffs that loomed over Ta Set Maat, though the steep hill east of the village, dotted with tombs, was still in sunlight.

  The next four donkeys carried beans and sweet oils, then eight barley malt, then others thousands of loaves of bread.

  “They’ll store most of the loaves in the cellars of their houses and soften them with water before they eat them.”

  There were even eight loads of natron with which to wash after the feast.

  We’d barely finished our inspection when an old lady tottered to us, leaning on a cane, assisted by a man I assumed was her son.

  “Pentawere, this is Naunakht, the most important woman in Ta Set Maat, and her son Kenhirkhopeshef.”

  “You took Neset in when no one else would,” I said to Naunakht, grasping her hand. “You’ve earned my undying gratitude. If you ever have need of a favor, call on me and I’ll grant it.”

  “You’re most kind, Majesty,” she replied.

  “Are you now the official village greeter?” Neset asked Naunakht.

  “Just look at them standing over there in a bunch,” Naunakht said derisively. “Amennakht, Anhirkawi, Khonsu, Kamose, Reshpetref – scribe and gang foremen and village proctors. I don’t know who they’re more afraid of, Majesty – you or Neset.”

  “I’d wager Neset.”

  She blushed.

  “And your village owes her far more than they owe me,” I averred.

  “Which they’ll never acknowledge,” Naunakht huffed. “Men!”

  “Neset told me about the library your first husband accumulated, Naunakht. Perhaps when I return to Djeme for the next festival you’ll let me look through it.”

  “I’d be honored, Majesty,” she replied.

  Neset and I spent hours sitting in the shade of the village wall, conversing with the somewhat frightened village elders, all of whom kept their distance from Neset and avoided meeting her eyes with theirs. They were in her debt after treating her so badly these past years. The chief scribe, Amennakht, looked particularly guilty – Neset had ruled in favor of his son Harshire the same day I’d settled the strike and he’d never reached out to thank her. The exception was Hay, the oldest of them all, who’d also shown Neset great kindness. He sat between us and told me fascinating stories about the many pharaohs he’d come to know as he’d overseen construction of their tombs. Naunakht sat with us too, and between her and Hay I learned most of what was worth knowing about Ta Set Maat’s past.

  Later, we watched the various competitions between the boys and men – tug of war, wrestling, running. I was tempted to participate, but I restrained myself – though I had no doubt I could have won the individual events. We even took time to cheer on the young girls playing leapfrog and various ball games.

  Meanwhile, cooks roasted meat and young girls laid out the feast. When all was ready Amennakht and Hay and Naunakht escorted Neset and me to the open ground between the north wall of the village and the villagers’ temples at the base of a steep broken cliff – Meniset, dedicated to the village’s patrons, the first Amenhotep and his mother Ahmes–Nefertari, containing that pharaoh’s cult statue of painted limestone – and chapels for Hathor constructed by the first Seti and Ramesses the Great, their outer walls slanting slightly inward, topped by cavetto cornices.

  “These grounds are barely recognizable today,” Neset marveled.

  The villagers had carried small alabaster and limestone and wooden tables and wooden chairs from their houses. They now covered the entire plain beyond the village gate, the tables shaded by long wide linen canopies held aloft by tall wooden poles. The women were dressed in their holiday finest – gossamer linens, bright, loose, elaborately pleated horizontally or vertically, some dyed, some embroidered, some with sequins or beads sewn on. Most wore form fitting linen sheaths that fell from mid–chest to their ankles, held up by wide or narrow straps. Some women had a bare shoulder. The more prosperous wore mantles or even short capes with their crossed ends tied in front. Men wore kilts or short skirts. Older boys wore kilts, older girls linen skirts, a few girls wore only wigs and collars and girdles, signifying they were ready and eager for marriage. The youngest were naked, their heads shaved except for a sidelock. Most women wore massive wigs that were as wide as their shoulders and tumbled down chest and back. Their faces were made up – eyebrows shaped in narrow arcs, eyelids painted and colored. Both men and women wore jewelry – faience bracelets and rings, earrings, necklaces – and large collars of fresh lotus flowers. The air was heavy with perfume. Many of the women also carried flowers in their hands.

  Neset and I slipped into two chairs at the front of the gathering, in a place of honor created especially for us amidst the village elders. A low roar soon rose from hundreds of conversations, many of them, I could tell from hurried glances, about Neset and me.

  “See those people over there going out of their way to ignore us?” Neset asked.

  I nodded.

  “My dead husband’s family.”

  “Everyone seems to be ignoring them too,” I observed. Their star had clearly fallen. Anyone but Neset would be crowing about that.

  “Over there – on the opposite side. My father, Buneb, my stepmother, Meresamun, my brothers and sisters.”

  “Have any of them been courageous enough to beg your forgiveness for how they’ve treated you?”

  Neset laughed. “Not even after I went to you and settled the strike.”

  Children materialized, laden with platters of ox meat and oryx and gazelle, all basted in honey. Neset a
nd I placed some of each on our plates. Serving girls wearing only leather thongs stood near us and each group of banqueters, quick to fill emptied cups from earthenware jugs containing fine wine. Others poured festal beer flavored with pomegranates, figs, mint, honey or grape juice.

  Everyone held their chunk of meat in a hand and nibbled it off the bone. The variety of food was rather extensive, though far short of what we ate at banquets in the per’aa – lumps of fat served with cumin and radish oil, with purple juniper berries bobbing in the juice. Bowls of brown beans, chick peas, lotus seeds – flavored with marjoram, coriander and dill. Olive oil. Fresh grape juice. Grapes, jujubes, honey cakes, heads of garlic, sycamore figs, duck, pigeon, fish. Celery, parsley, leeks, lettuce.

  Re disappeared behind the hills as we ate. Shadows crept eastward and engulfed village and valley. Men lit torches and set them into a patch of open ground beyond the tables. When the meal was done musicians began to play there, the notes of harp and reed flute echoing softly off the surrounding hills. After a time barely–clad dancing girls tattooed with blue dots and images of Bes on their thighs dashed onto the open ground. Drummers joined the other musicians and set a driving beat and the dancers began to swirl, energetic, frenzied, their feet kicking up dust. Villagers rose from their chairs, formed a square around them, crowded close, cried out, clapped in time. The dancers were far less elegant and practiced than the girls who entertained Father, but made up for their shortcomings with fervor. The girls danced for an hour then dashed off, sweating, gasping for breath. The spectators gradually resumed their seats.

  A young woman stepped forward and faced Neset and me. She was dressed in a white skirt with a gold amulet on a chain around her neck, her hair in braids caressing her shoulders.

  “The Songstress of Hathor, from the temple of the goddess,” Neset whispered.

  The woman bowed to me, then faced the villagers and sang a love song.

  “O Golden One

  I worship her majesty,

  I extol the Lady of Heaven

  I give adoration to Hathor,

  Praise to my Mistress!

  I called to her; she heard my plea

  She sent my mistress to me:

  She came by herself to see me,

  O great wonder what happened to me!

  I was joyful, exulting, elated,

  When they said, ‘See, she is here!’

  As she came the young men bowed,

  Out of great love for her.

  I make devotions to my goddess,

  That she grant me my sister

  The girl I love as a gift

  Three days now that I pray to her name

  Five days since she went from me.”

  As the crowd cried out in appreciation, I beckoned the singer to me and whispered into her ear. She nodded, then resumed her position.

  “This song is for you, Neset,” I said.

  “She looks like the rising morning star,

  At the start of a happy year,

  Shining bright, fair of skin,

  Lovely the look of her eyes,

  Sweet the speech of her lips…

  With graceful step she treads the ground,

  Captures my heart by her movements,

  She causes all men’s necks

  To turn about to see her,

  Joy has he whom she embraces,

  He is like the first of men!”

  ***

  Peret (Seed)

  Neset

  ***

  It was very late, an hour before dawn, when Pentawere and I trudged wearily from Ta Set Maat back to Djeme. We walked hand in hand, our path lit by a full moon, the sounds of revelry slowly receding behind us. I was bone tired but as happy as I’d ever been in my life. I’d spent a wonderful couple of months with the only man I’d ever truly cared for, capped by a fabulous day in my former village. But now that our separation was imminent my happiness was fading into sadness. I had no idea how many months we were going to be parted.

  Pentawere kissed me goodbye on the fringe of Pharaoh’s garden at Djeme. “I love you, Neset. I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.”

  “I’ll be waiting, Pentawere.”

  “You’ll see me off from the quay?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve got to go get my things from my room in the per’aa. I’ll be back soon.”

  I watched him disappear through the inner gate of the complex into the courtyard in front of the temple. Then I headed for the tunnel under the gate, bound for the harbor and quay beyond to wait for him. I could hear sailors readying the boats of Pentawere’s fleet for departure. Commanders were barking orders to foot soldiers marching up gangplanks, captains to their oarsmen. Before I’d taken a dozen steps from the garden three dark figures emerged from the shadows into the moonlight and blocked my path.

  Two were armed guards. The other was Pentawere’s mother, Pharaoh’s wife, Tiye.

  I uttered a small cry and hurriedly dropped to my knees. “You startled me, Majesty.”

  “The gardener. My son’s whore,” Tiye said scathingly.

  I was caught off guard by her venom and accusation. “I’m not, Majesty!” I protested.

  “Stand.” Tiye looked me up and down, fingered the fabric of my dress, lifted my Isis pendant from my neck and inspected it. “Didn’t Pentawere give you these?”

  “He did, Majesty.”

  “Do you deny earning them on your back?”

  The guards were smirking at me behind Tiye.

  I was utterly humiliated. “I’ve never slept with your son,” I said forcefully, with all the dignity I could muster. I was incensed by Tiye’s accusations. But no one was supposed to argue with a pharaoh’s wife. I was defenseless.

  “You’ve set your sights high, Commoner,” Tiye snarled.

  “I know exactly what I am, Majesty, and what he is,” I said calmly. “I don’t expect anything from Pentawere.”

  “His Majesty!” she cried. “Address him properly!”

  “I’ve never led him on, Majesty. He pursues me.”

  “Like my husband does?”

  She believed I was sleeping with both Pharaoh and his son? What kind of woman did she take me for? I was incensed. I loved Ramesses, certainly, but not that way. “Pharaoh’s never pursued me, Majesty. We talk. That’s all. He’s three times my age. He’s as old as my grandfather.”

  “Pharaoh has concubines nearly a decade younger than you, Gardener. Your argument is weak.” Her eyes narrowed. “Besides, you’re not the type of woman he’d take as concubine. You must know he had an ulterior motive for making you an overseer. He’s simply biding his time before he calls in his debt.”

  “I don’t understand, Majesty.”

  “Iset and Tyti are in their sixties. I’m in my forties. You’re in your twenties. Ramesses plans to take you as his next wife, a young one for his declining years. Though nowhere near as beautiful as the rest of us were at your age.”

  The most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. I would have laughed but Tiye was deadly serious. “I’ve never been alone with Pharaoh ever, except in this garden, in full sight of everyone. He’s never hinted at such a thing. I’m Pharaoh’s gardener, Majesty. That’s all I’ll ever be to him.”

  “Do you deny sneaking from Pentawere’s room at Pi–Ramesses after the banquet honoring his brother?” Tiye asked angrily. “Do you deny sleeping with him the whole time he’s been at Djeme burying Amenherkoshef?”

  Pharaoh’s wife had been employing a spy to keep track of us. A spy who’d deliberately lied, probably telling Tiye what he knew she wanted to hear. “You’ve been misinformed, Majesty. I never visited His Majesty’s room at Pi–Ramesses. I didn’t sleep with him there and I haven’t slept with him here.”

  “A liar as well as a whore,” Tiye snorted. “Where do you get the nerve to seduce Pharaoh’s son?”

  “Respectfully, I haven’t seduced your son, Majesty.” I was digging my fingernails into my palms to control my fury. “
He approached me.”

  Suddenly Tiye yanked the scorpion amulet from my neck. I cried out in surprise.

  “You’re more devious than I’ve given you credit for, Whore. First you bewitch my husband, then my son.” Tiye studied the amulet lying in her open palm by the light of the full moon, turned it over and inspected the back. “What kind of magic does it hold? A love spell?”

  “It wards off scorpions, Majesty,” I insisted. “Almost everyone in Ta Set Maat wears one.”

  “So you say.” Vindictively, Tiye threw my amulet as far as she could. It landed somewhere in the middle of the garden, rustling the flowers. “Try casting your spells now, Witch.” She moved so that her face was only inches from mine. “My son is destined for great things,” she barked. “Great things! He’ll rule this valley someday! When he’s Pharaoh his wives will come from the most powerful families in this land and beyond. I will not allow him to get entangled with a lowly gardener!”

  Pentawere had told me his mother thought he should be pharaoh. That dream was clearly still very real to her.

  “You want him to marry women he doesn’t know or care about, for power?” I asked, baffled that Tiye could plan such a future for Pentawere. Though that probably reflected Tiye’s own life. “He deserves to marry a woman who loves him.”

  “Someone like you?”

  “A commoner? Of course not, Majesty. But someone of his choice.”

  “Bah! Love! What’s love? Men only play at it. Pentawere does – that much I know. Do you have any idea how many women he’s bedded? Do you think he’ll sleep alone once he’s back at Pi–Ramesses?”

  “I’m fully aware of His Majesty’s past, Majesty,” I said icily. “I haven’t asked him to change for me. I don’t expect anything from him.”

  “You don’t want to marry him?”

  He’d asked and I’d said no. Telling Tiye wouldn’t assure her and only the gods knew what she might do to him. “What does it matter what I want, Majesty?”