A man greeted us, probably in his fifties, his head shaved, shendyt immaculate. “I’m Harwa, high priest of Osiris. Welcome to Abdju, Majesty.” He bowed.
“I believe you know all of Father’s officials except Neset,” Pentawere said. “She oversees Pharaoh’s gardens at Djeme and Waset. Pharaoh specifically sent her to take part in the ceremonies alongside me.”
“Very good, Majesty.”
Harwa couldn’t hide his curiosity about me. He’d likely assumed before my introduction that I was a woman Pentawere had invited along to keep him occupied at night. His eyes said he believed that was the real reason I was here.
Pentawere indicated the boat moored to the quay. “Father has sent you a new barque shrine for Osiris’ statue. Have your men unload it and deliver it to the temple.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“There are two stelae on board. One honors Neset’s grandfather, Meniufer, Father’s friend and comrade in arms. Father commissioned it and has sent Neset to ensure it’s installed properly. The other commemorates my participation in this festival. You’ll have them both set in prominent places among the cenotaphs.”
“Of course, Majesty.”
“Unlike the rest of Father’s officials, Neset and I haven’t visited Abdju before. We’d appreciate a tour.”
“Certainly, Majesty. We’ll start at Osiris’ temple. Follow me.”
We left the officials behind at the quay. Two guards went ahead of us, clearing a path through a street so crowded we could barely squeeze through. Pilgrims were in abundance, first–time visitors obvious with their gaping looks. They were contending with residents and burdened donkeys and a plethora of children as they wandered about to see the sights. Harwa led us towards a towering wall. I assumed it was the one Pharaoh had commissioned. It was so high it completely obscured the temple within.
“Have you been a priest here for long?” Pentawere asked.
“My entire life, Majesty. And my father before me, and my grandfather. My family stories go back as far as the second Pepi, about a thousand years ago.”
Impressive, but a short time compared to my family.
“Abdju is a very ancient town, Majesty,” Harwa said. “Settled by bands of farmers millennia ago. As you can see, the cultivation is wider here than any section along the river south of Ta–mehi. So farmers prospered. Because there was abundance not everyone had to care for the fields. Men began to specialize and gathered into hamlets of like–minded craftsmen. Those hamlets eventually became a town that drew its wealth from timber and cattle and links to oases in the western desert.”
“And now grows rich off pilgrims, apparently,” Pentawere observed.
Harwa smiled. “The gates to the Underworld lie in those western hills.” He pointed. “Originally, in the time of Narmer and his successors, Abdju was considered to be the home of Khentymentiu, the Foremost of Westerners, god of the dead. Abdju has always been considered sacred.”
“Even so, for centuries Abdju was overshadowed by its neighbor, Tjeni,” I interjected. “Twenty–five hundred years ago there were three great settlements in the valley, each dominating its surrounding region. They were, in effect small kingdoms – Nekhen, Nubt, and Tjeni. Tjeni’s rulers chose Abdju as their burial ground, which made this town important.”
Harwa appeared surprised I’d know anything of the valley’s history. Priests and scribes never gave women credit for knowing anything.
“Tjeni’s greatest ruler before King Narmer united the valley – he was a Tjenian – was King Scorpion,” I continued. “He was determined to expand Tjeni’s influence in the valley. He conquered neighboring Nubt a century before Narmer was born. He blockaded Nekhen’s trade routes, leading to that settlement’s slow decline. He forged trade alliances with towns in eastern Ta–mehi and the lands beyond the valley. He and his kingdom became extremely wealthy. The many chambers of his grave were crammed with hundreds of jars of Retunian wine.”
“How would you know?” Harwa asked.
“One of my ancestors, Sety, helped lay Scorpion in his grave. His story’s been passed down in my family ever since.”
Harwa looked skeptical. “At any rate, Narmer erected the original shrine to Khentamentiu here. The second Mentuhotep razed it and constructed a larger temple dedicated to Osiris Khentamentiu after he defeated the Chiefs of Foreign Lands and reunited the valley. The first Ahmose razed and replaced that temple with the current one, dedicated to Osiris alone.”
“An interesting transition, don’t you think?” I asked.
“Some five hundred years ago,” Harwa said, ignoring me, “the valley was divided between rulers in the North and a ruling family in Waset. Intef, second of his name, understood Abdju’s sacred importance and made its capture key to his strategy for defeating the Northerners. The temple here was damaged in bitter fighting between the two sides. Intef’s grandson, the second Mentuhotep, eventually reunited the valley. He considered his defeat of the Northerners to be divine justice for their desecration of the temple. He and his successors lavished patronage on it, turning it into our land’s single greatest shrine, a place of pilgrimage, the most holy ground in the valley.”
“Abdju provided a solid foundation for Mentuhotep’s propaganda,” I said.
“Propaganda?” Harwa asked.
“A means of supporting his claim to rule the entire valley.”
“What do you mean?”
“Khentymentiu had been the god of Abdju for as long as a god had been worshiped here. Then, suddenly, millennia later, during Mentuhotep’s reign, Osiris appeared in the valley out of nowhere.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is. Mentuhotep and his successors set out to use this virtually unknown god to strengthen their claim that they should rule the entire valley. First they merged Osiris with Khentymentiu here at Abdju. Then they claimed Osiris had been the valley’s first and most ancient ruler, in the time of the gods, long before any man had taken a throne. They claimed the valley had originally been united during Osiris’ reign, then split asunder, then united anew by King Narmer. By making Osiris a god here, at Abdju, where the men who actually united the valley, Narmer and his successors, lie, Mentuhotep and his successors associated themselves with a previously united valley, strengthening their argument that the valley should be made whole under them once more.”
“That’s speculation,” Harwa said, perturbed.
“There’s not even a coherent story about how Osiris was born, or died, or was brought back to life,” I continued. I touched the talisman around my neck. The falcon god, Horus, had given it to my family thousands of years before Osiris’ name was first mentioned. But according to the Osirian myth, Osiris was Horus’ father. An obvious impossibility.
Pentawere interjected himself into the conversation. “Tell me about the Wag Festival, Harwa. How did it start?”
“Osiris’ head was buried at Abdju after his brother Seth murdered him.” He crossed his arms, practically daring me to contradict him. “The Mentuhoteps began the Wag Festival to honor Osiris for that reason. The highlight of the festival is a procession of Osiris’ statue from his temple to his tomb out on the desert. During the procession we reenact the key events of his life. Then we bury him in his tomb. He regenerates, and we return him to his temple. People come from all over the valley to participate. Over past centuries, many have set up mud–brick cenotaphs with stelae to ensure they’ll share in the celebration for eternity. Pharaohs and their wives have built monuments too – they stretch for two miles along the edge of cultivation. Your father’s wall around the temple, Majesty, is the latest of these monuments.”
We dodged a rowdy group of men. They’d been drinking.
“How many of these people in the street are visitors, and how many reside here permanently?” Pentawere asked.
“The population more than doubles during the festival, Majesty. Osiris’ temple, like the nearby ones of Ahmose and the third Senwosret, is supported by income–generatin
g estates that provide everything priests and administrators and service populations need. Including the men and women who look after pilgrims.”
“Whose pyramid is that?” Pentawere asked, pointing beyond the last temple, the distant structure indistinct because of dust kicked up off the desert.
“Ahmose. It was the last royal pyramid erected in the valley. You can’t see them from here, but he erected a temple on the terrace at the far end of the low desert in a direct line from his pyramid. Smaller pyramids for his grandmother Tetisheri and sister–wife Ahmose–Nefertari stand between them. You should visit the temple while you’re here, Majesty. It’s richly decorated with scenes from Ahmose’s life – possibly the first complex historical narrative ever created in the valley. Anyway, the temple’s design is a mixture of architectural elements from both Mennefer and Waset, visibly emphasizing Ahmose’s reunification of the valley. By connecting his temple to the Osiris cult here at Abdju and identifying himself with Osiris – the mud–bricks of his structures are stamped ‘Ahmose beloved of Osiris’ – Ahmose gained deification and immortality.”
We reached a jumble of small mud–brick chapels and a small temple that occupied a terrace facing the temple wall.
“This is the Terrace of the Great God,” Harwa informed us. “The chapels are cenotaphs, erected by pilgrims.”
Some were fairly small, others quite large. All had vaulted roofs and were whitewashed and plastered. The most elaborate were fronted by small courtyards, with trees growing from large earthenware pots. Numerous stelae had been propped against the sides of the larger cenotaphs over the centuries. So many were the chapels, and so tightly packed, that only narrow nearly impenetrable alleyways allowed passage between them. I suspected a hefty priest would find it very difficult to weave through the amalgamation to make the daily offerings.
“Each cenotaph contains a stela associating its owner with the gods and the Osiris festival and claiming a share of its offerings,” Harwa said. “There used to be one hundred–fifty on this terrace, but Ramesses the Great leveled many and erected this ‘portal temple’ atop their remains.” Harwa indicated a wide shallow wadi running from the end of the terrace towards the distant cliffs. “That’s the Processional Way. We’ll follow it tomorrow all the way to Osiris’ grave on the low desert. It’s lined with thousands of cenotaphs and monuments and altars. We’ll place your grandfather’s stela among them, Neset, and yours, Majesty.”
“Why is this festival so important throughout the valley?” Pentawere asked.
“Because of the nature of Osiris,” I replied. “Once upon a time in this valley only rulers claimed an eternal existence. When they died they went to the sky and became gods. Everyone else was promised only a shadowy existence in their grave. But Osiris’ followers claimed that after he died he came back to life. So, as his cult grew, a true Afterlife became possible for everyone who believed in him.”
The new limestone wall surrounding Osiris’ temple stood more than twenty feet tall. We went through the single gate.
“Abdju was only about twenty acres in size when King Intef recaptured it,” Harwa said. “Khentymentiu’s shrine was the centerpiece of a nine–acre walled enclosure in the heart of town. To one side of the shrine were the ka chapels of King Narmer and his successors. The town surrounding the shrine housed priests, servants, craftsmen, farmers and such. The current temple, Ahmose’s, is far larger. It’s about four centuries old.”
Red pennants waved from four very tall wooden poles in front of the temple. Its limestone walls were etched with images of Osiris, sometimes alone, sometimes passing judgment, all of them brightly painted. His face was green – he’d originally been a fertility god. His body was wrapped like a mummy.
“I’m sure you know Osiris’ true story, Majesty,” Harwa said, glancing at me. “He was the earliest ruler in the valley. He gave us our laws and taught us to cultivate the land.”
“My ancestress Aya’s band was the first to farm and herd on the shores of a vast lake a little west of the valley, more than four thousand years ago.” I fingered the talisman around my neck. “Osiris didn’t exist back then. Only the falcon god.”
Harwa ignored me and addressed Pentawere directly. He was getting angry.
Pentawere seemed amused by our differing views.
“Osiris ruled the valley wisely, Majesty,” Harwa said. “But his brother Seth became jealous and killed him. He cut him into fourteen pieces and threw them into the river. Isis, his sister–wife, found the pieces. Anubis joined the parts together and wrapped them in bandages, forming the first mummy. Isis changed herself into a hawk and made air with her wings and Osiris came back to life and impregnated her with Horus, his future heir. Thereafter, Osiris took up his role as Lord of Eternity, head of the court of the dead, ruler of the underworld. Of all the gods he’s closest to us – he served as our king, suffered death, was buried, and rose again from mortal death to immortal life.”
“Can we visit the ka chapels?” I asked. I had no interest in Harwa’s uninformed ramblings. There were many versions of the Osiris myth, all different. Were any of them true?
Harwa led us to a walled section along one side of the temple. We entered. Several dozen small chapels stood in a line.
I picked out Narmer’s and Aha’s and Den’s. A chill ran up my spine. All three kings were my ancestors. Den had actually borne the talisman I was wearing around my neck, one of four kings who had. Kings and pharaohs believed they shared the same ka, passed from ruler to ruler since the first took primacy from his fellow patriarchs at Nekhen thousands of years ago. If that was true for them, might it be true for those who’d borne the talisman, that we shared the same ka? And in that case, did I share Den’s? I wondered if he was present in his statue in his chapel right now. I wondered if he sensed the talisman so near.
Something suddenly struck me. Grandfather had told me hundreds of stories about my ancestors. He’d claimed every one was true. He’d told me about dreams received by the talisman’s bearers. He’d claimed they’d all come true too. Which meant my dream about Ramesses being burned alive for killing Pharaoh would come true. That dream had haunted me every waking moment since it had come to me the night of Grandfather’s death. I believed it was real based on Grandfather’s claims. Pentawere believed because I believed. But neither Grandfather nor I had been able to verify if our family stories were true or made up. We’d both taken them on faith. But maybe I didn’t have to anymore. A specific object in King Khufu’s ka chapel figured prominently in one of my family stories. If it was present in that chapel right now and matched the description in my story then the story must be true. And if my story was true, so too must be my dream. If the object didn’t exist or match then my family story was false and my dream was a simple nightmare, not a prophecy. In that case, Pharaoh wasn’t really in any danger from his son and co–ruler. And Pentawere would never sit the throne, and I’d never be his wife. The stakes for what I was about to investigate were exceedingly high.
“Where’s King Khufu’s chapel?” I asked.
“Why the interest?” Harwa asked.
“According to a family story, an ancestress named Maetkra came to Abdju with an expedition led by one of King Khufu’s sons. He delivered a statue for priests to place in Khufu’s ka chapel after his death.”
“If it’s there it would prove your stories are true,” Pentawere inferred.
“And that some of us truly do receive dreams from the god,” I whispered to him.
He nodded thoughtfully.
“Every one of these chapels contains a statue,” Harwa replied dismissively. “A statue doesn’t prove anything.”
“According to the story, King Khufu is seated on a throne wearing the red crown of the lower valley. He’s dressed in a shendyt, with a flail in his right hand and his left hand resting on his knee. His name’s engraved on the back of the throne. And here’s the interesting part – the statue’s only three inches high. The king who erected the largest py
ramid ever conceived chose to depict himself as small, to prove his humility to the gods.”
“By the gods!” Harwa exclaimed.
He surely knew what the statue looked like, from placing offerings before it every morning. Was his reaction because I was right, or because he was about to prove me wrong?
“Let’s see,” Pentawere ordered.
Harwa led us to Khufu’s chapel, his hand shaking. He opened the door. A lit bowl of oil burned on a small altar next to loaves of bread and jars of beer and the foreleg of an ox placed there at dawn. After all these millennia priests still worshiped the king every day. And there, in the center of the altar, was Khufu’s statue – exactly as I’d described. I was equally relieved and terrified. Pentawere would rule. I’d be his wife. Pharaoh’s life was truly in danger.
We made an offering to Khufu, then exited.
Harwa looked at me quite differently as we did, almost deferentially.
Pentawere smiled.
I was, frankly, amazed. For years I’d wondered if Grandfather’s tales were true or fables. Now I had my answer. And so did Pentawere.
“We should get out of the sun,” Harwa said. “Refreshments await in the treasury of Osiris’ temple.”
He led us there. One of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen, probably six or seven years younger than me, wearing a nearly sheer dress and plenty of jewels, was waiting along with a couple of serving girls.
“My daughter, Tjuyu,” Harwa said.
She smiled fetchingly and bowed, her eyes sparkling. “Majesty. It’s so nice to see you again.”
Again? One of Pentawere’s conquests?
“My Lady.”
“You know each other?” Harwa asked.
“We met at a party in Pi–Ramesses, right after His Majesty returned from teaching the Shasu a lesson for stealing Pharaoh’s wine,” Tjuyu purred.
One of the women Tiye had thrown in Pentawere’s path to make him forget about me. She was stunning and obviously willing and interested; Pentawere must have been tempted. I hoped if he’d been with Tjuyu or anyone else during our times apart he’d tell me. Not knowing and finding out later had been hurtful when Mesedptah had done it. But I wasn’t going to badger Pentawere about his activities. His mother had kept me from seeing him off at the quay, sown doubt about me in his mind. Then, at Mennefer, I’d told him we could never be together. If he’d found solace in the arms of another woman how could I blame him?
The Gardener and the Assassin Page 36