House of Illusions (5 page)

“I have no intention of being flung out of the army on my ear or my rump or even my nose,” I said. “Nubia was boring, the Herald an irritable man, and the whole assignment without incident. But it was better than sitting on a donkey day after day nearly dying of thirst, wondering if the desert brigands were going to attack and steal all the goods we had bartered so hard for and knowing we had to do it all over again in a few months.”

“If you get a posting to one of the border forts as you so foolishly desire, you will have your fill of heat and boredom,” he retorted. “Who can I leave my business to when I die, Kamen? To Mutemheb? Trading is no occupation for a woman.” I had endured this argument many times before. I knew there was no barb in his words, only love and disappointment.

“Dear Father,” I said impatiently. “You can leave it to me and I will appoint good stewards …” He waved me to silence.

“Trading is not an occupation that can be delegated to servants,” he pronounced loftily. “There is too much room for dishonesty. One wakes up one morning to find nothing but destitution and one’s servants in possession of the estate next door.”

“That is ridiculous,” I cut in. “How many caravans do you still lead in person? One in ten? Once every two years when you become restless? You trust your men as an officer must trust his soldiers …”

“Now YOU are becoming pedantic,” he smiled. “Forgive me, Kamen. You must be longing for a bath. How was the river on the way back? The sailors were surely praying for Isis to cry so that the rising current would be stronger than the prevailing north wind and would float you home. How much longer did it take to come than to go?”

“A few days,” I shrugged. “But we did not make sufficient time to put in where we had intended to each evening. My Herald had planned to spend his nights enjoying the hospitality of mayors who set good tables but more often than not we ate bread and dates on the bank of the Nile. By the time we were forced to camp overnight in Aswat, he had become decidedly disagreeable. There was a woman at Aswat who brought us food …” My father’s glance sharpened.

“A woman? What woman?”

“Just a peasant, Father, half-mad. I went into the temple of Wepwawet to pray and she was there, cleaning. I spoke to her because the doors to the inner court were locked and I wanted them opened. Why? Do you know of her?” His bristling eyebrows drew together and his eyes were suddenly clear and very sober.

“I have heard of her. She pesters the Heralds. Did she pester you, Kamen?” The subject should have been a joke, but his gaze remained steadily grave. Surely he is not so protective of me that my encounter at Aswat has upset him! I thought.

“Well not exactly pester,” I replied, though of course that was just what she had done. “But she did make a nuisance of herself. She tries to thrust a box at everyone important who passes, something she wants given to the One. Apparently she had already tried to give it to May, my Herald, on a previous occasion, and he had refused, so she attempted to force it on me.” The gaze that had defeated so many foreign hagglers with sacks of herbs at their feet continued to bore into me.

“You did not take it did you, Kamen? I know the painful and fleeting compassions of youth! You did not take it?”

I had opened my mouth to confess to him that I had indeed taken it, that she had pressed it to my chest under the moonlight, half-naked, her strange eyes burning in her shadowed face, that something more than a naïve compassion had moved me, but a peculiar thing happened. I had never lied to my father, not once. My tutors had drummed into me the serious nature of lying. The gods did not like deceit. Deceit was a refuge of weakness. A man of virtue told the truth and took the consequences. As a child I had told the lies of anger and panic—No, Father, I did not hit Tamit because she was teasing me—but I had usually retracted those lies when pressed and taken my punishment, and as I grew older there was no need for retractions. I loved and trusted the man who was regarding me so solemnly, yet as I sat there staring back at him, the conviction began to grow in me that I must lie to him. Not because I was ashamed of giving in to the madwoman’s desperation, no. Not because my father might be annoyed or might laugh. Not even because he might demand to see the box, might open it, might … Might what? I did not know why the truth had to be hidden from him. I just knew in the depth of my ka that to admit that the box even now lay on my couch upstairs would be to end … end what? Damn it, end what?

“Of course I did not take it,” I answered coolly. “I pitied her but did not wish to feed her madness. The situation was very embarrassing though.” And I had better make up some story for Pa-Bast, I told myself suddenly, in case he mentions the box in casual conversation. Not likely but possible. Although my father’s stance did not change, I sensed a loosening in him.

“Good!” he said briskly. “We must cherish the insane as favourites of the gods but we must definitely not encourage their insanity.” He rose. “I managed to obtain antimony on the last trip,” he went on, changing the subject completely, “and a large amount of sage herb from Keftiu. The Sabaeans sold my caravan Steward a small quantity of yellow powder they call ginger. I have no idea to what use it may be put. I am going to visit the Seer in person after the sleep. The antimony is for him and he will pay a good price for it, but I am hoping he takes this ginger as well.” Coming around the desk, he slapped me heartily on the back. “You stink,” he said amiably. “Take a bath, a mug of beer and a rest. If you have the energy, dictate a letter to your mother and sisters in the Fayum. Too bad you were unable to take the detour on the way home and visit them.” I was dismissed. Standing and hugging him, feeling his strong arms through the thin linen of his shirt, I ruthlessly quelled the seed of shame inside me. I left the office feeling all at once very tired.

Crossing the reception hall, I went through the centre door and mounted the stairs beyond to where the sleeping quarters were. My room was to the right, with two large windows. Because the upper storey of the house was smaller than the lower, I could step out onto the roof of the lower storey if I wanted, walk to the parapet, and look down upon the granaries, the servants’ courtyard, the formal entrance and beyond the main wall the craft-choked Waters of Avaris. To the left of the head of the stairs were my sisters’ rooms which overlooked the north side of the garden and straight ahead were the double doors behind which my parents slept. My door swung wide to my touch and with thankfulness I went inside.

The box sat on the fresh linen of my couch, smugly dominating this, my sanctuary, and before I stripped the limp and dirty kilt from my waist so that I could go down to the bath house, I grasped it by a handful of those odd knots with which it was secured and flung it into one of my cedar chests, letting the lid fall with a thud. I still had no idea what to do with it. Even unseen it contaminated the air. “To Set with you,” I said under my breath to the woman who had already caused me so much inconvenience, for Set was the red-haired god of chaos and dissention, the totem of the city of Pi-Ramses to be sure but doubtless with followers as far away as miserable Aswat. Oh forget about it, I told myself as I left my room, went back down the stairs, and turned abruptly right at their foot, entering the warm humidity of the bath house. You’re home, Takhuru is waiting, you can get drunk with Akhebset, and in two days you will be back at your post with General Paiis. Deal with it later.

The hot water I had ordered was already steaming in two large urns and my servant Setau greeted me as I stepped up onto the bathing slab. While I scrubbed myself vigorously with natron and he deluged me with the scented water, he asked me about my journey and I answered him readily enough, watching the grubby film of my weeks away go sluicing through the drain in the sloping stone floor. When I was clean, I went outside and lay on the bench just within the thin shade of the house so that Setau could oil and massage me. The hottest hours of the day had begun. Beyond the shallow terrace the trees barely moved and the birds were silent. Even the continual low rumble of the city outside the wall was subdued. As my servant’s capable hands kneaded the knots from my muscles, everything in me began to relax and I yawned. “Never mind my feet, Setau,” I said. “At least they are clean. When you have finished pounding me, bring beer to my room, and please have a message sent to Takhuru. Tell her I’ll come to see her at sunset.”

Back in my own quarters I lowered the reed mats covering my windows, drained the beer Setau had promptly brought, and fell onto my couch with a groan of pure satisfaction. The little statue of Wepwawet gazed at me serenely from his post on my bedside table, his elegant nose seeming to quest the air and his tall ears pricked to receive my words as I drowsily saluted him. “Your temple is small but pretty,” I told him. “However, your devotees at Aswat are strange indeed, Wepwawet. I devoutly hope I do not have to encounter them again.”

I slept deeply and dreamlessly, and woke to Setau’s movements as he raised the mats and placed a tray at my feet. “I did not want to wake you, Kamen,” he said as I stretched and sat up, “but Ra is sinking and the evening meal is already over. Your father has been to the Seer’s house and returned. He instructed me to let you rest but doubtless the Lady Takhuru is even now pacing her garden in expectation of your presence and I did not think you would want to incur her displeasure.” I smiled at him slowly and reached for the tray.

“That is all too easy to do,” I replied. “Thanks, Setau. Find me a clean kilt will you, but don’t bother to get out my best sandals. If you’ve mended the others, they will do. I want to walk to the Noble’s house. I need the exercise.” The tray was heavy with milk and beer, a small loaf of clove-scented barley bread, steaming lentil soup and a bed of dark lettuce on whose quivering crisp leaves sat a square of yellow goat cheese, a piece of grilled duck and a scattering of raw peas. “Oh gods,” I breathed. “It’s good to be home.”

While I devoured the food with an alacrity which would have earned me a stern rebuke from my old nurse, Setau moved about the room, opening my chests. I saw him hesitate when his glance fell on the box and he lifted it enquiringly. “This will crush your starched linens,” he said. “May I place it elsewhere?” He was too well trained to ask me what it contained and I resisted the urge to increase his curiosity by trying to explain it away.

“Put it on the bottom of the chest, then,” I suggested carelessly. “It’s not something I need to deal with immediately.” He nodded and did so, then went on laying out my gold-bordered kilt and tasselled belt, my plain gold bracelet and the earring set with beads of jasper. When I was ready, he painted my eyes with black kohl and helped me to dress. I left him to tidy everything away and went briskly down the stairs. My father stood at the bottom, talking to Kaha, and as I came up to them he eyed me critically. “Very handsome,” he commented cheerfully. “Off to dally with Takhuru are you? Well keep your hands off her, Kamen. Your marriage is still a year away.” I did not rise to the familiar bait. Bidding them both a good night I crossed the reception hall and out into the orange flush of the setting sun, thinking as I did so that I must remember to talk to Pa-Bast about the box.

Turning left outside the main gate, I swung along the path that ran beside the water, inhaling the cooler evening air. The watersteps I passed were thronged with the inhabitants of neighbouring estates and their servants as they prepared to take to the river in search of a night of revelry, and many of them called greetings to me as I passed. Then for a while I walked with dense trees on my left until I came to the sentries guarding the Lake of the Residence. Here I was challenged, but the words were a formality. I knew these men well. They allowed me to pass and I moved on.

The Waters of Avaris spread out into the great Lake that lapped with a suitably dignified slow rhythm against the sanctified precincts of the Great God Ramses the Third himself, and the estates between me and the towering wall protecting him from the common gaze were also walled. The tops of lush trees leaned discreetly over these massive mud-brick constructions, dappling me in a gradually deepening shadow as I paced beneath them. Where they were broken by tall gates that let out onto marble watersteps and sleek craft whose brightly coloured flags trembled in the evening breeze, the soldiers clustered. I saluted them happily and they shouted back at me.

Along this hallowed edge of the Lake lived the men holding the health of Egypt in their hands. Their power infused the kingdom with wealth and vitality. Under their direction the balance of Ma’at, the delicate web that wove the laws of gods and men together under Pharaoh, was maintained. Here lived To, Vizier of both the South and the North, behind his gates of solid electrum. The High Priest of Amun, Usermaarenakht, with his illustrious family, had his titles incised into the stone of the pylon under which his guests had to pass and his guards were decked in gold-tooled leather. The mayor of the holy city of Thebes and Pharaoh’s Chief Taxing Master, Amunmose, favoured a life-sized statue of the God Amun-Ra, once totem of Thebes alone but now the King of all the gods, standing with folded arms and gently smiling face on the paving between watersteps and gate. I did him homage as I stepped past his mighty knees. The home of Bakenkhons, Overseer of all Royal Cattle, was relatively modest. Here a party was about to embark, the women in filmy linen encrusted with jewels that flashed red in the dying light of the sun, the men wigged and ribboned, their oiled bodies gleaming. I waited respectfully while they were handed onto the cabined raft rocking at the foot of the watersteps. Bakenkhons himself answered my obeisance with a warm smile and the raft was poled away in a swirl of dark water. I went on.

The shadows were lengthening, stretching over me now and fingering the verges of the Lake, and as I came to the precinct of the great Seer, I paused. The wall enclosing his house and grounds was no different from the walls I had already passed. It was broken halfway along by a small and very simple gateless pylon so that passersby were able to glance into the garden itself. Within the left-hand base of the pylon an alcove sheltered a taciturn old man who had been the Seer’s porter for as long as I could remember and who had never once returned my greeting as I came and went. My father, who regularly had business with the Seer, told me that the ancient one only addressed those who turned in under the pylon and then only to send to the house for permission for the visitor to proceed. Not that he could have prevented anyone from pushing through into the garden, I reflected. He was too frail. Yet the Seer employed no guards outside the wall. Inside the house there were soldiers, or so my father said, who did their work with quiet and unobtrusive efficiency, but standing there with one hand against the still-warm brick of the wall, my eyes on the distorted shadow that marked the entrance to the Seer’s domain, I understood why no weapons were needed outside. The pylon was like a mouth perpetually open to swallow the unwary and I had seen people on the path describe an unconscious semicircle as they went by. Even in the harsh light of noon I myself had often veered closer to the watersteps. Now, as the pylon’s long silhouette snaked across the path, I had to force myself to straighten and go on.