Pharaoh (2 page)

Did it really happen? thought Narmer, as he climbed out of the wadi again. Did I really speak to an oracle?

He glanced back into the wadi, but there was only red rock and shadows. Even the cat had vanished.

Shadows…how much time had passed down in the wadi? He was going to be late. He broke into a run as he headed back along the cliff.

Down below on the River men fished from their small reed boats. Teams of naked workers repaired dykes, lifting baskets of mud up to the thick walls that protected the town and the palace, its painted colonnades gleaming in the sun.

Other dykes protected the orchards, with their tall date palms, sycamores, figs, grape vines and carob trees, tiny islands in the flood. From up here on the cliff Narmer could see the rounded shapes of the giant stones that marked out the boundaries of the fields, too. More workers planted papyrus, sedges and lotus in the shallows, all the while keeping an eye out for crocodiles lurking in the water.

A crocodile had already taken a small boy a few days ago. The bereft family had searched everywhere, but there had been no sign of the child, or the crocodile. As he ran Narmer shivered at the thought of the child’s small body
being pulled down into the dark water. The croc would be sleeping off its meal now, its long body the same colour as the mud.

Narmer glanced back down into the wadi. Maybe tomorrow the Oracle could tell him where the crocodile was, before it could kill again.

There was so much else he could have asked her!

Tomorrow, he thought. I will speak to her again tomorrow.

Her voice had been so lovely…

‘
Hiss!
’

It was a line of brown geese, marching back home after a day puddling for half-submerged grass.

It was time he was home too.

He ran faster, half sliding down the hill towards the town. He’d already broken one rule: hunting without his guard. The King indulged his younger son, but he might not be so forgiving if Narmer turned up late and muddy for a feast. Especially not this afternoon, when there was a guest like the Trader in the palace.

Imagine a trader crossing the Endless Desert! Only the People of the Sand lived out there!

There were stories about a world beyond the Endless Desert, of course. That was where ebony came from, and cinnamon, and the more-than-precious myrrh, beloved of the gods for its rich scent and healing powers. What had the Oracle said that the Trader had brought with him? ‘All the glories from beyond the furthest horizon!’

The Trader and his men had rested in the guesthouse today. This afternoon there was a feast, as befitted an
honoured guest, and there would be another feast tomorrow. Only on the third day would business be discussed and the treasures unwrapped. And on the fourth day the Trader and his men would be gone, before the dew had risen from the ground. This was tradition too—no guest stayed for more than three days of hospitality.

One day I’ll have to deal with traders by myself, thought Narmer. One day when I am king. I’ll be the one who bargains our grain for ebony, or ivory from the south. The thought excited him.

He was near the town now. He splashed through the shallows up to the dyke, then ran along its top till he reached the gate in the high mud-brick walls, the first defence against the attacks of the People of the Sand from the desert, and the people of Yebu to the north.

Now that the water was falling Narmer could see where the flood had eaten chunks from the walls. They’ll have to be repaired as soon as the water recedes a bit more, thought Narmer automatically.

That was the first question he’d ask the Oracle tomorrow, he decided: when would the People of the Sand attack again? And was there any way to arrange a truce with them, as his father had done by arranging a marriage between Narmer and the Princess of Yebu?

Now he was through the gate and into the main street, past Seto the flint knapper, past the barbers, still with a few customers to be shaved and oiled, past the bakers, their ovens cooling now in the late afternoon.

People stopped their work to stare at him as he ran past, to smile and bow. One of the bakers shuffled out, his body
bent over as he held out a gift for Narmer. ‘For you, o Golden One! May your beauty live a thousand years!’ he cried, still bowing respectfully.

Narmer stopped and accepted the offering. It was a flat cake of date bread, sweet with wild honey and rich with sesame seeds.

Narmer bit into the soft crust and smiled. ‘Thank you…Fenotup, isn’t it?’

The man’s face lit up at having his name remembered. ‘Yes, o Golden One. Blessings on you and your father and your father’s house.’

‘Blessings on your house too, Fenotup, and on your good bread and your oven.’

Narmer broke into a jog again, still munching on his bread. It was undignified, running and eating in full view of the people. But better than being late. And besides, he was the Golden One. Whatever the Golden One did must be right.

The palace stood higher than the rest of the town, on its own man-made hill, surrounded by high walls that were topped with sharp stones. Narmer climbed the steps and ducked through the low stone archway that led into the First Courtyard, with its long pool and fruit trees.

From here he could see the other courtyards through the colonnades: the women’s quarters, where Father’s women lived, and further along the servants’ quarters, then on the other side the kitchen courtyard, with its lotus pool and fish ponds. Narmer glimpsed the flickers of a fire already lit for the afternoon meal, a platter of vegetables waiting to be peeled, giant pots of palm sap or date beer brewing in the shade of the date palms, and women sitting in the
shade of acacia and sycamore trees, grinding the wheat and barley for tomorrow’s bread.

The guest quarters were in their own walled area beyond the main palace, though guests were attended by the palace servants. Guests were strangers, so it was safer not to admit them into the heart of the palace itself.

Narmer’s rooms were near the King’s. He had moved there from the women’s quarters when he was six. His brother Hawk’s rooms were further away, fine rooms, as befitted a son of King Scorpion. But neither as grand nor as near the King as Narmer’s.

He could hear old Seknut’s cough as she approached while he was washing his face and arms in the basin in the corner of his private courtyard. Seknut had been his mother’s nurse, then his nurse after his mother died when he was born. Sometimes Narmer wondered what it would be like to have a mother. But even though Seknut was a servant, not even able to touch her royal charge these days without permission, Narmer was sure that no one else could have cared for him so devotedly.

These days Seknut’s back was bent, her teeth were worn to stumps, and she had the sand cough badly. But she still kept a sharp eye on everything, from his tooth cleaning to the contents of his chamber pot.

Narmer grinned at her affectionately as she draped his clean kilt over the big wooden chest in the corner of the room. ‘I know. I’m late.’

Seknut gave a shadow of a bow, then sat on the edge of the bed and peered at him short-sightedly. It was forbidden
to sit without permission in the presence of the royal family. But no one had ever had the courage to remind her.

‘Look at you! Barefoot like a baker’s boy! Where were you?’ Other servants would have bowed to the ground, called him Prince or Golden One. But it was unrealistic to expect someone who had wiped your bum as a baby to do all that.

‘Hunting.’

‘Your royal father sent for you. I had to tell him I didn’t know where you were.’ Seknut sounded as though the crime of not telling her were far greater than that of disappointing a king.

Narmer grinned again. ‘I bet he guessed where I’d gone. He used to slip off hunting too when he was my age.’

‘Your feet are dirty. It’s not seemly for a prince to be seen with bare feet.’

‘My sandals slip on the rock.’ Narmer rubbed the dust off his chest with a damp cloth, then began to wash his feet as well.

‘You should bathe properly.’

‘No time.’

Seknut coughed again. She watched as Narmer undid his everyday kilt and wrapped the clean one about his waist. It was his best, made of finely woven linen bleached white by the sun, with a thin band of red about the hem. Then he pulled on his jewellery: a gold armlet and an antelope-bone necklace with a polished amulet.

Seknut gave a small approving smile, the same one she’d given all those years ago when he managed to use his pot instead of mess the floor.

‘What have you found out about the Trader?’ demanded Narmer. Seknut heard everything that happened in the palace. No servant would dare keep a secret from Seknut.

‘His men are polite, and they know how to wash and not throw their bones on the floor.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But that animal of theirs smells.’

‘What animal?’ Narmer dragged a comb through his long hair.

‘They have a—’ She broke off as the sound of a flute filtered through the colonnades. The feast had begun. ‘Hurry!’ she urged. ‘Your royal father will be annoyed.’

‘Do I look all right?’

Seknut inspected him. ‘You’ll do.’ Other people heaped praised on the Golden One, but this was as close to a compliment as Seknut ever came.

Narmer patted her hand. ‘I’ll save you a hunk of hippopotamus from the feast.’

Seknut’s eyes almost vanished into her wrinkles as she glared at him. ‘And how would my old gums eat hippopotamus? Nasty tough meat it is.’

‘Every hippo we eat is one less in the fields.’ Hippopotamuses were the worst pests of the flood season, pushing their way through the carefully built dykes so that water flooded into the orchards and swamped the trees.

‘The cook has made mutton bread,’ said Seknut, trying to sound casual. Sheep’s meat was reserved for the King and his family and honoured guests. But Narmer knew Seknut loved the tiny pastries filled with minced meat, fruit and the soft fat from sheep’s tails.

‘I’ll save you some,’ he called as he ran out the door.

Narmer slowed down as he reached the end of the colonnade that led to Royal Courtyard. It wouldn’t do to gallop in like an ox stung by bees. He glanced through the painted pillars. His father and brother were already seated under the sycamore and carob trees by the lotus pool.

That other man must be the Trader, thought Narmer. He felt a flash of disappointment. The Trader looked just like anybody else. He was older than Narmer had expected. His beard was grey and trimmed square as a house brick. His head was almost bald, and his face was wrinkled like a brown fig left to dry in the sun. A fourth person sat there too, his face hidden by a scarf.

Narmer walked sedately through the archway of flaming bougainvillea flowers and bowed his face to the tiles respectfully. ‘Father.’

‘My son.’ The King waved a hand to the stool beside him. During feasts only the King sat on a throne, and only his heir sat on a stool. The others sat on cushions, except for the flute player in the shadows, his music no louder than the tinkle of the fountain, who sat cross-legged on a woven mat.

Narmer sat down and nodded at his brother, who smiled back pleasantly. Hawk was always pleasant to his brother. Sometimes—especially when he was younger—Narmer had wished his brother would be…different. Laugh with him, play ball with him, even argue with him like other brothers he sometimes saw in the streets of Thinis, quarrelling then making up, then squabbling again, even their arguments showing how close they were.

But Hawk stayed distant. Perhaps, thought Narmer, it was part of being royal.

Hawk was in his early twenties, almost twice Narmer’s age. He was tall and good-looking enough, Narmer had always thought, apart from his eyes, which bulged like a frog’s, and his skin, which was pitted from the pimples he’d had when he was younger.

Narmer had sometimes wondered if Hawk would have been his father’s heir if only he had been as handsome as Narmer. Would the people have loved Hawk more if his skin had been smooth and golden?

Narmer knew that if he had been in Hawk’s position he would have found it hard to accept the King’s decision. But the King represented the gods. Whatever the King said
had
to be right. And Hawk had never shown that he felt the King’s choice was anything but wise. When Narmer was king Hawk would make the perfect vizier, supporting his brother’s decisions for the good of the land.

Tonight Hawk was the perfect prince. He had dressed with far more care than Narmer. He had even shaved, and had plucked the hairs from his hands and arms.

Narmer forgot about his brother, and glanced at the Trader instead. Had someone as well dressed as this really come through the Endless Desert? It was hard to believe that there was anything of value beyond the River.

The Trader gazed back at him thoughtfully. Unlike the bare-chested locals, the Trader wore a tunic that covered his chest and arms and fell almost to his ankles. His only ornament was the garland of poppies and lotus flowers around his shoulders that the palace women had made for the guest of honour at the feast.

The Trader’s companion wore the concealing tunic too, as well as a headdress, and the scarf that hid his mouth and nose. Only his eyes showed, and his hands and feet. His hands were small and slender. Young hands, thought Narmer.

He sniffed. The companion smelt…strange. A scent of spices, and an almost familiar animal smell too. Was there something odd about the boy’s feet as well? Yes—one was scarred so badly that half the ankle looked eaten away. Narmer wondered how the young man had managed to walk through the desert.

Suddenly he realised he’d been staring. He forced his gaze away from the strangers and smiled at his father instead.

‘You’re late,’ said the King affectionately, smiling back at his son. The King wore his usual starched kilt, and the gold belt with the bull’s tail hanging from it: the symbol of his power. There was gold at his wrists and on his sandals too.

‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I was…’ Narmer hesitated. He wanted to tell the King about his adventure with the Oracle to excuse his lateness—and also to get the King’s advice on
what questions to ask tomorrow. But the Oracle was too important for dinner conversation. Besides, it was…private.

‘I was hunting,’ he said instead.

The King frowned. ‘By yourself?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘How many times have I told you—’

‘How you ran to the hills when you were my age? Many times!’ said Narmer, grinning up at his father. ‘And of course there was the time you hunted that hippopotamus all by yourself…’

The King broke into laughter. ‘You see how he rules me?’ he asked the Trader proudly. ‘Let us hope he rules the country with as much zeal and success.’

The Trader’s expression didn’t change. He doesn’t understand, Narmer realised. He’s like the People of the Sand. He doesn’t know our speech.

‘If you’ll permit, great King?’ The voice behind the scarf was soft and low-pitched. There was an almost-accent too, a curious lilt to the words.

He’s young, thought Narmer, no older than I am, perhaps. Perhaps the young man covered his mouth so it would seem that the master said the words, not the servant.

The King nodded. The young man began to translate for his master, so softly and quickly that it was hard to make out the words.

The Trader’s face broke into a grin. He said something to the Translator.

‘My master says he would like to hear the tale of the king who single-handedly caught a hippopotamus, o great King of all magnificence,’ translated the young man quietly.

The King laughed as he gestured to the servants to bring in the food. ‘I was only a prince back then, Narmer’s age, a year older perhaps. There was a high flood that year, and…’

Narmer hardly listened. He had heard the story many times, from both Seknut and the King. Instead, he looked at the food as the servants began to bring in the platters. He was hungry, despite the snack that the baker had given him. The King and his family always ate well, but tonight would be special, to honour their guest.

There was no hippopotamus, as Narmer had promised Seknut. But there were hunks of roast mutton, deliciously greasy, as well as the mutton pastries that Seknut had craved. There were roast reed birds stuffed with figs, grilled catfish, date bread, honey bread, fig bread, goose eggs baked till they were hard and served with yoghurt sauce, beans baked in a pot with wild honey and herbs, the first of the season’s papyrus stems, steamed till they were soft, a dish of leeks and celery, and barley beer or bright red pomegranate juice to drink.

The servants knelt before the King, then rose to offer the food to each person: first the King, then Narmer, then the Trader, then Prince Hawk, and finally the Trader’s companion. But the young man ate little, lifting the food up under his scarf as he nibbled at shreds of meat or papyrus stem.

Finally platters of jujubes, dried grapes, and stuffed figs and dates were left on the ground for everyone to help themselves, with the King’s favourite dishes placed on a table by his throne.

The King finished his story and the guests murmured appreciatively. The King picked up a cluster of raisins and
chewed one pensively. ‘Perhaps,’ he said to the Translator, ‘your master might have a story of his own. We would be honoured to hear something of his travels.’

The Translator turned to his master. Once again the words were almost too soft and rapid to follow.

The Trader looked thoughtful again. He glanced up at Narmer, as though coming to a decision. Then he began to speak, and the Translator’s low voice echoed his words.

‘O great King, ruler of the most magnificent town on the most glorious of rivers, my master will tell you of his first voyage, when he was no older than Prince Narmer—may your son have peace and plenty for many years.’

The Translator bowed his head respectfully to Narmer. His husky voice continued. ‘My master travelled with his grandfather and thirty men. But halfway across the sea their ship was hit by a storm.’

‘You can count?’ asked Narmer. Few people could count further than their fingers. It was hard to believe that anyone beyond the River could be so skilled.

He could almost hear the smile in the young man’s voice. ‘Of course, o glorious Prince. What use is a humble trader’s servant who can’t count?’

‘But how can a boat carry thirty men?’ cried Narmer.

‘You are discourteous, my son,’ rebuked the King.

‘I’m sorry, Father. But—’

‘There are ships in other lands that are much larger than your fishing boats,’ said the Translator. ‘But this is my master’s story…

‘The waves leapt like goats, and were as high as hills. For three days the ship was tossed like wheat at the threshing.
But on the fourth night the wind vanished. When the crew woke the sea was as flat as unleavened bread. And there was an island in front of them.

‘It was a bare island, just two hills like skulls, side by side. No trees. No sand. Just rock down to the shore.

‘But that wasn’t the strangest thing. From the island came the most glorious voice my master had ever heard.

‘It was a woman, singing. Even now, after all his years, my master says he has never heard a voice like it.’

The Trader interrupted, his voice suddenly harsh. Once again his gaze seemed focused on Narmer alone.

‘Or wanted to,’ the boy translated quietly.

The Trader began to speak again. The Translator took up the tale, talking easily, as though he could both listen and translate at the same time. Or perhaps, thought Narmer, he had heard this story so many times before that he knew it by heart.

‘The shore was too rocky for the ship to beach safely. But there was a smaller boat on board, about the size of the reed boats on your river here. Every man on board longed to be first ashore, to find the woman who sang so sweetly. But the boat could only carry two men at a time.

‘So the Captain went first, with a sailor to paddle. They leapt onto the rocks, pulled up the canoe and ran between the hills.

‘And my master waited, and so did everyone else on board.

‘But the Captain didn’t return. And still the song came from the island, the sweetest voice it was possible to hear.

‘One of the sailors could swim, so my master’s grandfather sent him to bring the boat back. Then my master’s
grandfather set out with another sailor. But before he left he took his grandson, my master, aside.

‘“If I do not return, do not look for me,” he said. “I entrust the ship, her cargo and the men to you. Sail away. Do not look back and never look for me again.”

‘“Why, Grandfather?” my master cried.

‘But his grandfather wouldn’t answer.

‘My master watched them paddle across the water, until they too pulled up at the rocks and went ashore, then vanished between the hills.

‘The shadows grew longer and still no one came back. The voice sang as sweetly as ever. Night fell, and the voice died away. But still no one came down to the boat at the shore.

‘No one on board slept that night. The sailors were waiting for the voice to sing again. And my master was waiting for his grandfather.

‘Dawn rose, pink and clear. And as the sun climbed above the waves the voice began to sing again.

‘My master hesitated till the sun was at its height. He knew he should obey his grandfather’s command. But he also knew that if he left his grandfather stranded on the island, he could never forgive himself.

‘So he begged the sailor to swim to the island again. And when the boat was brought back my master and the sailor began to paddle across to the island.

‘Closer and closer they came…The voice grew louder, and sweeter too. They pulled the boat up onto the rocks.

‘My master said, “Wait! We must go carefully. You wait here and—”

‘But the sailor had already gone. Like the others, he was mesmerised by the voice and had vanished into the gully between the hills.’

The Trader stopped, to drink from his mug. The Translator stopped politely too, though Narmer was sure the young man could have finished the story by himself.

The Trader cleared his throat. He looked thoughtfully at Narmer for a moment, then began again.

‘The others had all disappeared between the rocks. So my master crept up the hill instead, sneaked over the summit on his belly and looked down.

‘There was a clearing between the hills, hidden from the sea. A woman sat on one of the rocks. All my master could see was her hair, long and black and shining like a river in full flood. For a moment she seemed as beautiful as her voice.

‘And then she turned, so he could glimpse her face. It looked young. Her features were lovely, except for her eyes, as cold as ashes. Her mouth was black, and so were her teeth and hands.

‘And the black was…blood,’ said the Translator simply. ‘Dried blood. There was a blowpipe beside her, with thorns that might have been poison darts. And there, tied to stakes, were the Captain, the two sailors and my master’s grandfather, with blood draining from wounds in their necks into stone cups below.’

Narmer felt his skin crawl, as if ants were creeping over him. ‘But…but what…’ he began.

‘She was an afreet,’ said the Translator in his low voice. ‘In the desert they lure a man out into the endless dry to
send him mad. At sea they lure men from their ships and then they feast on them.

‘But what was worse—so much worse—was that my master’s grandfather saw my master up on the cliff as the blood dripped from his veins. But he couldn’t move.

‘My master tried to read the expression in his eyes. Was he calling for rescue, or to be left to die so his grandson might be safe?

‘It didn’t matter. My master flung himself down the cliff onto the afreet. It was obvious she didn’t expect anything of the kind as his knife went into her back. She turned, her eyes wide, and my master saw that her teeth were crusted with the skin of men. Her breath smelt worse than a hundred privies, for privies do not smell of death.

‘“How did you resist me?” she whispered.

‘“My manhood was stolen from me years ago,” said my master. “But it seems that the thieves have unknowingly given me my life.”’