Shadows on the Aegean (22 page)

Cheftu watched the carefully painted faces of the elders. Confusion warred with anger. “My Majesty,” another man said, “we
are of the land. What is there for our children to inherit if not our property?”

“You will
be
of the land, you and your children and your children’s children. You may work and live on the land, but forty percent of
everything harvested will come into my coffers. In this way you thank Pharaoh for rescuing you in a time when you surely would
have died.”

They were caught. The penalty for evading taxes was slavery. Families could be broken apart and sold. Ipiankhu leaned forward
again, whispering to Senwosret.

“Additionally,” Pharaoh said, “I will grant one from your village a special accord to visit in my palace and to serve as a
representative of your village here in Avaris.”

Cheftu’s lips twitched. Wily old man! Divide and conquer. Make each man so determined to win this new place that he fails
to notice he has sold himself for all time. Was this the beginning of Pharaoh’s economic power? Cheftu wondered. This man?
If Senwosret offered this assistance agreement to just half of the nobles, that would account for the size of Pharaoh’s estates
in generations to come. Cheftu remained expressionless.

“What say you?”

The elders glanced at each other. “My Majesty, whom will you choose?”

“No one, until I know we have a bargain.”

They huddled, arguing silently. You have no choice, Cheftu thought.

“Aye, we accept, My Majesty,” an older man said. “And I nominate—”

“Tell it to the scribe,” Pharoah cut him off. “One of you will sit at my table tonight. Life, health, and prosperity to you
and your beloved ones.”

They backed toward another door as the chamberlain announced the next request.

Cheftu watched with glazed eyes as petitioners came before Pharaoh. Men, women, everyone from the highest priest to the lowest
beer maid had the right to seek an audience with Amun-Ra incarnate in Pharaoh.

The courtroom finally cleared of petitioners and the scribe rose, for Pharaoh was going to review the paltry troops immediately
afterward. The courtiers shifted, weary from the ritual. “Is there something My Majesty has forgotten?” said Nestor, the envoy.

Cheftu watched Imhotep and Ipiankhu exchange glances. He felt his throat tighten. His thumb brushed over the Aztlantu ring,
turned on his finger.

“Have you a petition, foreigner?” the chamberlain asked.

Nestor smiled, a predatory smile, Cheftu thought. “Greetings from
Hreesos
Zelos,” he said, walking forward, the feathers in his hair trembling with momentum. At the snap of his fingers, the chamber
doors opened. The courtiers exclaimed at the parade of gifts.

“Embroidered linens from Arachne, Clan of the Muse!” Nestor cried as vibrant bolts of cloth were unrolled at Pharaoh’s feet.

“Supple furs from Kouvari, Clan of the Horn!” Leopard, zebra, and lion skins were draped on the steps to the dais.

“Secrets of the sea, from Ariadne, Clan of the Wave!” A conch shell the size of a large cat, overflowing with pearls, was
laid at Pharaoh’s feet.

“Jewels from the catacombs of Pluto, Clan of the Stone!” A wooden box was handed to Pharaoh. Ipiankhu opened it cautiously,
and Cheftu almost whistled. Precious stones of tourmaline, turquoise, sapphire, citrine, and onyx filled the box.

“Delicacies from the Clan of the Vine!” Slaves carrying pointed flasks of alabaster and shell placed them in gold stands around
Pharaoh. Baskets of dried fruit were set at his feet.

Nestor paused, smiling. “Now, My Majesty, I present the empire’s most precious mystery, most luscious export.” He chuckled,
a hint of the ribald in his tone. “From the Cult of the Snake I gift you with Pythia, a Coil Dancer!”

Flutes began to play, and a woman glided in. Her body was completely covered … in sheer veiling. Hair the color of ripe berries
fell to her knees, and Cheftu saw courtiers recoil and touch their amulets.

Not only was she redheaded, her eyes were deep blue. Nestor had erred greatly, Cheftu thought. Though there was no doubting
the seduction of her movements, the Egyptians believed that redheads were synonymous with Set, the destroyer god. Set had
murdered his brother Osiris, and only through the diligence of Osiris’ wife was the king reassembled and resurrected. In Egyptian
eyes, this red-haired dancing woman was kin to a demon. She was a
kheft
-maiden.

Having blue eyes made her even more alien and demonic.

She whirled, gyrated, spun, and finally flung herself panting onto the furs. Her hair brushed Pharaoh’s foot, and Ipiankhu
quickly moved it away. It was customary at the end of gift giving for the receiver to reciprocate. This was how the bulls
and Cheftu himself would be transferred. However, Pharaoh was greatly displeased. Would he flout tradition?

“Remove this woman,” Pharaoh commanded tersely. The court tensed visibly, and Nestor’s eyes glittered.

“She is a nymph, a maid, as you say,” he explained.

“Her appearance offends me!”

Nestor snapped his fingers, and the Aztlantu slaves led her away. The envoy stood stiffly, an offended peacock. “In honor
of our Becoming Golden ceremony this year, we offer the bounty of our land.”

Ipiankhu leaned forward, whispering in Senwosret’s ear. Cheftu saw Pharaoh’s fingers tighten on his emblems of office. “We
gift
Hreesos
with Apis bulls.”

Nestor turned around, as though looking for them.

“They will be delivered at dawn, before you catch the morning tide,” Senwosret said. His meaning was lost on no one, and the
envoy’s face reddened.

“My gratitude,” he said shortly.

“My Majesty also shares with
Hreesos
our most valuable asset. Our people.”

“We shall endeavor to be gracious hosts.”

Ipiankhu clapped, and the people walked in. Cheftu forced himself to stare straight ahead. He needed to be one of them! A
lord and lady, to judge from their clothing, twin boys of ten Inundations, a girl just entering puberty, and an older man,
a merchant judging by his un-Egyptian beard. All were thin, fragile. Products of the famine, Cheftu thought. Senwosret spoke.
“They too will arrive at your ships at dawn tomorrow.”

Nestor was furious. He stepped closer, and the guards around Pharaoh drew to attention, shifting their weapons slightly. “You
shame Egypt and Aztlan,” he hissed. Though the room strained to hear, only the five on the dais did. “These people are sick!
They are of no worth to Aztlan.”

Senwosret spoke, his mouth barely moving. “We are in a famine, my lord envoy. Perhaps next time your mighty empire chooses
to rape and pillage, you will choose another land?”

Nestor blanched, apparently realizing what he’d said. “Nay, My Majesty, of course not. Egypt has been, and always will be,
our sister, raised alongside and loved by the same gods.” Nestor’s left hand played nervously with the edge of his kilt. “If,
in a show of good favor, I could have just one guest with a …”

“Title?” Ipiankhu suggested.

The envoy smiled. “A title would be graciousness itself. I am sure My Majesty, in his … wisdom … understands the folly of
my returning with such paltry specimens of Egypt. I fear the Council would … wish to speak to you on these shores.”

The threat was clear: hand over someone else or Aztlan would invade.

“Take me, my lord,” Cheftu said.

Nestor turned to him abruptly. “Who are you?”

“He is the foremost mage of our court,” Imhotep said. “My father, your Spiralmaster, would be pleased with his wisdom.”

“Your name?”

“He is Cheftu Necht-mer, first physician of the Eye, beloved of Thoth, chosen of Nephthys, and hearer of the god,” Ipiankhu
answered. Cheftu crossed his chest with his arm, a sketchy bow, listening to the vizier craft his tale.

“Why would you give him up, My Majesty?” Nestor asked Senwosret.

“Horus-on-the-Throne has yet to speak.”

The court gasped at Pharaoh’s words. Cheftu dared not look at the two lords; they carried his fate in their hands. Senwosret
clapped, summoning wine, and the clenched group at the dais unbent enough to sip from alabaster cups.

“Step away, my lord envoy,” Senwosret said over his cup. The envoy moved away, and Senwosret turned to Cheftu. “You are Egyptian,
a friend to this court. I would know why you choose to be with foreigners.”

“It is my destiny, My Majesty. Written for me by the hands of Thoth and HatHor.”

“I forbid it,” Senwosret said.

“My Majesty’s oath means so little?” Cheftu knew by Imhotep’s hiss that he had gone too far, but by the horns of HatHor, he
must get to Aztlan!

Senwosret’s gaze was cutting. “I am Pharaoh, my word is Ma’at. I vowed you any boon.” He gestured with his chin, and the scribe
hurried to Nestor’s side. Senwosret spoke to the envoy. “My lord is your gift. Leave the others here. They are ill and need
the red and black lands of Kemt to heal them.” Pharaoh’s tone brooked no argument.

Nestor glared at Cheftu. “By dawn, Egyptian lord.”

Senwosret rose, and the group on the dais left in his wake. Surprised that his legs even worked, Cheftu walked down the stone
steps.

Dawn stained the sky as Cheftu watched the sails unfurl. The wind snapped the huge purple woven sheets, finely embroidered
with a crab, triton, and shell. The ship dwarfed the Egyptian boats. On the other Aztlantu ship men took their places at the
oars.

Each of the three ships carried forty bulls; in the event a mishap befell any one ship, the sacred Aztlantu ritual could still
be consummated. Though Egypt had promised only one hundred bulls, Ipiankhu had apparently decided it worthwhile to add the
other twenty.

The first ship began to move away from the docks. The bow was the same height as the back of the ship, so the rowers sat facing
the opposite direction. There was no need to back out of the harbor or turn the massive ship. Sunlight warmed their straining
muscles as the rowers pulled, in rhythm to the low beat Cheftu heard from across the waters.

“My lord?” Ipiankhu stood by the rail. He smiled and bowed. “I wanted to wish you a good journey. Are you certain this is
what you want?”

Cheftu nodded. He had to be certain; it was done.

The vizier gripped Cheftu’s arms. “May Shu blow you safely to your destination. May Ra shine on your journey. May Nuit kiss
your dreams every night until you return to Egypt.”

“Life, health, and prosperity,” Cheftu said slowly, debating his next words. Why not? “Will you tell Imhotep this? ‘Your teeth
bring you pain. Teach your children to sift their bread flour ten times, and chew mint with each meal.’” Ipiankhu smiled and
began to turn, but Cheftu laid a hand on his arm. “One more thing, my lord …” He leaned closer, his words lost beneath the
beat of the timekeeper’s drum.

I
PIANKHU SAT DOWN HEAVILY
in his chair and commanded the slaves to run immediately to his home. His hands were trembling and his throat felt closed.
He looked at himself. Egyptianized. Shaven like a priest, clothed in the finest kilt, and draped with gold necklaces portraying
a pantheon of gods and goddesses. His hands were soft, no calluses, no marks. The hands of a nobleman.

Closing his eyes, Ipiankhu thanked his god, the God of his tribe, for the sign he had received.
Cheftu’s tale was true!
It was the will of the Unknown that Senwosret build the chamber. Why, Ipiankhu did not know. The sun shone without his understanding,
but it shone. He ran his hand over his chin, a habit he’d acquired from his tribe, though he had never had a beard to know
the feeling. In the silence of the traveling chair, the words Cheftu had spoken echoed in his head.

“Shalom, Yosef ben Y’srael. You shall be a great nation.”