Out of the Black Land

Chapter Eighteen

Mutnodjme

That strange possession, that pouring into the human vessel of the spirit of the gods, had never happened to me before, though I recognised it from the description of a priestess of Isis who had lain down with Osiris-priest one night of Tybi and had risen forever changed.

It was so strong that it felt as though Ptah-hotep had been branded on my body. For days after that Isis and Osiris mating I could feel the phallus inside me, the hip bones butting the inside of my thighs, the sense that I was inside him and he was inside me. After much thought I concluded that it had been the gods, seeking a place where they could meet and mate, and my lover Ptah-hotep and I had been willing receptacles for their divine lust. I was honoured, though bruised.

The day of the sed festival dawned fresh and clear. I clothed myself in a long robe, hoping to escape the notice of the others, though I was wasting my effort. They all knew. Widow-Queen Tiye told me solemnly not to watch the worship of Aten from the window this morning, as it was patent that I was not ritually clean. I was not. But I felt exalted, raised high, pure. I wondered if my lord felt the same.

I could see him, standing by the King Akhnaten, outwardly collected and calm as he always was; inwardly worried about the festival, the organisation, the weather—would a sandstorm blow today of all days when everyone was required to be outside?

I came away from the window as ordered, but not before I knew that I had just seen into another human’s heart. I knew what Ptah-hotep was thinking. Not exactly as to this matter and that, but what he was worrying about.

This was new, and I did not know what to make of it.

Merope relayed the sight to me as I sat on the floor, nursing the mortally sick child of my sister Nefertiti, the little Princess Setepenre. As my dear Kritian talked, life gently left the little body and it slowly cooled. I had seen many babies die—some fathers do not even see a child under two years old, because in a bad season more than half of them will perish—but her little body was so light and her life had been so brief that I wept quietly as Merope told me of the festival.

‘The king is out in the courtyard, wearing a loincloth. Now he is surrendering his crown to your father, who is dressed in his leopard’s skin. He looks indescribable. He can hardly move under the weight of his decorations. Now the king is running, it’s a pity you can’t see this,’ she broke off to laugh. ‘He’s come to the eastern corner and bowed to it and is being splashed with water. Now he is running to the west, and there is a priest with a torch for fire. Now to the north, for earth; and now the south, for air; but he’s slowing down—will he make it? Yes, he’s back before Father Ay. Now there’s a ritual combat. He has to kill a bull. They’re leading it in now.’

‘Give me the child,’ said Queen Tiye, and took the lax body out of my arms. ‘I will dispose of her fittingly. I do not fear the touch of the dead.’

She took the baby from me and cradled it in her arms, moulding the little limbs into their final position and wrapping the body in a long, heavily embroidered cloth. She gave the parcel to Sahte, who nodded and slipped away. Royal children under five are not embalmed, but buried fittingly in the nearest royal tomb. Setepenre would join her father indeed, although Sahte would have to send her back to the Valley of the Kings for that purpose.

I wondered who in this City of the New Sun was willing to carry out the duties of Osiris Priest. Sahte, however, knew everyone. I was sure that the small dead creature would be in a suitable tomb by nightfall tomorrow. It is not proper to mourn over the death of a baby, for it happens so often that if full rites were observed no family would ever be out of mourning.

‘The mother will have to know of this, but not yet,’ said Widow-Queen Tiye to me in an undertone. ‘Princess the lady Setepenre has gone to her father Amenhotep-Osiris in the Field of Reeds, and he will care for her. Better so, perhaps, than the fate which might meet her in the Black Land. Now, what is happening outside the window? Has my son killed his bull?’

‘No, he’s chasing it around the courtyard. Now the priests are holding it still. The blade comes down, so!’ commented Merope. ‘A bad blow, but Divine Father Ay has completed it and now the bull is dead. What happens next, Lady?’

‘There will be an offering of roasted flesh to the god and then a great feast,’ said Tiye. ‘Come down from the window, daughter. We should sit down on the floor. The little princess is dead.’

‘Oh, ‘Nodjme, you should have called me!’ said Merope. ‘Poor little princess. The season has been cruel. And I fear that Neferneferure is ailing, as well. She will not suckle. The nurse was here this morning, asking if we had any healing infusions for the baby. I told her to ask the palace physician.’

‘That idiot will infallibly murder the baby,’ said Widow-Queen Tiye. ‘Why did you not supply her with some poppy?’

‘Because the King Akhnaten has forbidden any woman to practice medicine, and I do not want to be deprived of nose and ears and sent into exile,’ said Merope frankly. ‘I would not mind if they were going to send me home to the Island in the Great Green Sea, but lately they have been sending prisoners into the Red Waste, and nothing lives there for long except snakes and scorpions.’

‘No women can practise medicine? What nonsense!’ said Tiye wearily.

‘The Lord King says that only outmoded and forbidden cults teach herbs and spells, so that they must not be used.’

‘Gods of all Egypt, that my early sins should be punished by such a son!’ Tiye got up with some difficulty and straightened her back. ‘Send the poppy to the nurse, Merope, in my name.’

‘Lady,’ I said, touching her arm. ‘He might kill you if you disobey his orders.’

‘Then let him kill me, for if they are foolish orders I will disobey them. But he would never dare,’ said Tiye without heat.

I hoped that she was right.

Meanwhile, I was glowing, in love with a man for the first time in my life. I would see him at the great sed festival feast. Ptah-hotep, Great Royal Scribe. My lover. The thought was new and intoxicating.

We spent the rest of the day in bathing and combing our hair and anointing ourselves with our favourite perfumes. I always liked the river-scents. Labdanum, a tree-resin, and galbanum, an oil derived from the scented rushes which fringed the river wherever papyrus would not grow.

A scribe from the office of the Great Royal Scribe was admitted, however, a little after noon, and he gave into my hands a small flask made of alabaster, made in the shape of a nesting bird. In it was oil of cinnamon and cassia, a precious gift from my lord Ptah-hotep. Combined with my usual scents, it was a new compound, erotic and cool, hot and considered. Very like, I thought, our relationship, which had been formed in conspiracy and was now heavily-charged with emotion. The others exclaimed at the delightful smell.

‘There is more in you than meets the eyes, Mistress of Isis,’ said Widow-Queen Tiye, inspecting me with her slate-coloured gaze. I flicked a glance at the scribe, but he preserved a blank countenance as though he had not heard the King’s mother using the name of a forbidden god. I bade him thank my lord Ptah-hotep for his present, and he left with one of my finger-rings wrapped in a veil as a return gift.

‘If I didn’t know better I would swear that the perfume was a morning-gift,’ said Tiye may she live forever. ‘But such is only for the first time, not for lovers of such long standing as you and the Great Royal Scribe. Fortunate Mutnodjme, to have such a grateful lover!’

Widow-Queen Tiye’s guesses were always close to the mark and I turned away to sniff at my wrist, where the new blend was ripening into a truly devastating scent.

‘Was it good?’ asked Merope wistfully. I was unwilling to talk about the mating, it had been so strange, but I owed her something. Merope would not lie with a man again. Theoretically she now belonged to the heir of her husband, which was King Akhnaten. She knew as well as I did that her body would not be demanded by that King.

‘Tell me about making love to Amenhotep-Osiris,’ I said, and she drifted away into erotic reminiscence of the old man, his soft mouth, his gentle ways, his sure fingers which found the way to every centre of response. The account sounded remarkably like my experience of Ptah-hotep, and I said so.

I would never reveal, because no one would ever believe me, the sudden intimacy with his mind as well as his body, the sense of fusion of opposites into one being. Even sitting with Merope in the Widow-Queen’s apartments and combing the long hair of Tiye may she live I could feel Ptah-hotep’s concern for many matters; feel also his memory of me, which was precious to him, as he was precious to me. I had no words to describe this experience. They all belonged to mysteries, where there was a fusion of worshipper and worshipped, and it had not been like that. We were equals, primeval, one flesh.

‘He was sweet, so skilled that he melted my stiff sinews and made me cry out,’ I said, and Merope sighed. ‘I loved the fragrance of his skin, and here he has given me his own scent. His chest was a pillow for my head and his mouth delighted me. And if I add a little oil of unefer, you shall perceive him as we lay together.’

I dropped a little oil of unefer on my wrist and the perfume became unbearably erotic. I stank of mating. The mingling of scents came to Merope and she closed her eyes and blushed red.

‘We are glad that you have found a lover, Mutnodjme,’ the Widow-Queen told me. ‘But leave us to mourn, dear daughter, for I cannot bear to smell that scent anymore.’

‘I will wither,’ wept Merope. ‘I will dry up. My flesh will contract on my bones like a corpse laid in the sun. My dearest love is dead, is dead, and no man shall desire me again!’

‘I will grow old,’ said the Widow-Queen in response. ‘My hair will become grey and then white and lines will etch themselves on my face. My heart is with my love, my dearest love, who was taken from me, who waits for me, but I will come to him an old woman, and no man will lie with me again.’

I took myself and my scent of mating out of the room, and their litany went on, and I hope that they comforted each other. I had no comfort for them and no comfort to carry, for I was going to tell my sister that her youngest child was dead.

Fortunately I found Tey in the corridor of glossy marble, lined with fresh pictures of bearers of tribute to the Aten. I caught at her arm as she hurried past me and knelt on the cool stone, a picture of submission.

‘Great Royal Nurse, please wait. Your humble daughter has that to carry which is heavy news for her sister, and wishes to consult with you about when to deliver herself of it.’

‘Setepenre is dead?’ snapped Tey, looking down into my face. I nodded.

‘Your behaviour is most becoming, daughter. I will tell the Great Royal Spouse. Make sure that no one else knows of this who might tell it carelessly. She will be sorry, but it can’t be helped. The body is disposed of suitably?’

‘By the Widow-Queen Tiye and my sister Merope, Lady.’

‘Good. Daughter, have you lain with the Great Royal Scribe?’ She knew this as well as I did.

‘Yes, lady, but I have obeyed your orders. I will not marry him.’

‘It is as you like,’ she said carelessly. ‘Your dowry will be paid to him by the temple of the Phoenix, so it does not concern your Divine Father Ay.’

It was typical of my mother that she forbade me to do something one day and then acted as if it was of no importance the next. Being Tey’s daughter had kept me on my toes for years, never certain from whence the next blow would come. The noise of the sed festival, which was attended with a lot of people blowing horns, came to us dully through the stone walls. A squad of soldiers passed, on the run, spears lowered. Still Tey kept me on my knees. Fortunately the service of Isis had given me strong limbs. I did not move and she relented. If I had been palace trained I would have been in agony, and I allowed a wince to appear on my face. It would never do to let Tey know how little she was inconveniencing me.

‘Very well, daughter,’ she touched my bowed head and went on. I let her get a good way along the passage before I climbed to my feet, rubbed my flattened kneecaps, and walked away.

I could not see Nefertiti in case she asked me about the baby, I did not have any tasks, and the royal women were mourning their loss. There was no room of books in the palace of the Aten, as the texts were still being written. I could not while away the time until the feast by consulting some old writings, because Amarna had no history. I still smelt divine and I wondered whether my lord was feeling as kindly towards me as I was to him.

In fact, I knew that he was, so I went to find him.

Ptah-hotep

I was in love as I had not been since I had first lain with my Kheperren, and I was more than a little confused. What had I to do with a woman, when I had given my heart to a man? What especially had I to do with loving a woman, when Kheperren lived and still loved me?

I banished all my servants and sat in my room, where her scent still lingered, and thought, closing my eyes. Somehow I was aware of her. I felt a sudden stab of sorrow—what had happened? It was not my sorrow, it was hers, it was flavoured with her emotions. What could I do to comfort her?

I sent Hanufer’s scribe to my lady with a present of perfumes, and felt her pleasure as she blended them and remembered me.

This was altogether strange and I did not know what to make of it. However, there it was and there is no use in continually re-testing something which is true, as my Master of Scribes used to say.

And after long reflection, I realised that I could love Kheperren, that I did love him as well as ever. He still had my heart, but so did my lady Mutnodjme. Unusual, perhaps, but my entire life had been marked by odd events. My mother had told me when I was still a naked child that a star had fallen when she gave birth to me, and that she knew I was destined for great things.

My parents were still proud of me. When the King allowed, I would go home to the Nome of the Black Bull and they would hold a welcoming feast, very rustic and delightful, and all the men of the village would congratulate my father on his son. I decided that, when I could, I would take the lady Mutnodjme home to meet my parents and drink the wine of their vineyard, lying under the sycamores by the fish-pool, one of my favourite places in the world. I could imagine her there without any sense of strain, the strong woman with the peasant walk, swapping recipes with my mother and discussing the ancient texts with my father until they proclaimed, ‘She is a jewel who holds our son’s heart!’

My mind was made up. I did love the lady Mutnodjme, I did love Kheperren, and I could do both at once.

Having reached this decision, I got up, washed and dressed in an entirely new cloth and a good selection of jewellery, the lady Mutnodjme’s unobtrusive ring on my finger, and went to the sed festival to see the king rededicate his kingdom to the Aten.

The king did not cut a very good figure at the festival, though we all cheered dutifully as, at the fourth attempt, he finally managed to slay his bull. I suspected that Divine Father Ay actually delivered the killing blow but I was not watching carefully. The bull, in the end, died, and the flesh was butchered by the King’s Aten priests and roasted in the fire which was kindled by a burning glass, a sacred fire lit by the sun itself.

The courtyard began to be redolent less of expensive oils and more of cooking and the commoners of Amarna beyond the walls smelt this and cried out blessings on the King Akhnaten.

‘Joy to the blissful child of the Aten!’ they screamed. ‘Hail the most favoured child of the Great God!’

Fill-belly-love, nurses call it. As soon as I decently could, I left the ceremony, while the foreign dignitaries were still falling at the feet of the re-crowned king and delivering themselves of laudatory messages. I was pleased that Keliya, the son and heir of King Tushratta of Mittani was there, looking well-fed and shining with oil. I waited to make sure that he gave voice to no complaint about his outrageous treatment—he didn’t; and left the ceremony to return to my office, where the new diplomatic correspondence had come in. The tablets were piled in a basket, and no one could read them but Khety and the two old scribes I had brought from Karnak. Khety and his family would be at the festival, but I might be able to find either Harmose or Menna. They were old and had limited taste for new gods or festivals.

I found them both in close conference with my lady Mutnodjme. Now I had supplied these old men with lodgings and food and greeted them with honour and they had repaid me with respect and the exercise of their learning, translating difficult words in all possible ways and doing their utmost to make the writer’s meaning clear. They had been diligent and polite, but I had received no sign of friendship from them and had decided that their learning had dried out their hearts and that they did not particularly care for humans.

And here they were, lounging—Harmose, lounging!—and drinking beer and instructing the Lady Mutnodjme in basic cuneiform as though she was a favoured child and they were both her doting uncles.

I stood at the door for a while and watched them. Menna, who had never broken into even a brief smile while I had known him, was actually laughing at something my lady had said, and Harmose was a little taken aback and surprised as she commented that the name of the king must mean ‘lion’ because the same word was used in three Nubian dialects.

‘My lady,’ I said, and she looked up. Our eyes met and our gaze meshed, like sunlight and lamplight, though I could not have said which was the sun and which the lamp. She did not even have to touch me to know me intimately, but she did.

She took my hand and laid it to her cheek and told the two old men, ‘Here is my lord.’ She poured me a cup of beer and moved a chair so that I could sit, disarranging my office, and then resumed what was evidently a learned conversation.

Menna and Harmose were so enchanted by my remarkable Mutnodjme that they did not resume their previous gravity.

‘I believe that you are correct, Mistress of the House,’ said Menna. ‘If that form means ‘lion’ then the determinative is here, ‘the lion’ meaning the sole and only one, the royal lion. Hmm. Tushratta has written to the Widow-Queen Tiye, master,’ he said to me. ‘It is a difficult passage with many possible meanings. But this is what Harmose and I think it means—with some help from the Mistress,’ he nodded at Mutnodjme.

‘So, what says Tushratta?’

‘To the Mistress of Egypt, Royal Queen Tiye Whom the Royal Lord Akhnaten Loves, Greeting,’ deciphered Menna. ‘The situation of the royal lion is grave, for do not his enemies surge against him like the sea? Do not the birds scorn him, screaming insults into the ears of the King? Send therefore some wise counsel to the lion, lest he be overthrown and his kingdom lost.’

‘Cryptic,’ I said. ‘But one grasps the meaning.’

‘Does one? What does it mean? Who are these birds?’ asked Mutnodjme.

‘Khatti’s banners are always painted with an eagle, ‘I told her. ‘King Suppiluliumas of Khatti is young and ambitious and the only way he can expand is into Tushratta’s territory, because of his neighbours. The Apiru are dangerously unstable, the Babylonians well-organised, the Assyrians very aggressive and the borders of Egypt are guarded. In any case he could only get to the Assyrians through Mittani. Suppiluliumas is taking a huge risk, however, if he is attacking Tushratta. That king has forgotten more about diplomacy, treachery and extortion than Suppiluliumas has ever known, or his father before him. Is there any other way you can read this but for a request for arms?’

‘He’s asked for “wise counsel”, my lord,’ Mutnodjme pointed out.

‘Look at the sign next to it,’ Menna touched the clay tablet with his old, clean hands. ‘See that sign? It means counsel, but it has a secondary meaning.’

‘What is that?’ she asked, leaning close to see and rendering me dizzy with her scent.

‘It means “spear”,’ said Harmose. ‘And written like that, it means a hundred spears.’

‘I see. Clearly this diplomacy is a study for a hundred lifetimes.’

‘Indeed,’ Menna smiled at her. ‘What shall we do, lord Ptah-hotep may you live?’ he asked.

‘We must tell the Widow-Queen,’ I said. ‘We have a treaty with Tushratta and mutual defence was one of the first sentences. We are required to go to his aid if he asks for it.’

‘There have been three letters prior to this one,’ Menna said uncomfortably. ‘The King came in one day when we were working on the translations and took them away with him, saying that his Master of the House would deal with them.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I demanded, seriously worried. The Aten alone knew what the King might have done with a demand for aid, let alone Huy the unreliable.

‘The King said not to bother you with such matters,’ Menna was equally uncomfortable. ‘So we assumed that it was taken care of. And now here is Tushratta writing to the Queen Tiye may she live so he must have received no answer.’

‘Don’t make such an assumption again, my scribes, if you love the Black Land. And make sure I know what is going on. How can I make political decisions if I am not fully informed?’ They seemed suitably abashed and it was not their fault, so I stopped berating them and thought.

‘Let the Lady Mutnodjme take the letter to the Widow-Queen,’ Menna proposed. ‘She is wise and discreet.’

‘I will certainly do that gladly, Master Scribe. She needs something to occupy her mind, but what can the Queen do if she wants to send troops to Tushratta? All the soldiers are coming here,’ replied Mutnodjme.

She was right. By order of the King Akhnaten may he live as many serving soldiers who could be summoned were converging on Amarna to receive new orders from the King. Only the very farthest borders were left garrisoned, and that only because General Horemheb had insisted and the Widow-Queen had backed his orders with her own. And if Khatti took Mittani, we would have a victorious foe on our border and no army to repel an advance.

‘Tushratta must live or die, may his gods protect him,’ I said despairingly, ‘for there is no help we can send him.’