Out of the Black Land

Chapter Twenty

Mutnodjme

The decan which followed the abominable feast was very quiet. People avoided each other’s eyes. Husbands and wives were careful of each other and servants walked on tip toe.

Widow-Queen Tiye had heard all about it by the time I came back to her apartments.

‘Blasphemy,’ she snorted. ‘But tame enough, if one thinks about it. I am glad I was not there. I might have said something which even my son could not forgive. For what use has a eunuch for menhep herb? Ah, well, it is with the gods and they are not going to be very happy about this,’ she warned.

It was no use asking Tiye may she live about whether she thought that, by eating the flesh of a sacred beast, Ptah-hotep and I had committed an unforgivable sin. Tiye the Queen had no patience with religion. Her view was that most things could be explained to the Divine Judges, and if they did not exist then they could be explained to the Aten, and she was prepared to berate either or both of them for creating her son Akhnaten.

‘I was strong and loving and so was his father and we birthed and nurtured him as well as we could,’ she argued. ‘If he isn’t the fault of the gods, then whose fault is he?’

It was a good question and I didn’t have the answer.

Nefertiti mourned her dead child fittingly but briefly. Her putative father King Akhnaten cried for a day and then forgot about her. Now there were five royal children of Amarna and I did not like the look of the next little princess, Neferneferure. She was sitting on the floor with Tutankhaten, playing with blocks. The boy was thin but sturdy, taking after his mother like the child Smenkhare. His sidelock had a tinge of red and his complexion was pale rather than dark. The two children were building a city.

‘The temple of the Aten is here,’ declared Tutankhaten, placing a cornerstone and raising his hand. ‘I declare that the Aten is the great god and there is no other.’

‘Then the temple of the Phoenix is here,’ said Neferneferure, placing a block on her side of the construction. ‘Hail the Phoenix, firebird, sweet singer!’

Nefertiti often sent her children to play with the Widow-Queen Tiye’s family. My sister was almost as vague as her husband now and declared that the shrill arguing of the royal children hurt her head. They did not quarrel when with Tiye may she live because the Widow-Queen’s authority, which could command provinces, was just as strong as ever and it was very difficult to sustain an argument under the ironic and intelligent eyes of the Queen.

Also she was not afraid to clip ears or spank bottoms if the patient became really intransigent.

But with Tiye the children knew the rules, and played peaceably with each other. Ankhesenpaaten was engaged in her first attempts at spinning, an accomplishment which all women learn, and was doing creditably enough, spinning a thick thread full of knots. This did not please her and she grabbed the distaff in disgust, about to throw the offending tools across the room, when she caught Widow-Queen Tiye’s dispassionate gaze and decided not to do that after all, but to pick up the distaff and spindle and try again. This time she spun a thread fully as long as her arm before the thread broke. Ankhesenpaaten measured out the spinning and chuckled.

‘You see, little daughter, losing the temper does not help,’ said Tiye quietly. I wished that she had had the teaching of me and my sister Merope. No one had been able to teach me true patience, not even the temple of Isis. I knew how to wait, of course, but I was not patient. Ankhesenpaaten took her thread to show Merope, who was looking better, relieved that her mourning had kept her from the unholy feast.

‘Look, Lady Merope,’ said the little princes. Merope admired the thread and began the spinning again, and for awhile there was no sound in the apartments of the Widow-Queen but the noise of building from the floor and the humming of Ankhesenpaaten as she spun a creditable thread. Most skills, I find, come suddenly. I remembered grubbing along trying to weave, dropping my shuttle, tangling my weft, starting too high so that I could hardly reach my first line and biting my lip so that I should not lose my temper with the irritating threads, until one day I found I could do it. The shuttle flew from one hand to the other, the woven material moved down the web like magic, and I was a weaver. Not that weaving was a female skill, of course, but the Temple of Isis instructed its daughters in all arts of making, never knowing what might be the most useful.

I missed the temple suddenly, the quiet and the learning and the freedom from surprise. That reminded me that I had a message to deliver and I beckoned Widow-Queen Tiye into an inner room.

‘A letter has come from Tushratta,’ I informed her, putting the clay tablet and the written translation into her lap. She read it carefully. Then she read it again.

‘How many letters came before this?’ she asked, her eyebrows rising.

‘Three, and they seem to have gone unanswered,’ I replied.

‘This is bad. And my son has called in the army; the commanders are meeting with him tomorrow. Tushratta is an ally, moreover the Khatti are ambitious and fierce, and he could be overthrown. If so, where will the King of Khatti look for a new conquest? Why not the Black Land? Very rich, very big, and best of all, unguarded, because the King is a lunatic.’

Tiye combed her hair with her fingers, thinking deeply. Then she sat up straight and smiled.

‘I have it. Your Ptah-hotep has a friend, Mutnodjme, a friend of his bosom from the days of the school of scribes. A very pretty young man—now what was his name? Kheperren, that’s it. He’s an army scribe with General Horemheb. This Kheperren always takes the opportunity to visit Amarna when he can, he is sure to have come with his General.

‘Contrive to invite me to meet Ptah-hotep when he has Kheperren with him and the General happens to call as well. What could be more pleasant than a little dinner, perhaps, in the Great Royal Scribe’s apartments? I cannot give orders about the army, now that my son has forbidden women to attend councils of state. I must do this by stealth, daughter— dear daughter. You are the daughter I would wish that I had borne, Mutnodjme. My Sitamen is an admirable woman but she is not here, and you are.’

Then she kissed me affectionately, as my own mother never had, and I went back to watch the children playing. I could not go to Ptah-hotep during the day, when he had work to do. And the task of women in the City of the Sun, it seemed, was to please their lords and mind their children; not to practice medicine or speak wise words, not to learn or advise or contrive. Just to be. It was very tedious.

Presently it grew hot. I do not know why my lord Akhnaten had decided to exclude women from all his councils. This had never been the case in the past. Wise Queens had advised their lords; Queen Tiye had always been with Amenhotep-Osiris, sitting beside him to receive ambassadors and discussing affairs of state with him every evening before he went to lie with one wife or another.

I was damp with sweat and there seemed to be no air in the room. I picked up the embroidery which Merope had half finished, threaded a needle and attached a few beads, then put it down again. I was restless. I wanted to do something, learn something, exercise my mind.

Though I was not allowed to attend councils, there was nothing wrong with the Lady Mutnodjme learning to read. Even the royal children were taught to read. Every woman was taught to read, I reasoned, and the fact that I was about to embark on learning to read cuneiform was not material. The principle, as Lady Duammerset had said, was sound.

I took the wrapped tablet and the translation from Widow-Queen Tiye and told them that I would be back before night. Then I walked quickly to the King’s side of the palace. Of course, my desire for learning had nothing to do with the fact that it must take place in the office of my lover.

I did not want to disturb him. I just wanted to be able to see him, if I raised my eyes.

The office door was open. The Nubian Tani sat inside, leaning on a long spear with a wickedly barbed head. He grinned a big melon-wide grin and let me pass, saying something in Nubian about the insatiable desires of women to which I lacked sufficient vocabulary to reply. I bowed to Ptah-hotep and asked, ‘Lord, I would learn to read the square writing. Can you spare either Menna or Harmose to instruct me?’

‘I have some leisure, Master Ptah-hotep may you live,’ said Menna, a split second ahead of Harmose, who subsided grumbling.

‘You can have her tomorrow,’ said Menna, giving his seat-mate a nudge with a bony elbow. ‘I saw her first,’ he added, and Harmose nodded solemnly.

Ptah-hotep rose and came to where I was sitting, ensuring that I had a piece of soft clay to practice on and showing me how to hold the stylus which imprinted the letters into it.

Into my ear he whispered, ‘Lady, I love you.’

And I said aloud, ‘Indeed, Lord, such is also my opinion. I hope to be able to prove it soon. Oh, by the way, I took the liberty of inviting the Mistress of Egypt the Great Royal Widow Queen Tiye to your dinner tomorrow night with your friend the scribe and his protector—I don’t recall his name.’

My tone was light and slightly bored. ‘I really know nothing of military matters and the Royal Lady was kind enough to offer to keep me company.’

No one could ever call the great Royal Scribe Ptah-hotep slow on the uptake. After a moment’s initial puzzlement when he tried to remember when he had invited me to meet Kheperren and the General Horemheb, he understood and replied easily.

‘Certainly, lady, my friend Kheperren expressed a desire to meet you, but surely you would not find reminiscences of our days at the school of scribes interesting. And I am honoured by the condescension of the Widow-Queen Tiye may she live and will endeavour to amuse you both. Tell the Royal Lady, if you would, that it is just a small dinner, humble fare, but I can offer her good wine. The Tashery vintage of three years ago was superb.’

I saw Meryt, who had clearly been cooking—there was flour on both her cheeks and a wide smear on her haunches where she had wiped her hands—give my dearest love a sharp look. Clearly she did not think ‘humble fare’ a good description of the dishes she was presently preparing. But she allowed the moment to pass and went back to her pots.

Menna had been a royal scribe for thirty years. He was aware that the conversation which he had just heard was loaded with hidden references, but Menna was an old royal scribe and knew better than to comment. Royal scribes, even in the relaxed reign of Amenhotep-Osiris, were discreet, or they were re-employed as labourers on drainage ditches.

Menna laid out on the little table in front of him an inscribed clay tablet, a new clay tablet and a stylus.

‘This is the alphabet, Lady. It is a syllabry, not one letter for each sound, as the cursive which you would have learned—you did learn cursive?’

‘I did,’ I assured him. ‘I was taught first by Khons and then by Duammerset; and my dear friend Snefru allowed me to inspect many of his hoarded scrolls and copied inscriptions.’

I was relying on the spy in the office—Ptah-hotep had confidently identified him as Bakhenmut’s scribe, a young man called Pashed—not knowing the names. They were all common. He would certainly not have heard of Duammerset, the Singer of Isis, and in any case the Lady Duammerset was in the Field of Reeds, probably with Snefru the Scribe, questioning the authors of the most intractable texts as to what they had really meant by them and having a wonderful time, which is what the Field of Reeds is for.

There was nothing that Huy or Pannefer could do to any of the persons I had named. They were all dead, though Duammerset was not the King Akhnaten’s fault. Khons murdered and Snefru dead of shock, however, were.

Menna was a man of great self-control. He raised a papery-skinned hand to wipe tears from his face, but even a close observer would not have noticed that he was weeping, probably for Snefru the Scribe. Everyone knew Snefru and his eternal quest for more ancient writings, everyone liked him and everyone in the field of learning missed him.

‘I was just saying to my colleague, I said, “This is a difficult passage, we’ll have to ask Snefru, he’ll know.” I just said that. And here you are, another of Snefru’s pupils. He has been much in my mind today,’ he explained, very softly.

I said, ‘Master, you have an insect in your eye, let me help you,’ and made a great business of wiping his eyes with a piece of linen and re-drawing his kohl, and by the time I had finished he had recovered himself. He took my hand under the table and squeezed it gently. His grasp was dry, like papyrus. Then he remarked, ‘See, daughter, this little picture which I am drawing is what?’

‘A plough,’ I said.

‘A plough. Now this is the cuneiform sign for the word eppinu which means ‘plough.’ It also stands for the syllable or sound, of course. Can you see how the sign has developed from the picture? Good. here is another. What would you call this?’

I examined the pictograph. ‘Trees, Master Menna?’

‘Trees indeed, you are quick, daughter. That is the pictograph for kiru, orchard. This is sadu, mountain, and this is alpu, which means..’

‘Ox. Yes, I see. How many signs are there?’

‘Five hundred and thirty one,’ Menna informed me with relish. Of course. He liked my company and this task was going to take a considerable time. ‘Each mark has threads and bars; by these the syllable is qualified and this is the determinative and this marks the vowels.’

The system was alien to my mind, as strange as the signs which the Nubians carve on trees to warn wayfarers and mark boundaries. I was employed for two hours in attempting to grasp the syllabry, and I had made little progress when I had to return to the Widow-Queen Tiye’s quarters, and I walked into what looked like a small and well-contained war.

Tiye the Queen may she live was standing in the middle of the room, absolutely beside herself with wrath. My sister Nefertiti was cowering by the door, her back against it, so that I nearly pushed her over when I came in.

The Widow-Queen was so angry that I was very tempted to turn around and go straight out again until she calmed down, but she gestured to me to come in and with Tiye may she live it was much better, in the long run, to do as one was told.

I joined Merope against the window. She was shaking. I took her in my arms and she leaned her forehead against my breast and whispered, ‘I think we are all about to die.’

‘Lady, sister, what is the matter?’ I asked, holding onto Merope and turning her face away from the Widow-Queen’s basilisk gaze.

‘The Great Royal Spouse of Egypt,’ spat Tiye, ‘has come to inform your sister Merope and I that we must marry again and confer our authority and our bodies on a commoner.’

‘Oh,’ I said lamely. This was so totally unheard-of that I really did not know what to say. The widow of a pharaoh belongs to his successor, that was the practice. She could not marry again unless Pharaoh divorced her, and if he did she had a right to take with her two thirds of all that she owned, as did any woman in Egypt. And the widow of a Pharaoh could not marry a common man, because she held in her right of marriage some claim to the throne.

Nefertiti had not remembered that she could have us all beheaded if we crossed her, and I had no intention of reminding her. My sister was frightened and looked to me to explain matters to this intransigent Royal Lady.

‘My lord Akhnaten has said, on our Divine Father’s advice, that it is of no profit to support the whole house of women of his late father,’ she quavered.

‘Therefore he has given each woman the right to choose a husband and he will release them from their marriage, requiring them only to marry another man.’

‘But, sister, that means that the Pharaoh Lord Akhnaten may he live will have to return to the Royal Women their property that is the law in Egypt,’ I said carefully. I assumed that my Divine Father Ay had thought of that, and he had.

‘No, no, sister, the priests of the Aten sole and only God will be happy to receive royal ladies into their houses, no dowry will be required.’

‘Nefertiti my sister, you are telling a woman who has been queen that she will have to go and live with a priest of Aten, and you are proposing to turn her out of the palace naked,’ I said, just to make sure that my sister got the point.

‘I really don’t think that the Lord of the Two Thrones could possibly have meant that. Are you sure?’

‘My Lord has given orders,’ she said mulishly, and there was never any reasoning with Nefertiti when she became stubborn.

‘The Royal Women will go with the priests of the Aten where they will be happy, and they have the rest of the month to prepare.’

‘Tell my son,’ said Widow-Queen Tiye, ‘that I will not marry again. If he wants me to die, I am willing to do that to please him and relieve that miser Ay of the burden of supplying my bread; but I will not marry. The others may do as they like, but not I. Is that clear, Great Royal Wife? I am staying here.’

Nefertiti nodded and made her escape.

I tried to release Merope but she clung. ‘Sister,’ she whispered, ‘Oh, dearest sister, I think that I see an escape from this loathsome existence.’

I called for some wine. She was clearly overwrought.

Ptah-hotep

The King Akhnaten may he live called us all to the Window of Appearances to hear his announcement. The courtyard was filled with soldiers in ordered ranks. The Klashr archers and heavy infantry had the place of honour at the front. They lived nearest, in Thebes and all along the shores of the river down to Bubastis. The Hermotybies were behind, soldiers from Upper Egypt.

Each soldier had his land, awarded by the Pharaoh when he was accepted into the army and each tilled it as best he could, for he might be called into active service at any time. Each wore leather jerkins and battle-cloths provided by his own household and bore shield, sword, bow and arrows. Regiment, battalion and company, they all bore their own standards, a stout pole with a symbol on top, long enough so that when held by a mounted man it was visible to all fighters on the field

I considered them, the poles surmounted with a thousand images: hawks, crocodiles from Elephantine, the cat of Bubastis, the sun-boat of the discredited god Amen-Re. Some were simple like the flail of kingship, perhaps, or the leg-shaped symbol of the Goddess Isis; or simpler still like a huge bronze arrowhead, painted red. Some were complex and beautiful: a reed-boat with a fisherman catching Nile perch; a flight of flying ibis, legs trailing. All of them were decorated with ribbons and flowers.

This wasn’t the whole army, of course. This was a representative selection of officers, come to hear what their King the lord Akhnaten wanted to say. They would relay his message to the armies camped outside on the hot plain surrounding Amarna.

My dearest love Kheperren was beside me, mostly hidden behind a massive bull’s hide shield studded with metal rivets. I was pleased at being under the canopy which had been erected for the King to rest under during the sed festival, for we were waiting for noon and the sun was already hot.

I was also very pleased to see him again. He was very weary. I had promised him a real wash in real water, a massage from Meryt, a splendid feast and a night spent making love—all his requests—but still he was grim and distant. I was worried that he was concerned about the lady Mutnodjme, but it did not seem to be that.

I had told him about her and he had kissed me—he tasted of sweat and copper from his helmet-strap, a very male taste—and bade me not to fear, he was assured of my love. He had yet to meet my lady Mutnodjme but I was sure that they would be friends.

‘Here is my General,’ he said in relief, and I saw the strong figure of Horemheb appear under the balcony beneath the King.

‘Why, where did you think he might be?’ I asked.

‘I thought he might be dead,’ replied Kheperren.

Clearly there was more to tell and just as clearly I could not ask it, so I held my peace. The King stretched out both hands and called ‘Soldiers of the Aten! I have a great task for you! The foes of Egypt are not inside her borders alone!’

The soldiers roared, ‘Show us your enemies, lord!’ and the King held out his arms again.

‘They are here, in the Black Land!’

He paused, and I saw helmeted heads turn to each other. What did he mean?

I looked at Horemheb. I had never seen a face so set. The General had aged well. He was strong and heavily muscled, with a broad chest and legs like columns. The long wig mingled with his own harsh black hair, which still bore many locks tipped with blue beads. His arms were heavy with arm rings given to him by Pharaoh, and his breastplate was almost covered with the golden flies awarded rarely and only for extreme bravery. My lord Akhnaten cried out again.

‘They are the followers of the name of the cursed so-called god, Amen-Re!’

The soldiers were silent. This did not seem to be something against which they could use sword or spear.

‘I will send you out, brave warriors of the Aten, to remove the trace of the name of Amen-Re from this Black Land! I will reward you, my brave ones, for every inscription defaced, every name removed, every text burned! Let the foes of Egypt tremble on the borders, they will not attack us while the Aten rules us! Hail to the Aten!’ he screamed, and stared straight up at the sun.

The soldiers roared approval.

‘Why do they cheer? This is no task for a soldier,’ I protested, very close to Kheperren’s ear.

‘This task is easier than fighting the vile Kush where every bush contains an enemy. This is more amusing than arriving, footsore and weary, at an oasis where the wells have been broken and the trees cut down by the shepherds, the Shasu. This is much less dangerous than crawling through the sand to attack the Apiru, where every dune has its asp,’ he said bitterly.

‘But who will guard the borders?’ I gasped.

‘The Aten, apparently,’ he said very quietly. ‘Let us hope that his god is heavily armed.’

Pharaoh Akhnaten lifted a huge basket and began to throw handfuls of small glittering objects into the mass of soldiers and they scrambled for them, breaking ranks. I flung up a hand and caught one.

‘What is it?’ asked the General, taking his eyes off the Window of Appearances. I opened my hand. I have never seen such a look of complete disgust on a human face. In my hand I had the highest award for bravery which the Pharaoh could give. I was holding a golden bee.

General Horemheb reassumed his place and his bland countenance very quickly. But when he came to dinner that night I noticed that he had removed from his breastplate every single award, and was as undecorated as any common soldier.

***

But first I had to give my Kheperren all that I had promised. I stood him in my washing place and he emptied two well-jars of water and a dish of soap before he had removed all the dirt, grease and something which resembled tar, which he said was protective tree resin, applied to guard against the sun. He shaved his beard and lay down to be oiled and massaged by Meryt, who was the best massager I had ever encountered. She found every knot and pounded each one mercilessly, leaving her patient as completely softened as the meat which she flattened with a mallet before frying it in the Nubian fashion. Then I gave him a cup of wine and we made love, very gently, touching with wincing care. I had missed him like a crippled man misses his right hand, and clearly he had lacked me. We were slow, soft, stopping to exchange breath and to kiss, long kisses which turned languorous and then hot, so that we finished in a rush and a tangle of limbs.

Then we slept a little until the heat of the day was easing, for though it was Peret and the month of Mechir, the weather was unseasonable. I had not seen the records of the last harvest yet. Some of the Nomarchs were always late with their reports, but this year everyone was late.

I wondered if anyone was intercepting my correspondence and reading it, seeking heresy or conspiracy. If so, I wished them joy of the illiterate scribes of Elephantine and the extreme mendacity of the Delta. And if they could make any sense of the peculiar arithmetic of Thebes, which always seemed to come down rather heavily on the side of the Nomarch, then I hoped that they would tell me.

Horemheb was outside. We could hear him exchanging ritual insults with Mentu; who was with us for awhile, having been warned by his physician that a month’s abstinence from wine and women might preserve his life a little longer.

When he felt inclined Mentu was an excellent scribe, wrote a beautiful flowing hand and could sum up a complex document in one sentence which, suitably censored, could be used as a briefing note for the Lord of the Two Lands who could usually be compelled to listen to one sentence. Mentu had just summarised a basketful of letters from three vassal states as, ‘My neighbour is a liar. Send gold. Lots and lots and lots of gold!’ which was an excellent summary; and Horemheb, laughing, also agreed.

He was escorted into my inner office by Tani and Hani, one on either side, and they did not leave until I ordered them to go. They didn’t like anyone as big and warlike as the general anywhere near me.

The general slumped down into a chair, making the cords creak. Kheperren poured him a cup of the pale Nubian-style beer which he preferred and suggested that he would be more comfortable in the chair of state, which was built for such large limbs. Horemheb moved obediently, which was nice of him, because I was fond of the saddle-strung chair and I didn’t think it would hold up his weight much longer.

He was huge. He was also very tired and very worried.

‘How safe is it to talk?’ he asked.

‘There are two Nubians outside this door; the walls are thick and as long as we keep away from the windows no listener can hear; besides, we are on the third floor,’ I told him.

‘Apart from Hani and Tani and their equally huge brother Teti, there is Meryt; and apart from her there is Mentu, who will knock over a very large bronze pot which has carelessly been placed far too close to his chair, if he has to leap to his feet and prostrate himself before any Royal Personages. It makes a sound like a war-drum and can be easily heard from here,’ I concluded.

The General passed one scarred hand over his ravaged face and said, ‘You choose your lovers well, Kheperren. I can see that you are as careful and wise as your friend has been telling me these ten years, my Lord Ptah-hotep.’

He leaned forward and stared into my eyes. He had dark eyes in a broad face, much like the common people, a beaked nose and wide cheekbones. The eyes were very tired but shrewd and deep and they held my attention. ‘This I must tell you, Great Royal Scribe; unless we can contrive something, you and me and the Great Royal Wife Tiye, we are going to lose most of Egypt before the next Inundation.’