Out of the Black Land

Chapter Four

Mutnodjme

Tey my mother and Nefertiti the Queen and I went to see the Great Royal Wife Tiye, our relative, and nearest way to the Pharaoh Amenhotep’s private ear. We found her bathing. Her hair was loose, uncovered by her usual Nubian wig, and it was indeed red and long enough to reach to her waist. She lay back in a pool of water in which leaves had been strewed, and I smelt a sharp herbal scent; mint, perhaps, and wormwood. Her body was swelled with pregnancy. She was pale, as pale as marble, as pale as milk. I had never seen such skin before. The colour of her hair—Set the murderer’s colour—would have caused her early death in some parts of the Kingdom. Even in the enlightened and civilised city, she usually kept her head covered in public. But the hair was not red, I realised, it was like copper wire; a fine, fiery tint, a fox colour. She looked tired and the herbs she was bathing in were selected to refresh an exhausted woman.

But her eyes, when she opened them, were slate-coloured and bright. She saw us come in, motioned us to sit down, and dismissed her attendants, three young women and one old woman who drew away beyond the door-curtain, block printed with indigo lotuses. The maidens seemed reluctant to leave Tiye, eying us suspiciously. The Lady of the Two Lands, the Queen of all Egypt, sat up unaffectedly, flicked her hair over her milk white shoulder, and smiled.

‘You have come to tell me about my son,’ she said, reaching out both hands so that we could help her out of the pool. I rushed to help. She was not like my beautiful sister, slim and delicate; but was wide hipped and her breasts were big and slightly sagging as she left the buoyancy of the warm water. She wrapped herself in a wide length of linen and motioned us to chairs.

Tey sat down and I sat, as I always did, at her feet. Nefertiti, a little nervous at being in the presence of this powerful woman, examined her sandals and did not venture to speak.

‘Hmm.’ The Queen exchanged a long look with my mother. ‘The lady has lain with my son?’

Tey nodded.

‘And it is as I feared?’

‘If you feared that he would be impotent, Lady of the Two Lands, then it is so,’ said Tey bluntly. Nefertiti blushed purple.

‘She is very young; she can not have had many lovers. Can it be that she does not know…’ Tiye smiled at Nefertiti, who was still too miserable to return it.

Tey shook her head so decisively that her earrings rang like bells.

‘I have examined her account of what happened and my other daughter agrees. Nefertiti is fresh and beautiful and skilled, and entirely willing. She tried in all ways to please the son of the lord may he live but to no avail. She doubts that he is capable of producing an erect phallus, and without that there is no seed, and with no seed….’

Tiye wrapped the rope of her hair meditatively around her hand. ‘Does she wish then to return to her mother’s house?’

‘No, Lady,’ Nefertiti came to life and threw herself to her knees at the Queen’s feet. Tiye, surprised, embraced her in the curtain of her coppery hair.

‘Daughter, can it be that you love this weakling who cannot even lie with you as a man does with a woman?’ she asked in an astonished tone.

‘Yes, yes,’ whispered Nefertiti into the linen towel. ‘It is not his fault, it is the will of the Gods, who made him so. He is crippled, but he is so gentle. He did not hurt me, as another man might have done, disgusted by his failure. He did not blame me.’

‘What, then, did you do all night?’ asked Tiye, a little amused.

‘We talked, Lady, and then we slept.’

‘What did you talk about? There, daughter, be comforted, I will not tear you from your heart’s longing, I wished merely to be sure that you were not discontented. Egypt does not need an unhappy Queen.’

‘We talked about the Aten, Lady.’

‘The Aten? Ah, religion,’ said the Great Royal Wife, her mouth twisting as though she had bitten a persimmon. ‘Sometimes one questions the wisdom of attempting to penetrate such mysteries. In any case, I am no guide, daughter. My son is philosophical, even whimsical, and perfectly unreasonable on that subject. I have always found it best not to argue with him.’

‘What happens if you do argue with him?’ I asked. Three sets of eyes turned on me. My mother’s glare was as hot as a silversmith’s furnace.

Tiye, however, was looking at me with great interest. She tipped up my chin with a strong forefinger and looked into my face.

‘A good question, little daughter, and one that not many would dare to ask, Mutnodjme. I wonder what your father means to make of you, questioner?’

‘She will be a wife,’ snarled my mother. ‘To an old man who will beat her.’

‘There are worse fates than to be loved by an old man,’ said the Queen gently, who was herself so married, and Tey bit her lip. I had made it possible for her to make a mistake in speaking with the Great Royal Wife, and she was going to beat me until I bled when she got me home, I could tell. But the question had not been answered and I looked at the Queen again. She laughed.

‘What does my son do when he is crossed? He argues, and then if he is further opposed, he screams, and if anyone persists with their opposition, he throws himself on the ground. I recall that his nurse would not allow him to play with one of the guard dog’s puppies, because she was afraid it would bite him. He shrieked until he turned blue and she was afraid and sent for me. I agreed that the prohibition was wise. My son found that he could not move us, and seemed to surrender. But the next day the puppy was found dead, its head beaten in by a stone. If he could not have it, no one could. It is not wise to persist in opposition to his desires.’

I stared at the Queen while my heart slowly chilled. Into what blood-stained hands had my Father delivered my beautiful and innocent sister?

‘If he is…thwarted,’ said my mother carefully, ‘what remedies do you suggest?’

‘Instant compliance,’ said the Queen, still with her bitten-persimmon mouth. ‘And if he is foaming and screaming, an infusion of valerian and reed-heads will calm him. I never expected to raise him,’ she said slowly. ‘When he was thirteen he was struck with a fever which raged for three days. He was as hot as a smith’s brand and no medicine could quench it. All the physicians said that he would die. But then, quite suddenly, he fell into a sweat and then into a sleep, and when he awoke he was…distant. His ka had travelled, he said, to the Field of Reeds and found it empty but for the god Aten, the sun-disc.

‘And then he did not develop like other boys. I thought it was just laziness—he has never liked to run or fight—when he fattened like a heifer, growing breasts and belly. I told myself, he is young and his father is solid and stocky, may he live forever. I thought nothing of it. By the time I knew that it was not so with my son, he was changed into what he is now. You are gentle and beautiful, Nefertiti, and he likes beautiful things. Love him as best you may. I can only hope that this child,’ she caressed the mound of her belly, resting heavily on her thighs ‘is a boy, for if my son Akhnamen becomes sole ruler, I do not know what will become of the Land of the River.’

She clapped her hands and her four suspicious maidservants came through the curtain. They did not look on us any more kindly, and I wondered if they disliked us on principle, or if they were defending their mistress, whom they evidently loved, from exertion. The old one knelt for her orders.

‘The presents for the Great Royal Wife and her mother and sister, Sahte,’ said Tiye gently, and the old woman blushed, muttered something, and gestured to the others, who brought a large basket. According to custom this could not be opened until we were back in our own apartments, so we bowed and kissed her sandal and were going away with a lot to think about, when the Queen Tiye said to my mother, ‘I will send a scribe to your daughter Mutnodjme, Lady, if it please you. I think that she should be literate.’

‘She can write and read as much as any princess,’ said Tey, displeased at this slur on our household.

‘I think she should be able to do more than that,’ said the Queen, and now there was no doubt that it was a command. ‘I will send a scribe tomorrow for the lady Mutnodjme, and a companion. She is a stranger here, and I think that she will be a friend to another stranger.’

‘I and my family are in the Queen’s hand,’ replied Tey conventionally.

The plump woman shifted in her chair, cradling her burden. ‘Yes, you are,’ she agreed. ‘So do not beat your little questioner, Great Royal Nurse Tey. It is never wise to beat children for exhibiting intelligence.’

‘As the Queen says,’ responded my mother through gritted teeth.

I walked behind her out of the Royal Bedchamber, thinking hard. A companion? I had been torn away from my friends when we had moved into the palace, and there were few children of my own age in the marble halls of Amenhotep may he live. And although I could read and write at least as well as my sister, my father had not considered that women needed much education, and had recalled his scribe to his other duties after we had mastered letters and numbers in the ordinary script enough to keep our household accounts, and understand recipes and prayers.

Father’s scribe had been the old man Ani, a stern greyish man in a linen cloth with ink stains on his clever fingers. He had kept his eyes averted from us. I expected that a Royal Scribe would be sterner and older, and hoped that he would not hit me and my new companion if we made mistakes, as Ani had.

Running to keep up with my mother as she walked briskly down the corridor of tribute bearers, I did not ask questions. I had escaped one beating by divine favour, and I did not want to press my luck.

And the problem of the impotence of the Son of Egypt had not been addressed. Instant compliance, as recommended by the Queen, would not make an impotent King potent.

It never occurred to me that it was not my problem. I was intent on a solution. I could only think of one, and had already dismissed it as impossible.

When we were back in our own quarters, my mother not only did not beat me, but gave me a quick, fierce hug. My face was pushed into her breast and my cheek dented by her elaborate pectoral. I was eye to eye with a vulture, but Tey hugged me so seldom that I was resolved to enjoy it.

‘Little questioner,’ she held me out at arm’s length and smiled at me. ‘Tey’s true daughter! Always one to ask the question that is on every tongue and to which no one dares to give voice…I wonder what will become of you?’

‘Will you marry me to an old man who will beat me?’ I asked slyly, and Tey laughed again and replied, trying to look stern, ‘It might at least curb your inquisitiveness. You did well, daughter. For now we know, and otherwise she might not have told us.’

‘About Akhnamen may he live,’ I said.

‘About him, yes. I had not heard about his… temper, ’Nodjme, had you?’

‘No, Lady,’ I replied honestly. ‘They say that he is vague and gentle and lazy, that he sleeps a lot, that he is impulsive and pays no attention to right conduct or precedence. No one said that he is cruel, not where I heard them, or that he has tantrums.’

‘Hush! That should not be said, daughter, not outside our home. Nefertiti, are you determined to stay with your husband?’

‘Yes, Lady,’ said my sister.

‘Even though he may be dangerous?’

‘He will not be dangerous to me,’ said Nefertiti.

I had heard that tone before. Just so had she spoken before she had knelt down before a mastiff, her beautiful face inches from its teeth, and freed it from the wire snare which was wound around its leg. The dog had been wild with terror and pain, snarling and struggling, but under her hands it had lain quite still, even when she unwound the wire and hurt it afresh. The leg had never recovered, but the mastiff had been devoted to Nefertiti ever since, though it bit everyone else.

She was probably right about the devotion of the King. But men, I had heard, were more cruel than beasts, taking pleasure in pain, and who knew what gave a eunuch pleasure?

I resolved to ask, and to watch. I would know.

Ptah-hotep

To whom can I speak today?

I am heavy-laden with trouble

I have no friend of my heart.

To whom can I speak today?

Gentleness has withered

And violence rules the world.

To whom can I speak today?

Faces are averted

No man trusts his brother.

‘What are you reading, Lord?’ asked Meryt.

I let the papyrus roll up. ‘It is called The Man Who Was Tired of Life,’ I said.

She looked worried. ‘You haven’t had time to get tired,’ she chided. ‘And if you despair, your enemies will rejoice, for they would have no need to stain their hands with murder.’

‘True. And you would not have my enemies pleased?’

‘No, Lord, I would rather watch their hopes wither down to a forgotten grave,’ she said, a serious curse. ‘The Master of Scribes is here to see you, Master.’

‘Send him in, bar the door, and serve wine,’ I said hurriedly.

I had lived in the house of Ammemmes, Master of Scribes, for many years, and thought I knew him well; ancient, testy, his garment always spotted with ink and his eyes peering, short-sighted from construing ancient writings. He hobbled into my office now faster than I had ever seen him move and was about to sink to the floor to kiss my sandal when I caught him by the arm and led him to a chair.

Nothing was going to stop him, however, from conducting the proper verbal forms of address to a Great Royal Scribe. He rattled through my titles like a sistra in the hands of a musician from Hathor’s temple.

‘Humble greetings to the Great Royal Scribe, Whose Hand Moves as the Favourite of Re Akhnamen Lord of the Two Lands Keeper of All Secrets To Whom No Heart Is Hidden Marvellous in Wisdom Whose Heart is the King’s Ptah-hotep,’ he said, all in one breath. ‘How are you, boy? I rejoice to see you still breathing.’

‘I almost succumbed to a fatal accident with a scorpion,’ I replied. ‘My food is now tasted and I am about to appoint a staff of scribes who owe their positions to me.’

He gave me a shrewd look from his reddened eyes.

‘Pharaoh’s choice, though it seemed random, may have been better than he knew, my pupil. Now, give me some wine, and we will talk. Outside this room, you are the Great Royal Scribe. Inside, you are my pupil, Ptah-hotep, a young man forced into an intolerable situation who has a claim on my advice—if the Great Royal Scribe should desire it.’

‘Master, I am…’ I was touched almost to tears. He patted my hand briskly. Meryt came with my best vessels and poured wine. She sipped from both cups, swallowed, and nodded. Thereafter Ammemmes tasted it approvingly.

‘Zythos Tashery vintage, if I’m not mistaken, from the vineyards to the south. In the year 12?’

I consulted the terracotta label on the amphora and nodded. He was quite right.

‘Keep it for the most honoured of visitors,’ he advised. ‘You have acquired one slave already, I see.’

‘This is Meryt,’ I introduced her. She dropped to her knees as was proper, but her eyes were directed at the Master of Scribes, as was not proper. He returned her gaze evenly. They were examining one another, the Nubian woman and the elderly scribe. Meryt had put on the new clothes I had ordered for her. Her printed cloth was knotted beneath her breasts in approved fashion, and her wild hair was plaited under a beaded cap. But she was still Meryt whose ancestors were hunters and warriors, and she was not abashed in the presence of the Master of Scribes. He was as different from the slave as possible; male, scholarly, sharp; but the look which they both directed at me before they considered each other again was identical; a slightly exasperated affection, which I did not deserve. Meryt I had taken from her position and placed in danger of her life. The Master of Scribes would now share her peril.

When Ammemmes spoke it was clear that some sort of agreement had been reached without need of words. He laid one veined hand on Meryt’s decorated head in token of approval and asked ‘Well, maiden, do you approve of your change in fortunes?’

‘Yes, lord,’ she said in her strong, liquid voice. ‘The Great Royal Scribe honours this humble person with his trust.’

‘He must be guarded and protected, Meryt the Nubian, for his foes ring him around like an embattled lion.’

‘Lord, they will have my life first,’ declared Meryt.

‘And mine,’ said Ammemmes in his precise scholar’s tone.

I did not know what to say. Meryt, making up her mind, kissed Ammemmes’ ringed hand, and he patted her cheek. Then she got up and poured more wine.

‘Now, Ptah-hotep, what advice do you require?’

I was suddenly flooded by a strong sense of my own bottomless ignorance.

‘Master, I haven’t paid any attention to the situation of the Court. I know nothing. Tell me anything and it will add to my knowledge.’

‘Hmm. Well, you have been appointed to a situation far above your merits by the co-regent Akhnamen, whose motives are obscure. He is Heir to Amenhotep the third may he live and that King, though robust, is over fifty and must die. Then the Heir will rule alone, an alarming prospect. You must consolidate your position while Amenhotep may he live forever is alive. As Akhnamen’s appointee you cannot directly consult the King, which is a pity, because he is justly famed for his wisdom. The only other Heir is the Lady Sitamen, who is healthy a woman, it is said, but has not borne a child; and the Great Royal Wife is pregnant and due to deliver, if Isis is kind, soon.

‘Medical opinion says that the co-regent is not expected to live a long life, but that does not solve our immediate problem. The person who was expecting the appointment may have sent you the scorpion; he must be curbed, you cannot spend all your life watching your back. Even your admirable Nubian must sleep sometimes.

‘You sent Kheperren away, boy, that took courage and I am proud of you. That should preserve his life. Now, who should you appoint as your second in command?’ He thought about it, drank some more wine, and stared absently at the papyrus heads painted around the cup.

‘Who is the least favourite scribe in the palace?’ I asked. Ammemmes was silent for a moment, then barked a short laugh.

‘Mentu, by the crocodiles of Sobek, Mentu is the perfect choice!’ He laughed again. ‘Mentu belongs to one of the best families, a relative of the co-regent Akhnamen’s new wife Nefertiti; a cousin, I believe, of Divine Father Ay. Mentu trained as a scribe after a fashion. He is boisterous, lazy and incompetent and Akhnamen finds him vastly attractive, being everything that Pharaoh is not. Mentu wishes to do nothing except race chariots and drink in the houses of ill repute by the river. No one can speak against his appointment, because Lord Akhnamen favours him. No one would want him to succeed, because he is immoral and stupid. Excellent. If you cannot have an efficient and devoted second, Ptah-hotep, there is a lot to be said for an idiot who pickled whatever brains he was born with in lowbgeh palm wine years ago.’ Ammemmes rubbed his dry palms together with a whispering sound.

‘I will appoint him immediately,’ I said. I was beginning to feel a little better. I began to think that I might live out the day.

‘Now, as to the staff—I think that you may as well have boys. You’ll need a sensible man to watch over them, but most of your work could be done by anyone who can add, subtract, and write a fair hand. You don’t want to be overawed, Ptah-hotep, in fact you cannot afford to have anyone with a lot more experience than you have yourself. What do you say to Khety? He is a commoner, though he shows no peasant good sense. He is skilled enough, in fact he was due to leave before Opet to go back to his father and become scribe on his estate, and I know that he was unhappy at the prospect. His father is a dreadful bully.’

I remembered Khety, a pleasant boy with an excellent memory. He was always in trouble for day-dreaming, but he told wonderful tales as we lay in the shade at noon. I nodded and called for a writing board. Meryt brought it with a speed which suggested that she had heard every word of my Master’s discourse.

‘Mentu and Khety,’ I wrote on a scrap of pumiced papyrus.

‘Hanufer, I know he’s not a bright cheerful boy but he’s determined and he’s thorough.’ I nodded and wrote down the name. I did not see much scope for cheer in my present situation. Hanufer’s stolid solemnity would suit my office.

‘And the supervisor?’ I asked.

‘Great Royal Scribe, you may command all of my men,’ said my Master. ‘Who would find favour in your eyes?’

‘I need someone who understands politics,’ I said, taking a sip of the wine—it was delicious, I noticed. Tashery was an excellent vineyard. And, as I now recalled, it was mine.

‘Not Snefru, then, he is interested in nothing except ancient scripts. Let’s see, it’s Ephipi now, isn’t it—that’s why it is so foully hot—but in seven days Hathor goes to Horus and we have the festival of Apis. Bakhenmut might be your man and he’ll be back from Memphis after the bull-sacrifice. He is a priest of Osiris, not allied to the priesthood of Amen-Re, which might be useful. He’s shrewd and no gossip. Also he is married with three children and an ambitious wife.’

‘And that is good?’

‘An ambitious wife will be pleased by his ascension and she will know that he owes his position to you. That means you will have an advocate in his household.’

‘Ah,’ I agreed, having not thought about this before.

‘Remember the Divine Amenhotep’s sayings, my pupil. The wise man educates the ignorant to wisdom and those who are hated become those who are loved,’ said my Master.

‘He brings to shore him who had no profitable voyage. He who was famine-struck is the possessor of harbours,’ I rejoined. ‘Whatever that means.’

‘One must always meditate on the sayings,’ said Ammemmes, ‘then their meaning will become clear.

‘Though you will doubtless understand this message which I was bidden to give you by a young scribe who left this morning with the soldier Horemheb. He did not dare write anything, but said that I should bid you to remember a hut in the reeds, and a dog called Wolf.

I blinked back tears, suddenly possessed of memory; Kheperren’s hands, his soft breathing, the way his eyelashes lay fanned on his cheek.

The Master of Scribes coughed, sipped more wine, and remarked, ‘I reminded this young man of his duty to write to me, his master, of his progress. I recalled to him his apprenticeship in my house, and told him that I expected a report every decan. Those he loves he favours; he dries their tears,’ he quoted.

‘I suggest that you send Hanufer to me at intervals—shall we say, a decan or so?—as he is still my pupil, and he may carry such messages as the Great Royal Scribe sees fit to send to the Master of Scribes. And such as that humble official may be required to send in dutiful reply.’

He did not look at me or smile but I felt that a great weight had been lifted from my heart. I could know of my dearest one, could even communicate with him, without bringing him into any more danger than he would face ranging out along the borders with the guard.

‘I will send the boys as soon as I return. Your office will, of course, be responsible for their board, and a suitable payment will be made to the Master of Scribes for the trouble of beating knowledge into a new collection of illiterate dirty boys.’

‘For yourself, Master? I have great wealth, it appears.’

‘For myself? A grant for the school for the acquisition of old manuscripts that will please Snefru’s heart. And you could order the sacred lake cleared of weed.’

‘I could do that,’ I agreed, wondering how.

‘Now, with your leave, I must go. I will instruct your staff suitably, and you will send news to Mentu of the honour of his appointment. Farewell, Ptah-hotep.’ He kissed me in familiar fashion, then knelt before I could forestall him and kissed my sandal, whispering something to my ankles. His voice was urgent and soft, so that I had to strain my ears to catch it.

‘Ptah-hotep, beware of the High Priest of Amen-Re. He will call for you soon. Tread as carefully with him as if you were walking barefoot through a field of serpents. He’s the most powerful man in the kingdom.’ My Master then rose, with Meryt’s assistance, and left.

I sank down on the floor, cross legged, to write out the appointments for the names he had given me. But before I began, I wrote a draft on my Tashery vineyard for one hundred jars of the best vintage to be sent every year to Ammemmes, Master of Scribes in the Residence of the Pharaoh at Thebes in the 28th year of the reign of Amenhotep III and the first of his co-regent Akhnamen, Lords of the Lands of Upper and Lower Egypt, Shining in Thebes, Enduring in Kingship, Establishers of Laws, Lords of Strength and Mighty of Valour, may they live.