Out of the Black Land - By Kerry Greenwood Page 0,105

it. Her short Nubian wig was crowned with a cone of solid perfumed oil which would melt in the course of the evening, matching the one on my own head. I was worried about the state of Egypt, certainly, I would always be concerned about it while the Eunuch King sat on the throne, but one cannot always be concerned.

Sometimes one has to feast and forget. I did not like my chances of persuading my dear lord Ptah-hotep to do so, but I was going to try. The first thing I needed to do was to dose him with an reasonable amount of wine, and that would not be difficult.

He was sitting across the room with his scribes and their families, and I was already friends with his scribes. Khety, who had the eyes of a dreamer whose dreams have been fulfilled, had agreed to keep Ptah-hotep’s cup filled with the strong wine of the south, a vintage as red as blood, which went down like honey and struck like a serpent.

Widow-Queen Tiye and Merope could not come to the feast, for they were still in mourning for Amenhotep-Osiris. So now I thought of it, was Akhnaten, though he had shaved his chin and put on his jewellery again and showed no sign of missing his revered and wise father. I watched him across the room as he offered a bite of quail to Nefertiti and caressed her breast, pinching a nipple between thumb and forefinger while she purred like the once-sacred cat. The lord Akhnaten was undoubtedly incapable of generation, but he had learned a few things, it seemed, about pleasing women.

‘Drink!’ exclaimed the maiden who was pouring wine for me, quoting a saying of the wise Amenhotep-Osiris. ‘For yesterday’s wine will not quench today’s thirst!’

Under the circumstances, I drank.

The wine was excellent and of the feast there seemed to be no end. A bewildering number of dishes were laid before us. There was roasted goose and boiled pigeon and roasted and boiled birds of every description, in dishes and on skewers; there was a whole great fish, previously forbidden to the palace, cooked with fennel and leeks. There was a soup of small fish, spices and onions, dishes of new cheese, fifteen types of bread, fruits of all types from the rare golden fruit of Libya to the plain peasant’s fare of dates and figs. To refresh the palate, there were bunches of sour herbs, lettuce with its pearly juice for the lecherous, and brown beans and garlic to strengthen the weak-stomached.

The musicians of the Queen’s palace were sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. I hoped that they had eaten before they came, as was the practice in the reign of Amenhotep-Osiris, who said that no person could play a pipe while they were salivating and the groaning of musicians’ empty bellies put him off his food. They began to play dancing music, and the acrobats came in turning somersaults.

I was covertly watching Ptah-hotep through the flashing limbs. They were beautiful, slim and muscular. How could a thick-bodied creature such as I hold his attention when sweat gleamed on fine flesh and the ear was charmed by the strings of little chimes they wore around their ankles? Each nipple was painted red, each mouth rouged, and their hands and feet were patterned with henna.

But he was looking at me, and smiling. I was suddenly hot, and a serving maiden noticed this and began to fan me with a palm-leaf fan.

The acrobats retreated, walking out of the room on their hands, and in came a singer. She was an old woman, a heset, one of the Singers of Hathor when Hathor had been worshipped. That meant that she had spent her whole life since childhood in the acquisition of erotic skills. These naturally included singing and dancing, for Hathor is—was—the Lady of Music. She carried a sistrum and sat down next to the woman with the small drum.

Silence fell. This was the famous Makhayib. Everyone in the Black Land had heard of her.

I wondered suddenly what had become of the dedicated women of Hathor. They had no other skills but copulation, singing and dancing, then I chided myself for an idiot. With such talents, they would never lack for a protector in Egypt.

Makhayib clapped her hands together several times, then started to sing. Her voice was not sweet like those of the Attis’ priests I had heard in the ceremony of the Phoenix. It had