Out of the Black Land - By Kerry Greenwood Page 0,13

and reported, ‘It is as you feared.’

Tey shot me a hard glance and I nodded, not venturing to speak. ‘You are sure that no stimulation can rouse him?’ asked Tey, and Nefertiti blushed. ‘Is it perhaps that he prefers men?’

‘No, I do not believe that he is potent at all,’ said my sister.

‘Then we shall appeal to the Lord Amenhotep, the Divine One,’ said Tey, who always made fast decisions.

‘Mother, wait,’ Nefertiti put her hand on my mother’s arm. ‘I would not shame him. He is possessed of a God, I am sure. A new God, one God, he says, Ruler of All. He says that this God requires his seed, that He took it all away from him when he was just grown, and he sickened but did not die. He is gentle, Mother Tey, and I love him. I will not leave him.’

Tey considered. She always put her head on one side when she was thinking, like a predatory bird. I could see what she was thinking. We had position—my mother was now Divine Nurse to the Queen of Upper and Lower Egypt. My father would not abandon this, even though he had married his daughter to a eunuch. And when Nefertiti said that she loved him and would not leave him, she meant it. Was not the household of Tey overloaded with people whom Nefertiti loved, who could not be dismissed and who did no work because they were old, crippled or crazed? Nefertiti has as soft a heart as Hathor herself. It was because of the Divine Nefertiti’s devotion to the lost and strayed that we had a one-armed doorkeeper, a cook who crooned all day to a strange little conic fetish, and a watchdog with three legs. Tey had frequently remarked that the concubine’s daughter could cherish a crocodile in her bosom, or wet-nurse a snake.

And she had clearly taken her husband under her protection, and there was no remedy for it.

‘We will speak privately with the Lord Amenhotep,’ decided Tey. ‘There need be no shame. But it is his posterity you guard, daughter, and he must know of a remedy. He is, after all, renowned for his wisdom.’

Nefertiti assented and went to her own quarters to be bathed and massaged with oil.

Mother Tey gave me a piece of honeyed bread and a draft of beer, sat me down on a cross-legged stool, and cross-examined me about all the events of the night. I answered as fully as I could, every sound and every word. I also described the appearance of the King, suppressing my comparison with the boys swimming in the river, as I did not think that I was supposed to look at them.

‘It is as she said,’ she muttered. ‘Good girl, Mutnodjme. Stay with your sister. I do not think he will harm her. She is gentle and loving. But you, my sharp-witted creature, do not you argue religion with him. Agree, daughter, and if you cannot agree, be silent!’

‘But Mother, he says there is only one God!’ I objected.

‘He is Pharaoh,’ snapped Tey. ‘He is a God. Presumably Gods know about Gods. Do as I say, Mutnodjme. And don’t gossip. News of this impotence must not spread abroad. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mother,’ I understood enough. I knew that if it was known that the Co-Regent King was impotent, it would harm my sister. I loved my sister above anything, and my lips were sealed.

The next night they lay together again. She held him close, his head on her breast, and talked about Aten the Sun Disc until they both fell asleep.

I was asleep long before.

Ptah-hotep

A servant brought me to my chambers in the Palace at Thebes, and left me at the door. No courtesy could be expected, it seemed, from any of the incumbents. I was persona non grata, an upjumped schoolboy, and my most immediate need was a staff of my own, on whom I could rely.

How did one go about appointing people? Did I own anything?

I had a succession of opulent rooms, all painted with rural scenes. One room had the whole process of making flax. One wall was covered with duck hunting. Another was patterned with simple lotus and papyrus in the most enchanting blues and greens. My floor was of marble, set with gold flowers. I walked through my audience chamber, my library packed with shelves of records, my own shabby tools laid out on the inlaid table. I came to my own bathroom, my tiled alcove