Out of the Black Land - By Kerry Greenwood Page 0,156

to the tax return he was reading and I sat down on the bench between the two old men.

‘Lady, we are rejoiced to see you,’ said Menna, and Harmose patted my knee with his dry hand. I was pleased to see them, as well, and pleased that Bakhenmut had retained Ptah-hotep’s staff. At least the office of Great Royal Scribe would continue, and that must cheer my love’s heart as he watched us from the Field of Reeds.

I knew that Ptah-hotep was watching us. I could feel his presence, sometimes so close that I could almost touch him. And I dreamed odd dreams. The most vivid had been of women shooting arrows. I had never seen such a thing in my waking life.

Menna resumed our lesson where we had left off. Thereafter I spent two hours every day in the office of the Great Royal Scribe and improved my knowledge of cuneiform. I had learned more signs within the next decan and was beginning to get an inkling about the way that the writer arranged his sentences, when Nebnakht came to the office door and summoned me from my lesson.

‘Mistress, please come,’ he said, and I went with him, wondering what domestic disaster had overtaken my household.

I walked into the outer apartment and saw a snivelling boy, naked and very wet, who had evidently just been punitively washed.

‘He came in through the drains,’ said Ipuy. ‘I told the women to wash him clean so that we shouldn’t choke on the stench. I never smelt such a smell. Made my nose want to lie down and cry. But that Ii is an impulsive woman. She’s scrubbed the child almost to extinction. Poor scrap’s never been that clean before, I’ll wager.’

I would have said the same. Ii brought in a linen towel, with which she rubbed and polished the boy, trussed him into a clean loincloth and sat him down in the general’s chair. I judged that Ii had been in charge of at least three little brothers. She had such sisterly jurisdiction that the boy had surrendered immediately.

‘Now, what are you?’ I asked the child. ‘A burglar?’

He shook his head emphatically. ‘Are you Mutnodjme daughter of Ay?’ he asked, as if repeating a lesson.

‘I am Mutnodjme, daughter of Ay,’ I told him.

He grabbed the remains of his cloth, which had been wrapped around a small parcel, which had escaped the worst of the excrement with which this now-immaculate child must have been coated. Ii carried the cloth away to be washed, for weaving is valuable and cannot be wasted unless it is completely worn out or irreparably stained.

I examined the parcel. It was covered with oil cloth, sewn together, the stitches coated with beeswax. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to render it waterproof. Ipuy gave me his knife and I cut the stitches, wondering what could be so valuable and so secret to require sending a child in through the sewer.

When opened, it merely contained a carved potsherd and a vial of common glass, such as is used to contain perfumes. I examined the wrapping, which was sealed with a clay seal marked with the shield and crossed arrows of the city of Sais.

It all meant nothing to me, thought it was clearly supposed to convey a message. Well-wishers with gifts of perfume did not usually send them anonymously through the drains.

‘Where did you come from, child?’ I asked the boy.

‘Docks,’ he said, shining with pride. ‘Man said he’d give me a pair of gold earrings if I could get this parcel to the lady Mutnodjme daughter of Ay without being seen.’

‘What did the man look like?’ I persisted. The child shrugged.

‘Just a man,’ he said. ‘An old man,’ he added. “Same age as him.’

He pointed out Nebnakht, a youthful nineteen.

‘Feed him, Ii, will you?’ I instructed my maid. ‘Then get him out of the palace by a side door. He’s deserved his gold earrings. Just in case you miss your man,’ I told the boy, ‘Here is a piece of copper.’

‘Return,’ said the boy, struggling with an unfamiliar word or concept. ‘You got to send a return message.’

‘How very mysterious,’ I said, turning the strange presents over in my hands. I opened the vial.

‘Even so, it is but a minor mystery. Doubtless someone is playing some sort of joke on me—those soldiers have a crude sense of humour,’ I said, returning the knife to Ipuy.

I was smiling, though—and could not help it—for I had just realised what