Out of the Black Land - By Kerry Greenwood Page 0,19
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.’