Out of the Black Land - By Kerry Greenwood Page 0,20

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