Seer of Egypt (58 page)
Authors: Pauline Gedge
Tags: #Kings and rulers, #Egypt, #General, #Historical, #Fiction, #Egypt - History
Mutemwia’s scrolls spoke to Huy of a King who was governing well and who had begun to build at Ipet-isut, the great temple complex dedicated to Amun at Weset in the south. Amun had become Amun-Ra some time before, a fact Huy had lightly dismissed from his mind until the King and his father the Osiris-one Amunhotep the Second began to quarrel with Amun’s priests and to openly prefer the Aten and other hypostases of Ra. Every King set out to enlarge and beautify Ipet-isut in homage to the country’s most powerful god, and Thothmes was no exception, though Huy, reading between the lines of Mutemwia’s perpetual scrawl, surmised that if Amun had not begun to be linked with the power of the sun, his Incarnation on earth would not have bothered to so honour him. Thothmes had a sandstone court built and decorated within the temple precinct, and also a shrine for the god’s barque, the precious stone being taken from the alabaster quarries on the east bank of the river opposite Khmun. He raised an obelisk that had been commissioned but not finished by his grandfather the Osiris-one Thothmes the Third. He had new copper and turquoise mines opened in the eastern desert where Hathor, goddess of love and beauty, and patroness of the area, had a temple. He was proceeding along the path of every ruler before him, and Huy, knowing how little time the King had left to leave any stamp upon his reign, felt a fleeting pity for him. So far he had done nothing to make his people anxious or afraid. He had not anathematized Amun publicly. He had not demanded a position of superiority for the Aten. Yet Huy, remembering the man’s great lie, was sure that among his courtiers and in the scant privacy of his own quarters the Aten alone received his prayers.
Carefully, Huy questioned Prince Amunhotep regarding the spread of Aten worship in the harem where the boy often stayed, but Amunhotep had no interest in the rivalries of the gods. “I carry Amun’s great name,” he said to Huy once, “and that is enough for me. My father hates the south anyway. He always has. You’d think he’d love it because Ra’s heat burns so strongly there and his light dazzles the eyes. What are you worrying about, Uncle Huy?”
Huy quickly turned the conversation into safer avenues, jolted by his adopted nephew’s perception, and tried to ignore his fears; for this was year six of the King, when the flood was high and the days were long, and the somnolence of peace and good order lay over the land.
17
T
hen, in year seven of the King, the Crown Prince Amunemhat died. He and Prince Amunhotep were both nine, but Amunemhat had been several weeks older than Mutemwia’s son. The news did not come to Huy in a letter from the Queen; it was delivered in a scroll from Ishat. Huy immediately recognized her vigorous hand as Thothhotep broke the seal and unrolled it.
The month was Mekhir, the heat was mild, the fields were thick with green crops, and Huy and his scribe were sitting in the shade of the house’s rear entrance, lazily surveying the explosion of growth in the garden. It was just past noon. On the pond, the blue water lilies were closing and the white ones beginning to open, their perfume carrying faintly to Huy on the light breeze. He often thought of Heby’s first wife, the lovely and quiet Sapet, when he looked at them. Brightly hued butterflies hovered over the trembling blooms of papery red poppies, the delicate white of the narcissus, the rich blue of the cornflowers Anab was tending around the verge of Huy’s pond. Cornflowers also marched in orderly rows between the swaying palms lining the irrigation ditch beside the house. Anab would soon pick their petals, crush them, and sell their juice to the dyers.
It’s a pity to denude them,
Huy was thinking idly,
but I could hardly refuse the man’s request to enrich himself a little more.
At that moment Amunmose appeared behind him, handed the scroll to Thothhotep, and stood squinting into the distance. “A perfect day, Master,” he commented. “Rakhaka warns you that the noon meal is ready and he doesn’t want the soup to get cold. He’s flitting from table to table like a hawk that can’t quite catch the mouse, and glowering at me as if it’s my fault that you linger out here. He needs mint for the salad.” He stepped past Huy and walked briskly towards the herb patch, greeting Anab on the way.
It was then, glancing at Thothhotep, reluctant to go inside, not really caring what was in the letter, that Huy recognized Ishat’s hand. Amunmose was returning, sprigs of mint in one hand. Huy could smell the fresh tang of it as the under steward approached.
“Tell Rakhaka that I don’t mind cold soup,” he said, his eyes on Thothhotep’s hands as she unrolled the letter. “I must attend to this matter first.”
Amunmose grimaced. “I’m afraid of him. He makes wonderful food, but he’s so bad-tempered. I wish Khnit was still cooking for us.”
“Khnit is much happier taking care of my house at Ta-she. You have more authority here on the estate than the cook, Amunmose. If Rakhaka abuses you, shout back at him.”
“He doesn’t shout at me, he glares,” Amunmose said. “When I glare back, I just look like a sheep in pain. He has no sense of humour. He never understands my jokes.”
Huy waved him away. “I wish you’d find someone else to deafen with your constant talk. Get married, Amunmose, but in the meantime, leave us!”
“Shall I read this to you, or would you like to read it for yourself?” Thothhotep asked as the under steward vanished into the dimness of the passage.
For answer Huy nodded and closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall in anticipation of hearing Ishat’s words spoken aloud. She always wrote as she spoke. Huy smiled as Thothhotep began:
To my darling Huy, greetings from the utter peace of this household. Thothmes and your namesake have gone on a tour of the sepat to assess the health of crops and animals, Nakht is of course at Ptah’s temple taking dictation from the High Priest, and Sahura is sleeping in her room after crying herself into hysterics over the son of one of Thothmes’ friends who’s not interested in marrying her. She is of course in love with him and will of course get over it. Thothmes will wait before assessing other likely candidates. Sahura isn’t much like me. All she really wants, at fifteen, is her own home to run. Fifteen, Huy! And Nakht seventeen and Huy eighteen and apprenticed to his father the Governor! But why am I telling you these things about the children that you already know, old friend? Perhaps because, when I hear of the death of any child, I give thanks to the gods that mine are still healthy and strong. We saw so many little corpses when we worked together, didn’t we? Well, here’s another one of great importance to you. I doubt if you’ve heard, but if you have, forgive me for repeating the news. Our Hawk-in-the-Nest, Amunemhat, is dead. There’s always fever during the Inundation, particularly in the Delta, and Thothmes tells me that the young Prince was not robust. So that leaves your little aristocrat the next in line for the Horus Throne and Mutemwia in a far more exalted position than that of Second Wife. Unless Neferatiri produces another son. I get the distinct impression that the King does not trust Mutemwia and doesn’t much like his son by her. Everyone knows how she favours you and how often Prince Amunhotep boasts of his life with you each year. She’s very ambitious. Do you think she might have had something to do with Amunemhat’s sudden death? What is she really like? Thothmes says that she stays away from court affairs unless the King commands her presence, and then she’s all smiles and gracious words. Do you like her? By my own hand this tenth day of Mekhir, year seven of the King, Ishat.
Thothhotep looked up with eyebrows raised under the fringe of her short hair. “How many of the Lady Ishat’s letters have you had to destroy, Huy? This is most definitely another one.” Pushing the one errant black tress back behind her ear, she tapped her knee with the scroll.
“So the heir is dead,” Huy murmured, “and if my vision for the King’s brother in exile spoke the truth, Amunhotep will rule.” Suddenly hungry, he stood up and stretched. “Burn Ishat’s scroll before we eat, Thothhotep. I won’t write a reply. It’s time we paid a visit to Iunu anyway.”
Is Mutemwia so cold-bloodedly ambitious that she would take the enormous risk of poisoning her son’s rival?
he asked himself as he followed Thothhotep’s thin spine into the house.
I don’t think so. Even without the vision, she is too clever and, yes, too much a servant of Ma’at to endanger the fate of her soul with murder. There’s warmth in her, and shrewdness, and a firm awareness of the value of every Egyptian’s life, peasant or noble. No, Mutemwia will not be able to resist a moment of exultation at this change in her son’s fortunes, but she will not gloat.
He glanced up as he entered the reception room to see Rakhaka standing against the wall with an agonized look on his face. “Thothhotep will be here shortly,” he said with an inner smile, and took his place behind his table.
After the seventy days of mourning and Beautification, Prince Amunemhat was buried in the tomb his father had begun preparing for his family, and within days of the funeral Prince Amunhotep was officially declared the Hawk-in-the-Nest. Only then did Huy receive a letter from Mutemwia, dictated and couched in formal language. Huy applauded the caution that had prevented her from writing to him to tell him of the young Prince’s death. A scroll also arrived from Amunhotep himself. Thothhotep fingered it curiously before breaking the seal. “I think this has been sealed twice,” she said. “Look where the first wax has coloured the papyrus very faintly red and the second pressing was done a little to the left of it.” She and Huy stared at one another.
“I pray that he hasn’t written anything damning,” Huy said. “The King has no love for me. I remind him of his perfidy. Would he dare to lie again to implicate me in some fabricated plot that would see me imprisoned? Crack it open, Thothhotep.”
She did so and Huy, anxiously watching her face, saw her breathe a quick gust of relief. She read:
To the Great Seer Huy and my good friend, greetings. Know that I, Prince Amunhotep, have now been proclaimed Heir to the sacred Horus Throne by my august father King Thothmes Menkheperura Living for Ever, and as such will no longer be able to enjoy the delights of your estate. I will miss them very much, but my heart will be soothed by the presence of my father the King, who has bidden me to take up residence in the apartments of my predecessor, close to his own. I thank you for the care you have shown me. I shall write to you again. Long life and happiness to you. Dictated to the Scribe in the House of the Royal Children Menkhoper, this twenty-eighth day of Pharmuthi, year seven of the King.
“A polite and sensible letter,” Huy said. “We will miss him very much too. Obviously his father will begin to keep a sharper eye on him and of course add statecraft to his lessons. He’ll be very busy. I hope Menkhoper will be allowed to go on teaching him.”
“Nothing he learned here will be wasted or forgotten, Master,” Thothhotep put in. “He’s well past the early years when a child gulps down knowledge like good wine and is still thirsty. That wine never sours. Besides …” She hesitated.
“Besides, his father has only three more years to live,” Huy finished for her. Their eyes met. “Take a dictation in reply to this letter,” Huy said after a moment of mutual silence. “I must congratulate our Prince on his ascension.”
In the following year, Thothmes gathered up Amunhotep and his daughter-wife Iaret and travelled south with the Division of Ra, five thousand men, to discipline the tribesmen of southern Wawat, who were hindering the gold shipments. Every week that Amunhotep was away, Huy received a letter from him, his words excited, fretful, or descriptive, giving Huy a vivid picture of the King’s foray into the wild country below the river’s Second Cataract. The Prince wrote in his final scroll:
We are on our way home. I have seen many marvels. I have watched the Trogloditesi die. Every day I have ridden behind the King my father in his chariot when he inspected the soldiers, and every evening I have sat with him in his tent. He has offered wine to Amun and to Khnum, the creator-god of the First Cataract, in celebration of his triumph, and he told me that he will cause a rampant sphinx trampling down the wildmen of Wawat and Kush to be inscribed on both panels of his throne, including the words, “Horus with the powerful arm, effective in crushing all foreign countries.” I have behaved with courage throughout these months and the King my father says that he is very proud of me. I have even been obedient to Iaret, who has whined about the heat and complained every day about the food. I don’t like her at all and I will be glad to see the face of my mother the Queen after all this time.
After all this time,
Huy repeated to himself as Thothhotep fell silent.
Another year is almost over. We wait for Isis to cry. My little Prince is now nine. Thothmes sacrificed to Amun and Khnum, but his throne will show a sphinx, symbol of the physical manifestation of the Aten. Why do I return with such anxiety to his preference for the sun over the totality of Amun? Every King takes a sun-name. Every King is entombed with funeral rites that emphasize his unique relationship with Ra.
He shook his head.
Am I trying to thrust a spear into nothing but a shadow?
The vision of a shadow returned him to thoughts of light, of the sun, and he growled at himself impatiently. “Has an accounting of my crops come yet from Seshemnefer?” he asked Thothhotep. “It’s time to put aside an estimated amount for the taxes.”
The first eleven months of year nine of the King passed uneventfully. Amunhotep’s letters arrived spasmodically and were always short. “I am either hot and tired from my military training or eyesore and tired from poring over scrolls and tablets dealing with everything from the bases of architecture and stonemasonry to trying to learn Akkadian, the language of diplomatic correspondence,” he wrote once in his own hand. “I remember my time with you and Anhur as a series of peaceful days interspersed with nights of blissful security. I miss you both. Is Anhur well?”
Huy, sitting alone on his roof, his hair loose and ruffled by the pleasant breezes of Tybi, set the scroll down by his bare feet and sighed. No, Anhur was not well. Now in his late fifties, he suffered from shortness of breath and a loss of weight due, Huy was sure, to an infestation of worms. Huy had wanted to See for Anhur, but the man had refused the favour. “I’m approaching my old age, Huy,” he had said. “Will the gods keep me young as they do for you? I don’t think so. Soon I must ask to be released from your service and be put out to pasture. Most of your servants are aging. Surely you’ve noticed!”
