Year of the Hyenas (24 page)

What had the
crown
prince meant when he said that the blood of Twos-re and Amen-meses
still lived? Some inchoate instinct told Semerket that the story of a
Kushite merchant of the same name was a lie—that the merchant and the
king were the same person. But if that were true, he reasoned, the
logical extension of the thought was that the malignant spirit of
Amen-meses still walked the pathways of the Great Place. And hadn’t the
crown prince himself just told him the blood of the evil pair still
lived
in Egypt—?

Again,
Semerket felt
his scalp bristle.

THE NEXT DAY, Semerket was in the
village kitchens with Qar, looking for something they could eat without
fear. They chose unpeeled onions with dirt from the fields still on
them, cheese, and a loaf of bread pulled fresh from the ovens.

“Look what
it’s come
to,” Qar said to him in a low, dispirited voice. “Afraid to sleep
because a lioness hunts us—afraid to eat because it might put us to
sleep.”

In any other
mood, the
irony of the observation might have amused Semerket. But he was too
tired and too hungry to care. The morning was quiet. The tombmakers
had still not found the courage to leave their homes. Only the servants
were up and about. Sukis wound herself about his feet, begging for
scraps. Hunro’s voice suddenly came to them from over the wall, raucous
and angry. Sukis fled the kitchens. Catching Qar’s eye, Semerket rose
to peer through a crack in the gate.

Hunro was at
the
cistern, braying her anger to the few persons who had ventured out to
draw their water. She was being forsaken—
again,
she said—because
Neferhotep had forbidden her to attend the gala arrival of Pharaoh in
Thebes, something she wanted to see just once in her lifetime. Yet here
she was, imprisoned in this dreary hole of a place, guilty of an
unknown crime she had not committed. It wasn’t fair, she intoned,
it
wasn’t fair at
all!

“But
they’re
going, oh yes,” she
said, pointing with her thumb at someone Semerket could not see. He
shifted his position, straining to see who it was she addressed. Paneb
and Neferhotep were striding up the path from the cemetery, conferring
in low tones.

Hunro lunged
at
Neferhotep, claws out. A short, angry scuffle ensued, but Paneb and
Neferhotep deftly grabbed her arms and hustled Hunro back into the
village. She tried to wrench herself free, her mouth full of curses,
but was caught between the two men like a mouse between two millstones.
In a moment they had dragged her into the smoky maw of the village, her
screams fading with her.

“If they’re
going
across the river today,” Semerket whispered to Qar back at the bench,
“I’m going to follow them.”

“See if that
brother
of yours has found any jewels in the markets,” Qar reminded him.

Semerket
slipped from
the village at noon, long before Paneb and Neferhotep departed. It was
a much shorter walk to the river than when he had first come to the
village, for the burgeoning Nile waters now reached almost to the steps
of the western temples. When he came to the place in the river where
the ferrymen congregated, he waited in the shadows of a stable and
folded his gray woolen mantle around his face.

The wharf was
teeming
with chattering Western Thebans anxious to be taken across to welcome
Pharaoh Ramses III. Until that morning Semerket had not known of
Pharaoh’s return. Though normally Semerket despised crowds, they would
be a boon to him this day—for if Paneb or Neferhotep happened to look
in his direction, he could easily blend into the multitude.

Semerket paid
a
ferryman an entire gold piece to reserve his skiff, almost thirty times
the man’s normal fare. He wanted to be sure a boat would be available
when he needed it, and did not count the cost.

An hour or so
passed
before he caught sight of his quarry. Paneb was a giant in the throng
at the shore, easy enough to keep in sight. His broad face was
implacable, but Neferhotep appeared uneasy. The scribe’s eyes darted
about and he kept looking behind himself to see who was on the
causeway. Semerket heard his quavering voice rising tensely; Neferhotep
was angry that no boat was instantly available.

At long last
another
ferryman gave them passage. Semerket sprinted to where his own skiff
waited, and bade the man shove off. Inspired by the gold, or perhaps
because he carried only one passenger, the ferryman quickly overtook
the boat bearing Paneb and Neferhotep. Hunching his shoulders so that
he appeared an old, frail peasant, and turning his face to the north so
he would not be recognized, Semerket was at the eastern docks long
before the tombmakers landed. From behind a mooring stanchion he
watched them disembark.

It seemed that
all
Thebes waited for Pharaoh at the quay. Though a Sed Festival had been
proclaimed in Thebes the previous year to commemorate Ramses III’s
thirtieth year on the throne, tensions arising with the western
barbarians had prevented his visit. Since then a peace treaty had been
signed with the tribes, so there was no excuse for Pharaoh to spurn
Thebes a second time. Word had been received a week before that the
royal fleet was en route to the southern capital.

By now it was
late
afternoon and Pharaoh’s fleet had not yet appeared. Paneb and
Neferhotep mingled on the wharf for a time. Then, as the shadows
lengthened, the two stepped into a quayside tavern called the
Elephant’s Tusk.

Semerket knew
it for
an awful place that reeked of stale wine and urine. Frequented by
foreigners and fish-gutters and slaves, it was not a place Semerket
liked to go—not without his knife—and he was surprised that the
fastidious Neferhotep would consent to go inside such a hovel. But
Semerket also knew that the Elephant Tusk possessed no back door, which
would prevent the tombmakers from eluding him.

Semerket
slipped
inside the tavern, bringing his cloak again around his face, keeping to
the shadows. Paneb and Neferhotep sat at the rear, where it was
gloomiest. It appeared to Semerket’s eyes as if they had only stopped
there for a cup of wine, for they remained alone and unspeaking.
Semerket stepped back into the street, squatting beneath an ancient
sycamore tree at the corner of the tavern.

Ra’s barque
was low in
the west now, but the crowds were very thick, bright-eyed with
excitement and dressed in their holiday best. All across the great
stone wharves, pennants of azure and crimson undulated from tall
spires, while the plating on Amun’s temple doors was polished to new
brightness.

The city’s
dignitaries
and nobles took their places. A deputation of Pharaoh’s sons was in its
first rank, although there was no sign of the crown prince, whom
Semerket had met in the House of Life. It was Pentwere who led them,
dressed for once in royal linen and not armor. Tall, thin Pawero next
stepped forward; at his side was the smaller, rounder Paser. As mayors
of the city they would be among the first to welcome Ramses back to
Thebes.

When Semerket
finally
caught sight of his brother, Nenry, as expected, was hovering behind
Paser in birdlike attendance. His face wore its customary mask of tics
and grimaces, indicating to his brother even from a distance that he
was overburdened with responsibilities.

Semerket
called a
nearby urchin to him and pointed out Nenry among the courtiers. “Tell
him that his brother waits for him under the big sycamore.” He gave the
lad a copper and watched him dart through the crowds. The boy found
Nenry without effort and pointed back to where Semerket stood. Nenry
squinted in the direction of the tavern.

Semerket
removed his
hood and waved, but he could not tell if Nenry had seen him. Shouts
coming from the lookouts atop Amun’s Great Temple suddenly proclaimed
that the masts of Pharaoh’s fleet had at last been sighted.

From far up
the river
came the faint pulse of drums, pipes, and rattling sistra, beating out
a steady rhythm for Pharaoh’s oarsmen. As the music wafted to the
throng along the shore, voices became more animated. Soldiers lit the
bonfires on the street corners and priests placed balls of incense into
huge censers so that pungent clouds soon enveloped the wharves like a
low-hanging fog.

Cheers rose
from a
hundred thousand throats when the fleet rounded the bend in the river.
The ships’ lanterns had been lighted, and they blazed on the water
across the Nile’s entire breadth. The ships’ riggings were strung with
blooms, and every ship displayed the protective totems of its gods.

On the shores,
temple
choruses burst into chants of welcome. Though Semerket kept close watch
on the tavern’s doorway, expecting the tombmakers to emerge, he could
not help but be caught up in the spectacle played out on the river.

Rams’ horns
blew again
when Pharaoh’s venerable ship,
Horus-of-the-Morning,
pulled
ahead of the
other vessels. The dark green man-of-war was the same one in which
Ramses had so triumphantly defeated the Sea Peoples some twenty-five
years before. Though her bulwarks were scarred from battle and she
listed to port, the ship was still a formidable instrument of war—like
Pharaoh himself.

Sailors leapt
to furl
the
Horus-of-the-Morning
’s rectangular red
sail in preparation for docking. As the warship slowly came round, the
rays of the setting sun glinted on the bronze lion-head jutting from
its prow. Its brazen jaws were clamped firmly around a glowering human
skull—all that remained of the chieftain who had dared to lead his
navies against Egypt. Grandparents hoisted their grandchildren to their
shoulders to point out the hole in the skull’s shattered cranium.
Semerket heard their voices excitedly describing the splendid day when
Ramses had clubbed the captive king to death with a granite mace in
Amun’s temple.

Another shout
from the
captain, and the rowers lifted their oars from the water. Towropes were
cast to the dock, where they were secured around the stone stanchions.
As the
Horus-of-the-Morning
was pulled into its
slip and made fast against the bundles of straw that cushioned the
stone wharf, Ramses III stepped from the vessel’s canopied pavilion.
Instantly the cheers doubled in volume, verging on the hysterical.
Pharaoh majestically ignored the noise.

Semerket had
never
before seen the pharaoh at such close range, and stood on the trunk of
the old sycamore to better view him over the heads of the crowd. It was
easy to see he was the father of Pentwere, for he shared the prince’s
well-proportioned physique. Ramses had become gaunt with the years,
Semerket noticed, and his head drooped under the heavy red and white
crowns. Yet as he walked to the gangplank, his gait was anything but
feeble.

Ramses was
entirely
what he seemed—a successful old warrior. Whatever majesty was in him
came from the reflected glory of his office and not from the blood that
flowed through his veins. Ramses III had not been brought up a royal
prince; he was the son of the general Setnakhte who had acquired the
throne almost by accident, rescuing it (Semerket now knew) from the
grasp of Queen Twos-re. In the few times Semerket had heard Ramses
speak from his Window of Appearances, he was wont to address his
subjects as he did his soldiers. “Listen up!” were the words with which
he usually began his rasping speeches—and people did. There were some,
mainly southerners, who complained that his reign lacked dignity.

Pharaoh was
even
whiter-skinned than Semerket remembered. His lips were thin, his eyes
pale, his nose a beak. Though others in his entourage were painted like
statues, his face was barren of cosmetics. As a young man he had been
red-haired, like most of the northern Ramessid kings, and the contrast
between him and his chestnut-skinned Theban subjects was pronounced.

Semerket saw
that the
crown prince was beside him; this was indeed the same man he had met in
the House of Life. Apparently the prince had slipped northward to board
his father’s warship downstream, so that he might arrive with him on
this day of days. Clad in nondescript robes, he clutched a wax tablet
and stylus in his hand. Now that Semerket saw father and son together,
he noted the unmistakable stamp of Ramses III on the prince’s
features—the thin nose and lips, the pale skin.

Suddenly the
whole
purpose of Pharaoh’s visit became clear to Semerket: just as the
librarian Maadje had intimated, Ramses did indeed intend to cede his
authority to his son within the holy capital, just as other far-seeing
pharaohs had done at the end of their reigns, to ensure a smooth
transition of power.

The crowds
became
silent as Pharaoh stepped aboard his royal carrying chair. Then Vizier
Toh, more gnarled and bent than Pharaoh, brought him the scourge and
crook and Pharaoh took them in his hands. In a radiating wave of
prostration starting from the docks, Thebans knelt in an
ever-expanding circle so that even those too far away to see him sunk
in homage.

At a signal
from the
rams’ horns, the first to rise were Pharaoh’s sons. The twelve princes
scrambled to hoist their father’s chair upon their shoulders. The crown
prince was not required to lift the chair, but preceded Pharaoh into
the Great Temple. It was an honor not given to the other sons, and
Semerket saw the humiliation that lurked behind Pentwere’s eyes.
Pentwere was used to being the darling of the Thebans—but now all eyes
were focused on the rarely seen crown prince.

At that
moment,
Semerket was struck by the thought that none of Pharaoh’s wives waited
to greet him. He could remember other such occasions, when he had been
much younger, when Queen Tiya had been very much on display. Now she
was conspicuous by her absence. Semerket remembered Qar’s words to him
at Djamet, that Pharaoh “had a horror of women meddling in the affairs
of men.” He also remembered Maadje’s words, that Tiya had locked
herself away to protest Ramses’s passing over her own brood of eaglets.