Ancient Evenings (21 page)

I looked up, bowed my head, withdrew two steps upon my knees, and stood slowly. The Pharaoh did not take His eyes from me. “Your boy is extraordinary,” He said to Hathfertiti, “and has a sweet mouth. He will yet prove a scandal with his tongue.” Turning His look from myself to my great-grandfather in a movement just so full of the gravity of His mind as the change in mood of the sky when the sun is covered slowly by a cloud, He said to Menenhetet, “You will do well to increase every strength in this boy that sits below his mouth.”

“That may be the search of all men,” said my great-grandfather.

“For Pharaohs as well,” said Ptah-nem-hotep.

My great-grandfather responded with a most unexpected speech. “O You Who live in the night, yet shine upon us in the day; Who are wise as the earth and as the river; You of the Two Great Houses, intimate of Set and Horus, You Who speak to the living and the dead, ask of Your servant, Menenhetet, any small question he can attempt to answer, but do not ask him to ponder whether a Pharaoh has need of strength in those mysterious regions that lie above the thigh and beneath the navel.”

He said all this with such an absence of fear and such cold prowess that he separated himself from the pious sound of his praise. He had shown me once how a captured officer might hand over his sword while feeling contempt for the General to whom he surrendered—it was the only time he ever played such a game with me—and I was wondering if he showed contempt for the Pharaoh now by the words of his speech.

“Tell Me, lovely Hathfertiti,” said our Ramses Nine, “does he speak of Me in this fashion when I am not with you?”

“He lives,” said my mother, “for word of Your smile and mention of Your approval.”

“Tell Me, great General,” the Pharaoh went on, with only a shrug of His fine shoulder for Hathfertiti’s reply (which had been too quick) “is this the manner in which you once spoke to My great ancestor?”

Menenhetet bowed. “It was a young voice then. I have an old one now.”

“Besides, the ancestor was a great Pharaoh,” Ptah-nem-hotep said.

“The difference,” said Menenhetet, “between Ramses the Second and Ramses the Ninth is as the difference between Great Gods.”

“Of which Great Gods do you speak?”

“If I dare to name Them …”

“I give you permission.”

“Ramses the Second was called Horus-the-strong-bull-Who-loves-the-truth. Yet He would remind me more of the Great God Set.” Menenhetet took a pause for the effect of such boldness to be appreciated, and added, “Even as you, great Ninth of the Ramses, encourage me to invoke the presence of He Who is without compare, and is Osiris.”

Menenhetet had made a splendid remark. Ptah-nem-hotep gave a rich laugh, almost as rich in the sound of its pleasure as the amusement I would sometimes hear in my mother’s voice, and I wondered then if Ptah-nem-hotep could also groan with the same profundity of expression as Hathfertiti.

“They speak usually of Ptah, not Osiris,” He said. “I am most delighted you are here.” At an inclination of His head, servants brought cushions, and He beckoned for us to sit beside Him, even sharing the space on His own large cushion with my great-grandfather who, indeed, was embraced and kissed grudgingly on the mouth as soon as he sat down, after which Ptah-nem-hotep all but inquired of the taste left on His lips by a turn of tongue to the corner of His beautiful mouth. The Pharaoh, now inclining Himself to Hathfertiti, said, “While the servants anoint us, I will go on with this day’s work. I have audiences yet to give but must tell you that they can prove tedious. Would you prefer to be taken to your rooms?”

“I would like to listen as the problems of the Two-Kingdoms are presented to Your wisdom.”

“It will be a pleasure to have you at My side,” He whispered to her, and my father immediately gave a signal. A few servants came up with alabaster bowls of scented water that they set at the feet of Ptah-nem-hotep, Menenhetet, my mother and myself. It was then the Pharaoh indicated a fifth cushion for my father. “You need not oversee the eunuchs, Nef-khep-aukhem,” the Pharaoh told him.

My father had a spark in his eye at this mention of himself. It suggested he was not always given such a gift as to hear his full name. “Good and Great God,” he replied, “I breathe the spirit of Your divine kindness but cannot rest upon my cushion for fear the eunuchs will commit an unpardonable error.”

While my father did not often explain much of himself to me, once, unforgettably, I was told how his work as Overseer of the Cosmetic Box and Pencil could on occasion be as important as the post of the Vizier. For whenever times of trouble came to the Two-Lands, then the bearing of the Pharaoh, that is to say, His body, the clothing He wore, and the cosmetics put upon His face, was vital to the good fortune of Egypt. Any gesture that the Pharaoh might make on such a day could shift the course of battles in distant places. The perfection of His eyes, painted pale-green and black, could give magnitude to each inclination of His head. When the Pharaoh was seated on His throne (which always faced the river) He had only to incline the royal neck to right or to left and a breeze would begin in the Upper or Lower Kingdom. So did He need no more than to turn the handle of His crook, and benedictions could be sent to shepherds in valleys we did not see, even as the smallest shake of His flail would inspire field-overseers to whip their labor-gangs. His sunshade, made from an ostrich tail, promoted the health of flowers; the great necklace that covered His chest was the golden ear of the Sun; and His crown of feathers (when He chose to wear it) gave joy or solemnity to the song of birds. My mother had frowned as my father instructed me in these stories. “Why don’t you tell the boy that it is only the ancient Kings Who could put on a leopard’s tail and stir the animals in the jungle. Our Ptah-nem-hotep does not possess such power.”

But even as a child, I could see that my father, despite his desire for perfect decorum, was most practical. “The Pharaoh,” he answered, “would have infinite power if He were not constantly attacked by other powers who are also infinite.”

“Why,” she asked, “is He attacked?”

“Because of the weakness of the Pharaohs Who came before Him.” He looked back at me. “For this reason, it is more important than ever that any ornament which touches His body be without flaw, or His power is weakened further.”

I thought there had to be some error in my father’s argument. Certainly, he was not always to be found in the presence of the Pharaoh. He was often at home. So he could hardly oversee every last cosmetic. Wondering about this, I saw that my father now stood to the side and did not really interfere with the work of the eunuchs who had come in with all the friendliness of puppies and all the grace of dancing girls while two of them began (humming little tunes and smiling at us) to wash Ptah-nem-hotep’s feet with great playfulness, as if indeed like puppies they had something of a right to nip and gnaw on His ankles. Three others served Menenhetet, my mother, and myself. With a considerable amount of merriment, their teeth shining, they tickled the soles of our feet and wiggled their fingers like minnows between our toes, only to scourge the dead skin from our heels with their blunt fingernails.

After a while, they finished with our feet and began to massage our legs. They were handsome men and probably had been chosen from the same village in Nubia or Rush for they were all about the same size, and of the same deep black, and their resemblance to one another was increased by the shining ivory pin that passed through their nose, each pin set at the same angle to their mouth as if they had all been born with one decoration from one womb.

They knew their work and, with or without my father, would hardly make an error. Soon they were massaging not only our legs, but our necks and shoulders, and the eunuch serving Hathfertiti began to rub an oil in exquisite circles around her navel to which she gave unabashed grunts of pleasure, curiously clear and loud as if such a forceful sound was certainly part of a noblewoman’s etiquette.

“I must purchase this eunuch from You,” she said to Ptah-nem-hotep, Who smiled agreeably. “Are they not delightful?” He asked, and looked at the dark bodies of these five slaves with the same love I had seen my great-grandfather give to a team of matched horses or twin white bulls, and indeed, since the slaves wore nothing, one could see not only their plump and muscular haunches, but the shiny stump where their testicles had been and this gave them a nice resemblance to geldings.

Ptah-nem-hotep remarked, “You cannot imagine what joy these boys bring to My harem. If I were still a very young man, I might suffer a lover’s jealousy at the thought of what their hands can give to My little queens, but fortunately, I am sensible and appreciate that the eunuch is a blessing for a Prince. No woman can soothe a man as well, nor massage him into the same peace,” Ptah-nem-hotep sighed. “Yes, they even pacify the animals.”

“They sound,” said Menenhetet, “more agreeable than the Gods.”

“They are certainly,” said Ptah-nem-hotep, “less wicked.”

Menenhetet nodded profoundly.

Hathfertiti said, “It is only in Your presence, Twice-Great-House, that I can listen to such conversation without trembling.” But her words were too flattering. Ptah-nem-hotep replied, “Even as a slave may relieve the boredom of his master by teasing him, so may we speak lightly of the Gods,” but now He looked captured by boredom.

My father chose this moment to say, “To be in the presence of the Twice-Great-House is to live without fear,” except he looked not at all free of fear as he said it, for at just this moment, a servant came in to present a cooling drink, and Ptah-nem-hotep, making a gesture of annoyance, waved it away. “You and Hathfertiti,” He remarked to my father, “certainly speak like brother and sister,” and His enormous eyes lifted in the gentlest curve of surprise as if He could not comprehend how a Princess like my mother, so perfect in her manner (except for her occasional descent into piety) was not only married, but half sister, to a man so common in his birth as my father. I winced with certainty that the Pharaoh was thinking this, but knew whether He did or not that I would still think it because my mother had told me this was the first cause of shame in our family.

Yet, with an obvious concern for His guests—as if His mood might also wither if conversation did not improve—our Pharaoh now turned to my mother and said, “Do you favor the shade of blue in the wig I am wearing?” and asked the question with enough force in His voice to strike a spark of fire in her, so that she replied, “It is not as blue as the sky,” at which they both laughed. My father gave a hurried signal to his assistant, the Overseer of the Royal Wig, who promptly came in with a large silver platter on which rested two black wigs, one straight, one with curls, and two new blue wigs, of which one was curled. I was cheered by the gaiety shown now by my mother and Ptah-nem-hotep. If the warmth of the Pharaoh’s greeting had been put into misery by just one of her remarks, it had now been restored by way of what she last said, as if it were natural for Him to balance the gloom with which He responded to a flaw in manners by quickness to applaud any exhibition of skillful speech, even an acceptable—that is, very small—insult, at least when the mood, like a soup, was in need of some stirring.

Now He picked up a wig with straight fine hair and held it aloft for examination. “Nothing,” He said sadly, “will come close to the blue of the sky. The best of pigments are ugly next to the hue I would like to place on My head, but cannot find.”

“The child may have Your answer,” murmured Menenhetet.

“You must be as clever as you are beautiful,” said Ptah-nem-hotep to me.

My head was empty except for the powerful impulse to say yes. So I nodded.

“Do you know the source of blue dye?” He asked.

I would not have to wander far for an answer. It came to me by way of my great-grandfather. My mind felt like a bowl of water, and the least movement in Menenhetet’s thought rippled through it.

“Why, Divine Double-House, the berry that is blue is the source of the liquid dye.” My tongue felt empty after the remark, and I waited for what might come next.

“Excellent,” said Ptah-nem-hotep. “Now tell me of a light-blue dye that is not a liquid but a powder. Where could you find its root?”

“Good and Great God,” I said, “it is not in a root but in the salts of copper that such a powder can be found.”

“He speaks as well as yourself,” said the Pharaoh.

“He is my second house,” said Menenhetet.

“Explain to me, little Meni, why My wig can never reveal the same blue as the sky.”

“The color of the wig, Good and Great God, comes from the earth. Whereas the blue of the sky is composed of air.”

“Then I will never find the blue I desire?” He asked. His voice was full of a sympathetic mockery that drew me near to Him. Even as I answered, “Never,” I went on to add as easily, “Never, Great Pharaoh, until You find a bird with feathers as blue as the air.”

Menenhetet struck his thigh in surprise. “The boy hears only the best voices,” he said.

“He hears more than one voice,” said Ptah-nem-hotep, and flicked my great-grandfather with His flail. “It’s splendid you are here,” He said. “And you,” He said, now touching Hathfertiti with the same flail.

She responded with her best smile. “Never have I seen You looking more handsome,” she told Him.

“I confess,” said Ptah-nem-hotep, “that I am like a dead fellow, well wrapped. I am bored.”

“That cannot be so,” said Hathfertiti, “when Your eyes are like the lion, and Your voice is the companion of the air.”

“My nostrils smell everything,” He said, “including the oppression of every breath I take.” He sighed. “When alone, I utter bird cries in order to amuse Myself.” He gave a sharp little hoot in imitation of a bird protecting her nest. “Does that amuse you?” He asked. “Sometimes I think it is only by amusing others that I escape for an instant from the smell of everything. Here, little boy, little Meni-Ka, would you like to hear a dog speak in our tongue, not his?”

I nodded. At the simple look of amusement on my face, Ptah-nem-hotep added, “Even your great-grandfather cannot make a dog speak.”