Ancient Evenings (32 page)

He commenced by remarking that my mother’s story had an echo of our great kingdom and made Him think of times that had passed. For while my mother, He said, had only spoken of people dwelling among us, or not long dead, yet He found sentiments of such intensity, particularly on the part of the dead wife, reminded Him of the great ancestors who had built the Pyramids.

I could hardly believe it was the voice of Ptah-nem-hotep. He spoke in the solemn measure of Khem-Usha, a slow voice to make me impatient if it were not that the spell of these long sonorous remarks most certainly calmed the uproar of my emotions. After a while, I even began to count how many voices had come out of our Pharaoh on this evening, some shrill, some deep, others coarse, or quick. I had heard reflections, in no more than the turn of a word, of accents that belonged to Bone-Smasher or Ravah, plus hints of a voice from many a province—I could recognize how fit it was that our Good God could, like a God, carry more than one man’s voice. All the same, I had no expectation He might also speak like Khem-Usha. It was then I realized that Ptah-nem-hotep could not listen to a voice He did not like without feeling a desire to purge all reverberations of that sound. So we heard the tones of the High Priest, but so skillfully that Khem-Usha, wherever he was, must now feel a disturbance of his august calm, and be drawn like a piece of black-copper-from-heaven toward the imitation of himself by the Pharaoh.

In such a voice, Ptah-nem-hotep told the story. “Of My ancestor, Khufu,” He began, “it is said that His eye rested on every stone in the Great Pyramid as it was set in place. It is also said that He dismissed His little queens of the harem and kept only one wife. To Her, Neter-Khent, He gave the same loyalty as to His own person. For in fidelity, He believed, was His power Sharing His body with one woman, and no other, would give Khufu the goodness of two noble souls, each with its seven parts. Thereby, They would not merely add their force to one another, but multiply it. Khufu, on the consequence, possessed seven times seven manifestations of strength.

“That,” said Ptah-nem-hotep, “is the strength we have forsaken. We do not have the desire to build one Great Pyramid. We spend our lives on a hundred matters. We even conclude that we have chosen wisely. For how can there be a greater risk than to trust someone completely? Khufu may have been seven-by-seven times stronger than any other Pharaoh, but so, too, was His terror of losing His strength. Because of this, He could not go forth from His Palace without fearing that Ra would enter His wife’s body, and steal His power. Khufu even built a tomb in the very center of the Pyramid so that the light of Ra could never reach Him. He also left words with His guards that if He should be killed on a visit to the works, Neter-Khent was to be stoned to death. He grew so distrustful of Her fidelity that soon He began to suspect His officers. At last He issued one order. No one in Memphi was to make love without His permission. The populace were obliged to obey. Which common man could trust his neighbors when every sound is heard on the street, and who could depend on the loyalty of his servants to be discreet? All, rich or poor, were obliged to be celibate. This mighty Emperor, His tomb greater than a mountain, commanded the loins of men and the womb of women.” Ptah-nem-hotep coughed delicately into His hand. “So, even as Khufu was on His deathbed, He believed that He would never die since He was now wholly a God.”

Ptah-nem-hotep paused and looked at each of us in turn, even giving me a full share of His eyes, as if my attention were as valuable as the others. “I have looked for the wisdom,” He said, “and have come to the conclusion that a Pharaoh being in part a man, and, in part a God, must never err too much to one side, or madness becomes His only choice. Khufu erred by seeking all the powers of a God. Whereas I may be seeking too few.”

Now the Pharaoh was silent. He moved His lips as if to speak to us again, hesitated, and was truly silent. I knew a change in the evening was on us. All that had been strange yet harmonious, full of little terrors and odd delights, would now be disturbed. Waves were rolling across my thoughts from all directions. Indeed, in the next instant, without a servant to announce him, Khem-Usha came in.

TEN

If I had not seen him before, I would still have known that he must be not only the Vizier but the High Priest as well. For he entered with enough assurance to have been a great foreign Prince. I, who shared with the Pharaoh a breath that only the birds may know, which is that our wings—if we had had wings—would quiver at every shift in the air, knew my Monarch’s bad mood had been as well placed as the hinge of a door.

The High Priest passed by me like a Royal Barge. I could have been no more than a raft of papyrus undulating in his wake. He was not a man of great size, but his head was huge, and his shaven scalp, being anointed with oil, made me most aware of how his head gleamed. He was also dressed in a short skirt that showed his heavy thighs, and his shoulders were covered with a wide cape of a sort I soon learned—since my mother’s first greeting to the High Priest was to inquire about it—had been worn on rare occasions by the priests of olden times. It put me even more in awe of him than before.

“There may be food from the beast left for you,” said our Pharaoh.

“I have had my evening meal,” replied Khem-Usha in his slow, deep voice. Then, he added, “I do not observe the Night of the Pig.”

Ptah-nem-hotep said: “Let us pray no Gods are insulted by such restraint.”

“I do not consider my abstention an insult to any God.” His manner suggested that he could annul sacrilege by the correct tones of his voice, and as if to show his displeasure, he did not sit down when our Pharaoh pointed to a seat, but instead said in his deep voice, “I would ask for an audience with Your Ear.”

“It is the Night of the Pig. You may speak before all of us.”

Khem-Usha was again silent.

“Our little feast has been altered,” said the Pharaoh, “by your desire to visit. Yet you do not wish to sit with us. You have something to tell Me, therefore, and it is miserable. Khem-Usha, I was enjoying a merry evening. Do you often see Me when I am merry? No, you may agree with Me, you do not. Thereby, the people of Egypt suffer, don’t they? For people can only play when the Gods are merry. You know that?”

Khem-Usha nodded, but with a look of weary patience.

“Tell me, has the King of Byblos killed the Egyptian envoys he is holding?”

“No,” said the High Priest, “I did not come to speak of the King of Byblos.”

“Nor is it about the Prince in Elam who imprisoned the chieftain favorable to Our interest?”

“It is not,” said Khem-Usha.

“Then, I would ask you, Khem-Usha. What new and unhappy matters are before Us?”

“The Chief Scribe of the Vizier’s office in Memphi just came to me with a message from the Chief Scribe in Thebes. It arrived by courier this evening. It tells me that two days ago, the metalworkers and the carpenters of the Necropolis of Thebes went on strike.”

“Two days ago. Then why could this not wait for morning?”

Where others would have knelt at the rebuke, or even tapped their head seven times to the ground, Khem-Usha merely pursed his lips. “Divine Two-House,” he said, “I came to see You tonight because the situation is onerous, and I am much occupied tomorrow. We must discuss it now.”

“Yes,” said Ptah-nem-hotep, “you have chosen the only moment that is possible.” He was pleased by the droll look with which my mother supported His remark.

“It could be said,” Khem-Usha stated, “that these Necropolis workers have been treated with much consideration. For two months no heavy work has been laid out for them. Yet these seventy light days of labor were credited to their account for the standard ration. Despite our generosity, they have still gone on strike.”

“Khem-Usha, have they been given the ration, or merely credited?”

“The payments were ordered but delayed. All through Phamenoth, the corn, I am afraid, has been a week late. During Pharmuti, the oil and beer have been forthcoming, but, unhappily, not the corn.” He paused. “And a shortage of beans. Then the fish could only be given half-ration. So they went on strike.”

“How can your Officials allow such short measure?” Ptah-nem-hotep asked.

Now Khem-Usha looked as if there had been good reason why he wished to be alone with the Pharaoh. “The Chief of the Metalworkers and Carpenters in the City of the Dead at Thebes,” he said, “is Nam-Shem. He was selected by You. If You recall, Great Two-House, I asked You not to choose our petty Officials. The sympathies of Your godly nature allow You to see the gifts of our people more quickly than their deceits. Nam-Shem owes more than a few gamblers and pimps. So he has sold fifty sacks of corn that belong to the Necropolis workers, and much else. When they did not receive their ration this week, they went on strike.”

“Get the food to them,” Ptah-nem-hotep said, “from your temple supplies.”

Khem-Usha shook his head. “I fear,” he said finally, “that is not a wise solution.”

“One hundred and eighty-five thousand sacks of corn went to the Temple of Amon last year from the Royal Treasury,” Ptah-nem-hotep replied. “Why do you begrudge fifty sacks to these workers?”

“They are well paid,” said Khem-Usha. “My priests are not.”

Ptah-nem-hotep looked at my great-grandfather, and repeated, “My priests are not!” Then He began to speak with a mockery in His voice that would have proved withering to any man who was less composed than Khem-Usha. “Do you know,” He said, “in thirty-one years of His Reign, My Father gave more than one hundred thousand slaves to the temples, half a million head of cattle, and over one million plots of ground. Not to mention His little gifts. One million charms, amulets, and scarabs. Twenty million bouquets of flowers. Six million loaves of bread! I go over His records—I would not believe the amounts if I did not know that I, year by year, have been paying out nearly as much to Khem-Usha and his temples, and our Royal Treasury is not nearly so rich. Perhaps our festivals do not bring the river to the right height. Too much or too little—usually too little. Either I am not near enough to Amon, or you, Khem-Usha, do not say the prayers well enough. In any case, we are certainly low on grain. All the same, I do not know how you can begrudge fifty sacks of corn. My Father gave the temples half a million fish in thirty years and two million jars of incense, honey, and oil. A great Pharaoh was My Father, Ramses the Third, but not great enough to say no to the demands of the Temple on the Treasury. And I am only in His shadow. All the same, I tell you, Khem-Usha, give the Necropolis workers their share of grain. Put that situation in order. If I have made a mistake with Nam-Shem, do not take pride in it.”

“I must do as You say,” said Khem-Usha, “but I will also remark that Your gift will encourage these workers to strike again, and for less.”

“Put the situation in order,” Ptah-nem-hotep repeated.

Khem-Usha’s face was without expression. He answered, “It has been, Divine Two-House, another occasion to live in the subtlety of Your heart. Yet, before I go, I must still ask for an audience alone. There is another matter, and I can speak of it before no one.”

“As I have said, it is the Night of the Pig. So, tell it to all.”

Khem-Usha, in disobedience of the Pharaoh, bent forward, however, and whispered into His ear. Then they looked into each other’s eyes. I felt something in my balance waver. Ptah-nem-hotep said, “Yes, perhaps I will walk with you through the garden,” and with a quick smile in our direction for so suddenly removing Himself, left with His High Priest and Vizier.

ELEVEN

While He was gone, my parents did not speak. Nor did Menenhetet utter a sound. A torpor came over me, full of the taste of the pig.

Stuffed, and a little confused by what had just taken place, I felt close to sleep. Like a bruise whose pain turns at last into tenderness, I was ready to forgive my mother. Maybe it was the golden light of the last candles reflecting in my gold goblet, but I soon began to mystify myself with the loveliness of the thought that the light in this room once lived in an abode of honey. For my mother had told me that the wax to make these candles came from the beehives of the Pharaoh. By such a light, I looked again at my parents, especially at the beauty of my mother, and thought I had never witnessed as many faces within her as I glimpsed tonight. Steeped in their thoughts, my heart now felt as mellow as any fifty-year-old, and I was so filled with cynicism (the first time ever to feel such superiority!) that I had to smile at how my mother, when at home, showed little of whatever tact she had offered tonight. Alone among us, she would display no respect nor patience when speaking to my father. Whatever was her own mood became the mood of our house. Her bad humors, quite the equal, as I say, of any black servant, used to leave me with the feeling that the day had grown intolerably hot. I used to believe she had the power to affect our weather; after long burning afternoons, her bad humor, if atrocious enough, was ready to spoil the sunset, and I remember suffocating evenings when the last clouds were black over the western hills.