Out of the Black Land (9 page)

But every day, while the Sun Re is in the sky, Apep reforms and draws his bones and his flesh together, and every night he attacks again.

Some men say that one night, if belief fails, then he will win: and that will be the end of light, and warmth, and the world.

We shivered pleasurably. ‘You have the spell which they recite every day in every temple of Amen-Re in the Black Land,’ said Teacher Khons. ‘The priests say it as they destroy a wax image, melting it and spitting on it and crushing it underfoot. We will listen while you read it, Lady Mutnodjme.’

I took the scroll, scanned the cursive script and began to read:

Apep is fallen into the flame; a knife is stabbed into his head: his name lives no more. I drive darts into him, I sever his neck, cutting into his flesh with this knife. He is given over to the fire which has mastery over him.

Horus mighty of strength has decreed that he should come to the front of the boat of Re: his fetter of steel ties him and binds him so that he cannot move. He is chained, bound, fettered, and his strength ebbs so that I may separate the flesh from the bones, cut off his feet and his arms and hands; cut out his tongue and break his teeth, one by one, from his mouth: block up his ears and put out his eyes. I tear out his heart from its throne: I make him not to exist. May his name be forgotten and his heirs and his relatives and his offspring, may his seed never be established: may his soul, body, spirit, shade and words of power and his bones and his skin be as nothing.

I looked at Teacher Khons. ‘Why, then, is the serpent still alive?’ I asked.

‘Because spells cannot mend everything,’ said Teacher Khons, turning a gold ring in his ear. ‘Because gods are a way of looking at the world. Because there must be a balance, and while there is good there must be Amen-Re, and while there is evil there must be Apep.’

That sounded reasonable. I began to think that having a teacher was going to be very interesting.

Ptah-hotep

The temple of Amen-Re at Karnak is colossal.

Because I was uncertain if I would return—some people never do return from the temple—I made sure that Khons was settled with the alarming Great Royal Nurse Tey and her two charges. I gave a very unwilling Meryt enough gold to get back to Nubia and a scroll which freed her from slavery. I left Khety and Hanufer with the task of understanding a particularly convoluted tax appeal from the Nome of Set and I farewelled Anubis, who was the only one who didn’t contend with me. I would take no one with me into danger, though I had to have a furious argument with all of them before they agreed to let me go alone.

Meryt plaited my hair with beads, but otherwise I was undecorated, except for the Great Scribe’s ring-seal, which weighed down my hand. I had a right to wear that. Otherwise I was a mere appointee of a Younger Royal Son and did not consider it proper to make a display of my wealth, so recently gained and so easily lost. I was more afraid than I have ever been as I walked unescorted out of the palace of the King and into the avenue of ram’s-head sphinxes which led to the complex and castle of the most important temple of the Black Land’s most important god.

To walk from the palace of the King to the Temple of Amen-Re takes but an hour; and to walk the extent of the Temple of Amen-Re just along the river bank takes four hours. Every Pharaoh since the earliest has added his image and a few temples to the Theban temple, and some have added whole palace sized buildings. The central mystery, of course, is not open to anyone but the King and the High Priest, but the common people can see inside the great pylons or gates when the festival comes, and Amen-Re is carried along the avenue of sphinxes to his wife Mut, to stay for a decan in her arms.

The Heb-Sed festival too centres on this temple. It is celebrated when a Pharaoh has reigned for thirty years, and the Lord Amenhotep may he live looked strong enough to survive another two years and celebrate it. I prayed for the King’s health and my own as I walked along the sanded path, carefully cleared of stones every morning by slaves of the temple. No leaf or bird was suffered to land on that path. Men spent their whole lives warding them off, which struck me as a sad way to spend a life.

The temple is built of sandstone which catches and reflects the rays of its lord. Golden at noon, the stones were red as ochre as I approached them. The serpent wind had died away, the endless maddening scratching sound of blown sand had ceased, and I was wet with sweat and fear. No one spoke to me as I passed several cheerful parties of young men, redolent of wine and pleasure. One woman called to me from the houses of wine by the waterside, but I ignored her. I was praying to Osiris that I might find favour in his eyes because I might be joining him soon, to Neith the Hunter and Isis the Mistress of Magic who protect such creatures as the Princess Sitamen and I, and to such of my ancestors who could spare their attention from feasting in the Field of Offerings.

‘Help me, all gods and venerable ancestors, help me to survive this interview and this night,’ I prayed, but received no answer.

Amen-Re the Sun was descending into the underworld as I came to the pylons, turned aside and said to the soldier guarding the priest’s door, ‘I am Ptah-hotep. The High Priest and Servant of Amen-Re the Sun, Bringer of Blessings, has summoned me. I am here.’

He admitted me instantly into a courtyard. My feet crunched over carefully arranged patterns in unseen mosaic as I was conducted by the soldier who did not speak through a colonnade and into a wide hall. The pillars were shaped like stems, the capitals like lotus flowers. It was of inhuman size, vast and shadowed, with only a few torches for light. An elderly priest, head shaved, eyes down, beckoned me to follow him into another hall, and handed me over to a younger man, who took a torch from a slave and led me up a flight of stairs.

None of them had spoken. This treatment was evidently designed to rattle me, and I was determined that it should not do so. I had not asked or schemed or even desired to be Great Royal Scribe, but I was, and I had a feeling that if I had been the old man Nebamenet I would not have been walking through the halls attended by priests who seemed to have been struck dumb by my eminence. When the young man picked up his pace, wishing perhaps to have me arrive at my destination out of breath, I kept to my usual walking speed until he noticed and came back for me. Then I saw some expression on his expressionless face; it was not a smile but a softening of his rigidly schooled features. I did not speak to him, because I would have been at a disadvantage if I spoke and he did not reply. I had played this game at the school of scribes, and I had always won.

We came to a painted door, and the priest called ‘Ptah-hotep,’ and a slave opened.

I stepped inside. The room was bright with torchlight which revealed painted walls, a marble floor inlaid with golden sun discs, a ceiling made of golden rosettes placed so thickly that they looked like spiderweb over a lapis lazuli sky, and a throne.

It was made of wood overlaid with gold. The high back was of electrum, an alloy of silver and gold, the cushions were covered with golden tapestry and the footrest was of solid silver. It would have bought a small town.

Since I was not required to bow to an empty throne, I stood where I was and considered the situation. The slave who had admitted me had gone. I knew what I was expected to do: get angry, or fidget, or wander around and finger the ornaments, or fret, or tremble.

I did none of these. I sank down into the scribe’s cross legged position, folded my hands in my lap, and sank into thought.

The high priest was assuming a lot about the nature of my appointment if he dared treat me so discourteously. He was also making certain assumptions about me which I could not like. He was expecting to evoke an emotional reaction, well, I was certainly an emotional being, but all my love was given to one human, and he was with the army.

I knew how powerful the high priest was; did he know how powerful I was, with my patron the king behind me? Was it wise, in short, to slight me without doing some research to find out how I was likely to react? The Pharaoh Akhnamen could have ordered—though such a thing was unthinkable—that the worship of Amen-Re be abandoned and no taxes be paid to the priests, and where would that leave the high priest? A discredited old man forced to beg his way along the roads.

That thought pleased me and I may have smiled a little.

I sat still for about half an hour by the sand-clock on the table when I heard a scraping sound and an unexpected door opened in the painted wall. I had had time to memorise the decorations, and this wall was unusual; it was painted all over with doors of all sizes and shapes, half-open like the false door in a tomb which allows the ka to enter. One of these doors was now opening, and an old man came through, attended by two entirely naked, very beautiful women, who assisted him to climb the step and sit down on the throne.

I had enquired as to the correct greeting of Great Royal Scribe to High Priest. I rose and waited for him to acknowledge me. He raised his eyes and gave a slight nod.

‘Ptah-hotep,’ he said, a mild discourtesy.

‘Servant of Amen-Re,’ I bowed to the correct depth and no lower.

‘My name is Userkhepesh,’ he said. He was required to tell me his name by protocol agreed between the palace and the temple. I was tired, hot and weary of these manoeuvrings.

‘My title is Great Royal Scribe,’ I pointed out, as the thing which he clearly did not know about me.

There was a moment when we stared straight into each other’s eyes. He was very old. His shaven head was as white as chalk, his limbs trembled with age, and his robes hung on his rack of a body like nets on a fisherman’s wire traps. But his eyes were deep and full of will and strength. Neither of us looked away for an uncounted time. I do not know what he saw in my eyes. But he finally broke the contact with a grunt, waved at the women to begin laying out a feast, and did not speak until I had a cup of wine and they had helped him descend to sit on a low chair at a well-filled table.

Even in the driest month the temple of Amen-Re, it appeared, had melons, golden fruit from the jungles of Upper Egypt. A naked woman leaned over me and put a piece of fruit into my mouth. I smiled at her, but she did not respond.

‘So you are the Pharaoh’s lover,’ the old man broke the silence.

I said, ‘Lord, I am the Pharaoh’s choice,’ and ate some more melon.

‘How old are you?’ he asked, and I told him my age. He thought for awhile, seeming not to notice the curved belly or breast before his face, or the melon juice mopped from his chin by his attentive slave. ‘Your father?’ he asked.

I was sure that he knew all about me, so I answered ‘He is a scribe in the city of Apis in the Nome of the Black Bull, Lord.’

‘I know.’ He tasted a roasted pheasant, then indicated to the slave that she should serve me some of the scented flesh.

We ate in silence for awhile. I sensed his puzzlement. I was not reacting as a boy-lover should react, or an over-awed child, or a scheming creature who has kissed Pharaoh’s feet for his favour. I like silence, and I let it continue. I had not been well fed lately and this meal was a feast of all that was tasty and light, perfect for a hot evening.

‘The pheasant is delicious,’ I commented, a social statement required of a guest. ‘You are a generous host, Userkhepesh, Servant of Re.’

‘I am delighted that my poor fare should please you,’ he said absently, again the correct reply.

I ate some good black grapes, spitting the seeds politely into my hand, and he watched me as if I was a newly-created beast and he was Khnum the Potter, wondering what to name me.

‘Are these from the Tashery vineyard, Lord?’ another social comment. ‘My second in command says that they are the best grapes in the Black Land.’

‘Mentu? He would know about wine, though nothing else. You know that. You appointed him.’ The High Priest leaned forward. ‘So far you have not put a foot wrong, Lord Ptah-hotep. You were not awed or improperly curious. You know the value of silence. You do not fear me.’

‘Lord, I fear you, and your office, your god, and your power,’ I responded honestly. ‘But since this meeting is a test, set by my wise elder to find out my worth, I would dishonour my office if I did not at least pass it.’

He laughed, a dry laugh which had little merriment in it.

‘What did happen at the lake?’ he asked. ‘How did Pharaoh choose you?’

‘I was bathing, and I was called out of the water. Pharaoh laid his flail on me; possibly my master recommended me. That was the first time I ever saw the Lord of the Double Crown.’ I took some more of a curious, luscious mixture of beans in oil.