Seer of Egypt (32 page)

She looked up. “This one”—she tapped it on her knee—“is from Seshemnefer, your gardener. It is dictated, and he wants you to know that, seeing his pay is ample, you need not reimburse him for the cost of hiring a scribe.” Huy smiled and the melancholy that had dogged him began to lift a little. “He says that the barley and emmer on your khato land has sprouted vigorously and that your fellahin weed it continually. He has arranged for deliveries of donkey dung during the next Inundation to mix with the silt when the flood recedes. He needs your permission to have silos built to hold the crops after the harvest.”

“You can deal with all that. Of course there must be storage for the grain. Seshemnefer is simply reminding me that he is important, and so he is. What of the other?”

“It is from Amunmose, written by himself. I didn’t know he could read and write.”

“Many of the servants working in the temples learn from all the literate priests around them. What does he want?”

Thothhotep was all at once uncomfortable. “His sister Iny has arrived from the south. He has set her to work preparing for me to take over the Lady Ishat’s quarters. Master—”

Huy held up a hand. His gloom had returned. “You are my scribe. Ishat’s quarters are now yours. I asked her to talk to Merenra some time ago about providing you with a cosmetics table and mirror and pots of kohl and whatever else you might require—oils, bolts of linen, combs, feminine things, but also the things that will make my scribe acceptable to the nobles who come to my house for Seeings. You need not bridle about it, Thothhotep, and do not thank me. It is all to my advantage.”

She nodded and returned the scrolls to her pouch. They sat without speaking for a long time, but Huy did not notice. His mind, his heart, was buried in the past he and Ishat had forged together, and the loss of her was already more than he could bear.

PART TWO

9

H
uy sat contentedly with his back against a sycamore, Thothhotep beside him, a cup of date wine cradled absently in both his hands. The afternoon was hot but not unpleasantly so, although it seemed warmer for the press of noisy people crowded into Heby’s small garden. Heby himself, with his new wife, Iupia, had retreated to the lengthening shade of the house with its two sturdy entrance pillars. Iupia’s hand rested on Heby’s white-kilted thigh and their heads were together, Iupia saying something into Heby’s ear that brought a smile to his lips.
Nineteen years ago you were my little brother, running wide-eyed with excitement through the house the King had deeded to Ishat and me outside Hut-herib on the occasion of your first visit,
Huy thought as he watched them.
You had to lift your chin to look into my face while you told me how you had been into the flower fields with Father to gather seeds. Now we stand eye to eye, you at twenty-seven and me at thirty-eight, and those who do not know us take us for twins. Not because you age poorly. There is almost no evidence of all your Naming Days apart from a few almost invisible smile lines at your temples and around your mouth, and your body has achieved a fully masculine beauty. No, we resemble each other so closely because the god prevents the passing years from entering me. Now there you sit, a handsome man in the full glory of a healthy maturity, and where has the time gone?

“No one wants to go home,” Thothhotep remarked. “The wedding feast last night was such a success, even though half the guests had to celebrate outside because your brother’s house is so small, and the nights are so sweetly mild that everyone slept on the grass or on the roof. It’s a pity Governor Thothmes and Ishat had to leave.”

“Particularly as Thothmes kept Assistant Treasurer Merira occupied,” Huy added. “No doubt he’s an honest man and an efficient keeper of the King’s finances, but he’s the most pedantic, boring man I’ve ever been trapped by. I pity Heby, with a father-in-law he must visit regularly. Although the match is an advantageous one for Heby. Even though he’s Chief Scribe to the High Priest of Ptah here in Mennofer, he’s not a noble. Iupia is. If Heby’s ambitious as well as incredibly patient, he might secure a position at court through Merira. In time.”

“In time.” Thothhotep sipped thoughtfully at her own wine. “He’s a happy man, Master. He has the ability to remain cheerful and optimistic no matter what the gods send him from day to day. The only time I’ve seen him weep was when you were summoned to See for Sapet.”

Sapet. Huy did not answer his scribe. Heby’s first wife had been the daughter of his employer, the High Priest of Ptah’s temple here in the royal city, a seventeen-year-old girl of breathtaking loveliness whose name, Sapet, meant “bud of the water lily.” Heby, at eighteen, had fallen desperately in love with her, and a delighted Hapu had hastily signed the marriage contract.
Heby deserved to achieve his desires, once with Sapet and now with an even more illustrious joining,
Huy’s thoughts ran on.
He loves freely, and those he cannot love he does his best to like. He is generous with his laughter, reliable in his work, and was an exemplary husband to Sapet. I wish that Atum had chosen to save her. Kneeling beside her couch and watching the fever eat her up was worse than having to face Nefer-Mut’s bloody and painful dying. Nefer-Mut, though I loved her, was only the mother of Thothmes, my friend. Sapet was my brother’s cherished wife. I dare not allow myself to consider all the many strangers, commoners as well as nobles, who have been healed by Atum through me when the god withdrew his hand from two such beloved women. Not to mention those who have been given a vision of a bright future. If I begin to tread that path, I am in danger of losing the peace and equanimity I have struggled to attain since Ishat left me to marry Thothmes
.
I am thirty-eight years old, eleven years older than Heby, yet already he is embarking on a second marriage while I remain alone. And only six months ago, Sapet was entombed. This marriage is for his son’s sake, he tells me, but also because Sapet and Iupia were good friends and Iupia knows him well. There is comfort in such closeness, I suppose.

As if in response to his musing, there was a screech of rage. Heby and Iupia looked up. The buzz of loud conversations quietened briefly and the crowd shifted to give Huy a glimpse of his nephew, Amunhotep-Huy, sitting astride another boy, his knees imprisoning the other’s arms while he rained punches down on the unprotected face. Quickly passing his cup to Thothhotep, Huy got up and took the few steps to where blood had begun to stream from the other boy’s nose. He was trying to free himself, wriggling and kicking. Both of them were screaming at each other. Heby came up and, grasping his son roughly under the arms, hauled him to his feet and shook him. The other boy rolled over and then stood, lifting his dusty kilt and holding it to his nose. “You’re a liar!” he mumbled fiercely through the stained linen. “A liar and a cheat! I hope—” He would have said more, but his mother had run up and was leading him away.

“I’m so sorry, Heby,” she said over her shoulder. “He will be punished as soon as we get him home. Your pardon for his lack of good manners.”

Heby had grabbed his son by one ear and was urging him towards the house. Huy followed with an inward sigh. As they passed Iupia, who had risen from her stool and was eyeing them with a look of distress, Heby touched her briefly. Then he, Huy, and the boy halted just beyond the entrance to the house. The little hall was cool and empty of all save Heby’s steward, who saw them enter, bowed discreetly to Huy, and disappeared along the narrow passage towards the rear.

“He had no right to call me a liar!” Huy’s nephew burst out at once. “He’s always picking on me at school, Father! He hates me and I hate him!” Huy stared down at the flushed and angry face that so closely resembled Heby’s own, with its wide brown eyes, square, cleft chin, and broad forehead.

Heby relinquished his grip. “I don’t care what your excuse is, Amunhotep-Huy,” he said severely. “How dare you scrap in the middle of my guests on this important occasion! Look at you! Your kilt is filthy, your youth lock has come undone, and where is your other sandal? Go up to your room and stay there until I can decide on a suitable punishment. No evening meal for you, either.”

“You’re always punishing me for everything!” Amunhotep-Huy said hotly. “Just like Overseer Prahotep! It’s not fair!” Huy could see no remorse or apology in the furious features. Amunhotep-Huy flung away from them and marched to the foot of the stairs. Both men watched the stiff, affronted spine ascend out of sight.

Heby blew out his cheeks. “I wanted to keep him at home for the next two months. It’s Payni now, and the school will close for the Inundation before the end of Mesore. But perhaps it would be better to send him back to Iunu. He doesn’t like Iupia. He’s rude to her.”

“He’s rude to everyone,” Huy reminded him. “He misses his mother, Sapet, of course, but since when has grief been an excuse for discourtesy? He’s eight years old, Heby. He should know better.”

“He does know better, he just doesn’t care. Where does this constant disrespect come from? It’s almost insolence, Huy. Prahotep can’t seem to do anything with him. I wish Harmose hadn’t retired. From what you’ve told me of your own schooldays at the temple of Ra, Harmose ruled the pupils kindly but firmly. Prahotep has no control over my son. I think that the only reason High Priest Ramose allows the boy to stay at school is because of you. We both pay the expenses, but it’s you who are a legend there. Ramose is loath to expel him. Whipping him does no good—it only makes him angrier.” His shoulders slumped. “I must get back to my guests. Truthfully, Huy, I wish they’d get onto their litters and go home.”

Both men left the hall, Heby to take Iupia’s hand and mingle with the crowd and Huy to lower himself again beside his scribe. She had been talking to Anhur, who bowed to him as he approached. Seeing them together, he wondered for the hundredth time why they did not marry. Thothhotep was already thirty-three. Anhur had no idea how old he himself was, but thought he might be somewhere in his middle forties. They had formed a strong attachment not long after Thothhotep had come to work for Huy. Anhur, who had been with Huy when Huy had tested the skinny girl’s skill in Hut-herib’s marketplace, and who had been dispatched the following day to escort her to the estate, had adopted a protective attitude towards her that Huy found rather poignant. The waiflike near-child and the bluff, outspoken soldier had slowly bonded to one another, and Huy was glad to see it. Neither showed any inclination to leave his service, and he in turn had come to rely on both of them for different reasons. His security under Anhur’s capable guards was never in question, and Thothhotep had blossomed into an excellent scribe. She could not take Ishat’s place entirely, Huy thought as he sank onto the grass and Thothhotep gave him back his wine. But her presence in his house had gone a long way towards alleviating the loneliness that had descended on him when he had returned from Ishat’s marriage to a miserably empty estate.

“Heby sent him to his room,” he commented to their questioning faces. “He’s earned yet another beating.”

“Your brother should let me give him to the army,” Anhur said heavily. “He could begin by learning to keep a captain’s weapons clean in exchange for his food and shelter. Many poor peasants begin their careers in this way. You know, Huy, he reminds me of that young cur I had to protect you from all those years ago at the temple of Khmun, the one you said attacked you and knocked you into Ra’s canal lake.”

Huy nodded. “You mean Sennefer. What makes a child a Setian one, Anhur? What faulty spell or incomplete magic shield at birth allows Set, with all his turbulence and chaos, to enter a baby?”

His captain shrugged. “How would I know? I was named after a minor war god and I became a soldier. I don’t regret it. My sisters still love me.” He grinned.

“But my nephew carries two powerful names, that of the King himself and mine. There’s no use denying that my name has heka. These names should mean the growth of intelligence and confidence in Amunhotep-Huy, not spite and self-pity and ire.”

“Who can say what the King’s character is really like, though?” Thothhotep put in. “The One may be angry, even spiteful sometimes, under the mantle of Ma’at and his godhead. Only his courtiers are able to judge.”

Huy drained his wine.
I feel sorry for Heby
.
The peace of his household is disturbed every time the boy comes home from school. Father and Uncle Ker dote on him, of course, and that does him no good at all. Mother and Hapzefa do their best to teach him restraint, but they’re both well into their fifties and easily tired. My barge should be returning soon from taking them home, then I and my servants can leave.

A short time later, one of his sailors found him, and gladly he sought out Heby and Iupia and said his goodbyes. “Hut-herib is only a two-day sail from us here in Mennofer,” Iupia reminded him as he kissed her soft cheek. “Come and visit us before the Inundation.”

“I’ll try, but before the flood there’ll be reaping and threshing on my arouras, and Seshemnefer grumbles if I don’t spend a little time watching him direct the peasants. I’m expecting word on the latest incense caravan as well. Pharaoh’s Overseer of Trade always lets me know the weight and value of my share.”

Heby made a face. “Those are just excuses. You’re getting old, Huy, when you’d rather lie on your couch and pant the summer away than sit in my garden and play sennet.” He eyed his brother critically. “Although I’d swear you look ten years younger than you really are. What’s your secret? An addiction to the mandrake root?”

Huy smiled at him while a vision of the Rekhet formed in his mind, her seamed cheeks framed in wisps of grey hair, a comb in her hand. Once, when he had visited her in her modest mud-brick city house, she had untied his braid and combed oil containing crushed mandrake through his hair. Its odour had made him feel both sleepy and alert, and later he had been accused by Anuket of having been with a woman because he smelled of the plant all considered an aphrodisiac. Henenu had asked him why he wore his hair so long, already knowing the answer. He had assured her that it was both to hide the scar Sennefer’s throwing stick had made and so that he might not appear to be a priest with a shaven skull, or a Seer either. She had told him bluntly that it was also a symbol of his virginity. He had been angry often in those days, unable to reconcile himself to the unwanted celibacy the god had thrust upon him, unwilling to explore the equally unwanted gift of Seeing with which he was burdened. She had delivered a stinging lecture, he remembered.