Authors: D.S.
I
Men said she was the sunset made flesh. They claimed that once she left, all the beauty of the world left with her, and what remained was naught but shadows and mist. Others shook their heads, insisting she was not sunset but sunrise, for when she drew near, the very skies themselves seemed to brighten, and men and boys alike rose unbidden. Even the priests of the temple could not put end to the dispute, but all agreed in this at least; the blood of the sun had stained her locks, and the breath of the moon had kissed her skin. The Beautiful One had come again.
In the beginning they’d been but passing jests. Slaves would whisper them as she walked the markets at her father’s heels; half forgotten myths of a creature of such profound perfection, that kings fought wars just to gain a favoured glance. Empires rose and fell, fire and death ruled the land, and a nation of free folk met its end on the blood-fields of Armegiddo. All because only one man could have her, but all men wanted her.
By the time she blossomed to the first bloods of womanhood, the whispers had long since turned to open talk. In bar and tavern, back alley and open field, folk proclaimed the Beautiful One had returned, and that as her crimson locks prophesied, she would bring death.
Soon enough men were coming to blows in efforts to glimpse her as she passed, and rumour was, that blood had been spilled as two villains of the night made to force entry to her chambers, and were struck down by her father’s guards. For his part, Amran deemed her friend, but like all who breathed, he dared to imagine her as so much more.
He saw her now, watching in silence as she giggled and whispered secrets with her young guests
.
So far above his station, yet he would gladly shed his lifeblood just to hold her in his arms and crush her lips to his. He had done so once before and remembered it still. Remembered the pain it had brought him. W
orth all that and more.
He would suffer an eternity in the hell fires of
Duat
for just one night with her. He would take a knife to his chest and die with a smile, if just once he could go to her, so that together they could learn what it was to be man and woman.
Tiye pretended she didn’t realise his eyes were on her. She rubbed Lady under the chin and stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. Her mother hated Solon’s ancient pet and avoided the gardens whenever she was about. Small wonder then that Tiye doted over her.
Abruptly, she rose, leaving Lady to stretch in the sun as she wandered towards the pool. At once Iseret and Zahra abandoned their game and took after her. Zahra was the daughter of a wealthy merchant from Abydos, and Iseret’s father owned almost four thousand acres of flood-land near Akhmin. But they were just children, less than ten years both, whereas Tiye had seen nearly fifteen summers, and counted herself above their childish games of jump rope and catch. But with her father ever abroad on business, and her mother doting over her twin brother who rarely left his studies, it was the children or her slaves.
And then there was always Amran, a year her senior and a man grown to hear him tell it. With scruffy brown locks and a few scraps of hair about his chin that he named a beard, Amran could almost pass as handsome
– in a crude sort of way. A slave of course, but closer to her in years than Yocobel or even pretty Amaris who tended to her toilette when her bodyslave was otherwise engaged. Amran was her chosen playmate since girlhood, and ever her friend, in so much as a lady of birth could be friends with a Habiru. He had offered to enter service as her
ghaffir,
only to have the suggestion laughed away by her mother. Tiye could but hide a smirk herself.
A Habiru ghaffir
! Aye, one could never claim Amran was the smartest, but his heart was in the right place.
She bent and washed her hands with some tepid water from the Sunpool, rolling her eyes as Zahra insisted on following suit. The drought has lasted near as long as she could remember, but the Sunpool ever seemed to be at the brim
. Amran drew near then, smiling.
Like he had on that awful
day.
Tiye frowned, things had once been so easy between them, but since then their conversations had grown stilted and awkward, and his eyes ever sought to hold hers. It made her feel uncomfortable.
Iseret’s father had tried t
o hold them in a similar manner. “He is fifty years old,” her mother had informed her, “but well endowed with land and title.” One day when her father had been away, he’d come to dinner. Her mother had made her wear a low cropped sheath of thin violet linen, through which, to Tiye’s embarrassment, sharp eyes could observe the faint outline of her budding nipples.
The old man had very sharp eyes, and made no attempt to disguise where they wandered. She spent the meal seated next to him, and his sandaled feet ever seemed to find ways of touching hers no matter what way she positioned herself. Before the meal was ended, his hand found its way to her thigh, and returned again somewhat more forcefully after she’d deftly removed it. It made her feel dirty.
After the dinner, her mother spoke of what she had in common with the man, and made her recite verse and show him the dance of the Ibis that the maidens of Heliopolis would oft perform, to try and evoke the Tears of Isis and bring the sacred river into flood. Before he’d left he’d kissed her hand, raised her chin and stared into her eyes until she looked away.
I
t had been different with Amran.
Almost a year ago now, but that memory too, had a bitter taste. Her father and Old Solon had left for Memphis the morning before it happened. Before he’d left, her father had kissed her forehead, but that hadn’t been enough for her. She’d jumped into his arms and hugged him fiercely.
She loved him so much, but he was always leaving on business, buying or selling stock, or sometimes even holding counsel with the Dreaming Pharaoh himself. She ever seemed to end up being bold, and getting her bodyslave beaten when he was gone, especially on his longer trips. He’d laughed as she clung to him and promised he’d bring her a present when he returned, three or perhaps four weeks later
– the longest he’d ever been away.
Tiye consoled herself with Amran. She remembered giggling as they splashed at each other, the slave chasing her from one end of the Sunpool to the other. When he finally caught her, he grabbed her and held her
tight, despite Tiye complaining. “No fair I tripped!” If she’d noticed a strange look in the boy’s eyes while he pressed against her, she said nothing. He seemed to move his face closer to hers, and for some reason she remembered how she’d seen two of father’s dinner guests; some noble from Memphis and his young wife, press their lips together. She wondered what it felt like. Amran gave her answer. A quick peck was all it was. But it was nice.
When he caught her the next day she let him kiss her again, a little longer than before. He seemed to hold her more earnestly then, and Tiye began to suspect that perhaps the kissing game was not such a good idea. For his part, Amran seemed to think it was the best game ever. The third day they played it, she barely ran at all. That was the day her mother caught them.
She came at them in a red rage. Instantly, Amran let her go and crimson faced, stared at his feet. Her mother looked at the boy in cold silence. For a moment her eyes dropped to the small bulge in his loin cloth. When she threatened to take a knife to the ‘evil’ between his legs Tiye had burst into tears. “Please mother, we were just playing cat and mouse and Amran is the only boy my age in the whole temple district! Well other than Ay, but he never wants to play, not with ‘girls and Habiru’ anyway.”
In a sudden burst of rebellious spirit she had even threatened to tell her father if she hurt Amran. That did it. Amran was sent away. But it was what her mother had done to her bodyslave that had been Tiye’s real punishment.
It was the worst thing ever.
Once the slave had dried her mistress off and helped her into her favourite blue dress, her mother called them to the common room. She’d been waiting there with Meira and instantly Tiye knew what was coming. She’d started to cry again, but that only seemed to anger her mother further. She ordered the girl to her
side before giving the command. “Make dogface bark.”
They always insisted on calling Tiye’s slave ‘dogface,’ and Meira made a point of woofing whenever the woman attempted to respond. That always earned a laugh from her mother. Tiye thought the jest crude for ladies of quality, but had long since learned to hold her tongue on the matter.
Gleefully Meira stripped the unresisting slave naked, and instructed her to lie face down on the floor. Her bodyslave had smiled bravely at Tiye then, but the girl had barely seen it through her tears. She promised she’d be a good girl, swore she’d never play with Amran again, she’d do Meira’s chores and practice her needlework every day. Her mother had told her to, ‘Hold your tongue,’ and actually slapped her hard across the face – the first time she’d ever done so. It shocked her into open-mouthed silence.
Her mother waved her hand almost lazily, and Tiye’s punishment began. Meira was skilled with her switch and her blows were well placed. She set about Tiye’s bodyslave with enthusiasm, while her mother lounged on a leopard skin couch, sipping Memphite Red through smiling lips. She held Tiye by the arm and forced her to watch through flooded eyes.
The slave took those first strikes in silence, but Tiye cried for the both of them. She kept promising and swearing she’d never be bold again, begged and pleaded for her mother to tell Meira to stop. And stop she did – for a while, resting her weary arms and mopping her brow. Tiye could see red welts about her bodyslave’s legs and back, where the switch had struck again and again. She remembered thinking that Meira was normally careful not to mark her slave, and realised she must have been very bold this time. Soon enough Tjuya nodded and the punishment started anew. Finally, Tiye heard her slave start to make whimpering noises through gritted teeth as the blows rained down on her. That had shaken her more than anything.
Shiri never cries.
Tiye couldn’t take it anymore. “STOP!! Mother please stop! You’re hurting her! I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good! Please stop! Please!” But Meira had only relented when at last the slave began sobbing openly, crying out in unison with every stroke. Tiye remembered her mother’s smile growing broad at that, and broader still as Meira taunted her further. “That’s it
, dogface! Louder now! Come on, what does a dog say?”
When it was over, Meira beamed at her mistress and was rewarded with a goblet brimming with the sweet Memphite Red. Tiye managed to rip free of her mother then, and ran for her room. She slammed the door and buried her head in her pillow.
I hate her, I hate her.
Later that day her bodyslave had come to her. She walked with small baby steps and stood very upright. Gingerly, and with lips pressed tightly together, she eased herself to a sitting position beside her. She stroked her mistress’s sunset locks, while through sobs Tiye explained how unfair it all was.
She hadn’t meant to be bold, it was just a game. She rubbed her cheek as she spoke. It was still pink where her mother had slapped her. “It ... it stings,” the girl sniffled. Her bodyslave took a cloth soaked in something that smelled sweet and dabbed at it gently. “Don’t worry ... the pain will fade soon.”
“I don’t want them to send Amran away, we were only playing,” she’d told her.
“I’ll get your father to allow Amran back when he returns from Memphis. I promise.”
Tiye had sniffed and looked up at
that. “You?” She almost laughed. “Oh, Shiri, you’re just a Habiru. Father wouldn’t even give you his ear.” Tiye chewed her lip for an age after that, before finally coming to a conclusion. This was a job best tackled with a precious daughter’s greatest weapon –
her tears
. She smiled up at the slave then. “You’ll see, Shiri,
I’ll
get him back.”
Three weeks later, after her father had returned, and confirmed they were to find her a new playmate, a girl this time, Tiye drew her sword and let the tears come freely. It was the beginnings of an impressive sulk that would last two whole days, but only ever seemed to find proper voice when her father was near.
During the second day of her campaign, her bodyslave went missing for several hours – no doubt trying to escape her moping charge. That night there’d been raised and angry voices from her parent’s bedroom, and the following morning Amran was waiting for her in the gardens. Tiye had beamed at her father before casting her bodyslave an eloquent glance.
My sword has a keen edge
.
Amran was considerably meeker. His nose seemed a little crooked and he sported an extraordinary purple and black swelling over one eye. “I tripped,” he’d explained. There were no more kissing games and her bodyslave was never again out of sight when Amran was about. She couldn’t remember having fun with Amran since that day, and in time she began to wonder if the tears had been worth it.
Tiye could feel Shiri’s eyes on them
as Amran smiled. “You have an admirer,” he nodded to Zahra who’d adopted a poor imitation of Tiye’s stance.
“One of many,” her eyes had an impish look about them.
Amran reddened. As station dictated, he was wearing naught but a loin cloth, and his admiration had become all too obvious. He showed her his back. She went to move past him, towards the villa, and Amran turned quickly back. “I’m sorry, m’lady,” he blurted. “I can’t help it.” He half grinned, half grimaced. “You … you ... would play catch or dares?”