Dreamers (5 page)

hand or chattering tongue. The long hours of play in the court-

yard disappeared as Sagira spent time alone with Ramla. Once

when Tuya casually asked what Ramla and Sagira talked

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about, her young mistress turned on her and said that if Tuya

didn’t mind her manners she’d have Tanutamon administer yet

another whipping.

Two weeks after Ramla had come to live in the household,

Tuya made her way to the kitchen. Taharka, the chief butler,

had always been a friend and used to give both girls sweet

treats from his lunch box whenever they managed to sneak

into his workroom. On this day he was tasting a new wine

especially selected for a party Donkor intended to give for

several noble guests, and he had little time to spare for a

lonely slave girl abandoned by her mistress.

“Taharka, can I speak with you?”

“Not now, my pretty one,” Taharka said, frowning as he

looked at her sad face. “The master has invited guests to eat,

drink and be merry through the night. Spiced wine and beer, the

wine jars and even the alabaster vases have to be made ready.”

“Can I help?”

Taharka smiled as though out of pity for her. “You are

bored, aren’t you?”

“I’d love to help. Surely there is something I can do.”

“All right. You can see to the perfumed cones. The animal

fat must be set out into the sun to liquefy, then mixed with

the precious oils of perfume. When they are mixed, bring

them into the coolness of the house and pour the liquid into

the molds.”

“I can do that,” Tuya replied, moving toward the large

copper pots of animal fat. The cones of perfumed fat were a

treat enjoyed only by the nobility, for perfume was precious.

As each guest arrived, a perfumed cone would be placed on

his head. As the afternoon and party wore on, the cones would

melt and run down the heavy wigs and sweltering skin of the

overheated guests.

Tuya lifted one of the pots and staggered toward the door-

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Dreamers

way, but halted when Taharka let out an earsplitting scream.

She dropped the pot, startled, and whirled to see him standing

at a table, his hand purpling before her eyes. A scorpion

scuttled across the table.

“I am bit!” the butler screamed, his eyes wide in fright and

pain. “Oh, daughter of Seth, why am I bit tonight?”

Obeying a primitive instinct, Tuya scooped up a handful

of ashes from the firepit, mixed them with animal fat, and

placed the mixture over the rapidly swelling spot on Taharka’s

hand. Stunned by the pain, the butler leaned against the wall,

still holding his wounded hand out in front of him.

As if in response to his call, Ramla and Sagira appeared in

the doorway.

“What happened to Taharka?” Sagira snapped, her eyes

drilling into Tuya as if she were somehow to blame.

Tuya lowered her gaze. “A scorpion.”

Ramla stepped into the room and dramatically lifted her

hands. “I am a priestess of Bastet, and have come to lay bare

the poison that is in the limbs of Taharka, Donkor’s servant.

As Bastet lives, so shall live Taharka!”

Taharka clenched his jaw against the pain as Ramla swayed

in front of him. “You, poison, shall not take your stand in his

forehead; Hekayit, Lady of the Forehead, is against you! You

shall not take your stand in his eyes; Horus Mekhenty-irty,

Lord of the Eyes, is against you! You shall not take your stand

in his ears; Geb, Lord of the Ear, is against you!”

Tuya watched Sagira’s face as Ramla continued the roll call

of the various gods. Her mistress’s eyes shone toward the

interloper with devotion and admiration.

“You shall not take your stand in his nose; Khenem-tchau

of Hesret, Lady of the Nose, is against you! You shall not take

your stand in his lips; Anubis, Lord of the Lips, is against you!

You shall not take your stand in his tongue; Sefekh-aahui,

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39

Lady of the Tongue, is against you! You shall not take your

stand in his neck; Wadjety, Lady of the Neck, is against you!”

Taharka groaned as Ramla called out for the gods of the

arm, back, side, liver, lung, spleen, intestines, ribs and flesh

to stand against the scorpion bite. A crowd of servants gathered

as the priestess continued to chant, calling on the gods of the

buttocks, perineum, thighs, knee, shins, soles and toenails.

Finally, as sweat dripped from her brows, Ramla raised her

voice in a terrible shriek. “You, poison, shall not take your

stand anywhere in him! You shall not find refreshment there!

Go down to the ground! I have incanted against you, I have

spat on you, I have drunk you! As Horus lives, so does

Taharka. Go down to the ground! I know you, I know your

name! Come from the right hand, poison, come from the left

hand! Come in saliva, come in vomit, come in urine! Come

hither at my utterance according as I say! Grant a path to

Taharka! As the sun shall rise and as the Nile shall flow, so

shall Taharka be better than he was!”

She ended in a hoarse shout and flung her arms toward the

heavens. As if on cue, Taharka leaned sideways and vomited

onto the packed earthen floor. Tuya lifted the poultice she had

used to cover the scorpion bite. The wound was still red and

slightly swollen, but seemed less violent than it had before.

The assembled crowd cheered Ramla, and Sagira slipped

her arm around the priestess’s waist and helped the exhausted

woman from the room. Two slaves from the kitchen helped

Taharka to his feet, and after a moment Tuya found herself in

the workroom with only a handful of servants while guests

were arriving at the entryway.

“Hurry,” she commanded, gesturing toward the pots of

animal fat and the trays of fruit. “The party begins, and our

master will not care that Taharka has met with a scorpion. This

food must be ready, so help me!”

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Dreamers

Knowing that Tanutamon’s lash awaited anyone who

displeased Donkor, the slaves did as she commanded.

Kahent sighed in satisfaction as her slave poured a pitcher

of cool water over her tired back. She lay on a slab of polished

granite in the bathroom of the house and her maid had just

massaged the worries of a hectic week into oblivion.

Not that her worries were major ones. In the three weeks

since the priestess Ramla had come to dwell with them, Sagira

had spent less and less time with Tuya. It would not be diffi-

cult now to manufacture an excuse to remove the girl from

Sagira’s quarters. And when Sagira had been weaned from her

dependence on the slave, the serious search for a husband

could begin.

“Excuse the interruption, my lady.” Another of the maids

appeared in the doorway. “Your daughter and Ramla wait

to see you.”

“I’ll see them at once,” Kahent said, sitting up. Her hand-

maid threw a light gown over Kahent’s upraised arms. She

stood and shimmied into it, then went with open arms to

embrace her daughter.

“Sagira, what brings you to me in the middle of the day?”

she asked, resting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders as she

kissed the girl’s cheeks. Behind Sagira, Ramla stood in practiced

detachment, her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on Kahent’s face.

“I’ve been thinking.” Sagira’s lower lip edged forward in

a pout. “If I am truly to be the mother of kings, perhaps it is

best if I am not attended by such a familiar slave. Tuya knows

too much about me to be properly respectful. Ramla has sug-

gested that I send her away.”

Kahent blinked in honest surprise. She had not dared to

dream that Ramla’s influence would work so quickly. “You

would be rid of Tuya?”

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Sagira crossed her arms. “She’s jealous and spiteful and I

don’t trust her. For months she’s been looking at me with a

strange gleam in her eye. I don’t like it. She frightens me.”

“Perhaps one of the dark gods has invaded her heart,”

Ramla suggested in a cool voice.

“Exactly!” Sagira slammed a clenched fist into her palm.

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Mother. You gave her to me, but

now I’d like to be rid of her.”

Kahent gave her daughter an innocent smile. “Perhaps

she could work with the butler. Taharka seems to think

much of her.”

“No!” Sagira snapped. “I will not have her anywhere near.

I want her out of the house as soon as possible. She does not

understand my destiny. She sees herself as my equal, and that

she can never be.”

Joy flooded Kahent’s heart. “As you say, Sagira,” she said,

placing her hands on her daughter’s shoulders again. “And

because she is yours, whatever silver comes from her sale

shall go to you.”

“I shall give it all to Ramla as an offering for the goddess.”

Sagira turned to the priestess. “Without her I would never have

learned of my future.”

Ramla leaned forward in a gentle bow. “Thank the goddess

we discovered it.”

Kahent closed her eyes in relief. “Bastet be praised.”

The sun bark of the god Re had moved only a short distance

across the sky when Ramla came alone into the women’s room

of the villa. Surprised by the visit, Kahent put aside the scroll

she had been reading and waited for the priestess to speak.

“Your daughter is resting,” Ramla announced, gazing at

Kahent with dark eyes that seemed to probe the recesses of

her soul. “And your petition has been heard.”

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Dreamers

“I trust it has.” Kahent straightened on the couch where she

had been reclining. “I owe you a great debt.”

“Your daughter’s offering will suffice,” Ramla answered.

“That, and the opportunity to watch the future unfold. I did

not fabricate or elaborate on my vision, Lady Kahent. Sagira

will leave a mark on the world.” When she hesitated, Kahent

toyed with the fabric of her dress, dimly aware that she was

fidgeting. What was she supposed to do now? Did the priest-

ess expect special favors in return for good news?

“Please sit.” Kahent gestured to an empty chair. Ramla

moved to the chair and sat down without breaking the straight

line of her back.

“You and Sagira have become friends,” Kahent said, cast-

ing about for some avenue of conversation. “I am sorry you

must leave soon. I fear Sagira will be lost without your

company or Tuya’s.”

“She will never be lost,” the priestess answered. “We have

already made arrangements. I will serve my month for the

goddess, then live with your daughter for three months.” Her

pale lips curved into a mirthless smile. “I have become your

daughter’s spiritual counselor. She has decided that we shall

remain together.”

Kahent forced a laugh. “You want to remain with Sagira?

But she is a child while you are a mature woman. Surely

there are others who will value your unique gifts.”

A dark brow shot up, creating a startlingly oblique line

across the young woman’s face. “May I speak frankly?”

“Please do.”

The corner of the priestess’s mouth dipped slightly. “I am

old enough, lady, to know where favor and fortune lie. A

woman cannot find them within the temples of Egypt’s gods.”

She shrugged. “But I know Sagira’s future, and I know she

will need a friend. You asked me to pull her away from the

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43

slave girl, but your daughter is weak, she cannot stand alone.

She needs love and a companion. She has found both in me.”

“I am grateful, of course,” Kahent answered, her stomach

tightening at the thought of having the strange priestess in her

home for nine months of the year. “But you know Sagira will

be married soon.”

“I will go to the house of her husband,” Ramla answered,

tilting her head. “You should be grateful for my help, Lady

Kahent. Without my special gift, you would never have known

of the gods’ plan for Sagira’s future.” Her lips curved in a half

smile. “But you will not want Pharaoh to know of these things.”

“Of course not,” Kahent snapped. She could feel sweat

beading under her heavy wig. It was treason even to think of

taking the throne from the one who ruled as the incarnate god.

If Pharaoh heard that those in Donkor’s house were grooming

themselves to become the next rulers of Egypt—

“Do not fear, lady,” Ramla said, a sweet ripple in her voice.

“As long as I am your daughter’s spiritual counselor, I will

say nothing of her destiny. With the patience of the gods I will

wait for her sun to rise.”

Kahent recognized the implied threat in the words. “Then

I,” she answered, “will wait with you.”

She pressed her finger to her lips as the priestess rose and

left the room.

Taharka rolled a heavy barrel into his workroom, his short,

graying hair gleaming silver in the slanting rays of the open

window. He saw Tuya and frowned. “Why, my pretty one, are