House of Dreams (16 page)

“So,” he said softly. “The left hand not the right. No one told me that you are a child of Set.”

“What of it?” I flashed back at him. “My father also uses the left hand, it is more natural for us, and he is a great soldier and a servant of my god the mighty Wepwawet, the War God, not Set the turbulent, the bringer of chaos! Do not judge me thus, Kaha!” I did not know if I was angry or hurt. I had encountered such prejudice before but not often, and for some reason I had not expected to find it here, in this sophisticated house where the inhabitants did not gather for evening prayers and the day did not seem to begin with any thanks to Amun or Ra.

Once my mother, in a fit of exasperation over something I had done or some argument I had persisted in fermenting, had burst out, “Thu, I sometimes think that Set is your true father, for you stir up trouble all the time!” And once I had been walking across the village compound at sunset on my way home from the fields and I had passed an old man. I hardly noticed him, being tired and hungry and bent on reaching my own door, but he had stopped at the sight of me, pointing, then stumbled and fell in his haste to get out of my way. I was puzzled. The sun-baked square was deserted and I was nowhere near him. Yet as I hesitated, hearing him shout imprecations at me from where he lay spread-eagled in the dust, I saw that the red light of the sinking sun had elongated my shadow until it lay like a misshapen snake across his feet. Then I understood that as a left-handed child, even my shadow brought bad luck, and I had run home in shame and confusion.

Something of those emotions gripped me now as I faced Kaha. He grimaced in apology when he saw my distress, and gave me a little bow.

“It is not something to be ashamed of, you know,” he said. “I was taken aback, that is all. Did you know that Set was not always a god of malevolence? That he is the totem of this nome, and the city of Pi-Ramses is dedicated to him?” I shook my head in wonder. Set, to the villagers, had always been a god to placate when necessary, to fear and avoid if possible. “The Great God Osiris Ramses the Second, he of the red hair and long life, was a devotee of Set and built this city to his glory. Set also has red hair— and he may have blue eyes as far as we know,” he ended humorously. “So take heart, Thu. If Set loves you, you will be invincible.” He drank some water and picked up a scroll. “Let us continue.”

I did not want to be a child of Set. I wanted to remain loyal to Wepwawet, my benefactor. The ink had dried on my brush. I bent to the inkwell again, whisked at the cloud of flies that was beginning to gather as the afternoon waned, and prepared to write with a thudding heart.

I did not do so well at the writing. My letters were large and poorly formed, my speed agonizingly slow. Kaha did not tease me. Something had subtly changed in his attitude. He was an attentive and patient teacher, correcting me carefully, allowing me to struggle at my own pace without becoming restless. He had formed a respect for my efforts, I think. After several hours of smudged ink, cramped fingers and frustration he took the brush gently from my stained fingers and lifted the palette from my knees. “That is quite enough for today,” he said, offering me water which I sucked down greedily. “The dictation was a difficult one, Thu, but I needed to know where to begin with you. I should return you to pieces of clay on which to practise but I won’t. Hui is rich enough to provide you with as much papyrus as you need!” He smiled and I smiled back. “Your reading is quite good. I hear that you have some healing skills also.”

“My mother is Aswat’s midwife and physician,” I told him. “I can write long lists of herb remedies without a mistake but I can see that I am ignorant of all else.”

“You will not be ignorant for long,” he said slowly. Turning, he signalled to the slave still nodding under his tree. “Go back to your room now, and eat your evening meal. I think we will forgo our history lesson tonight. You are tired, and you still must face a drubbing from Nebnefer.”

“I am to be beaten?” I cried in alarm. “What for?” Now he laughed aloud.

“Nebnefer is the Master’s trainer,” he explained. “He is one of the very few people allowed to see the Master unclothed. I do not think that he will force you to draw the bow or heft the spear but he will expect you to contort your body in many marvellous ways in order to maintain your health and suppleness. Go now.” I scrambled upright and kneaded a sudden cramp in my calf.

“If you will give me an old palette and some papyrus I could practise my letters in my idle hours,” I suggested, but he shook his head.

“It is not permitted,” he said firmly.

“Why not?” He drew up one knee and placed an arm over it. His graceful fingers spread wide and then went limp in a gesture of resignation.

“Your education is to be personally supervised at all times,” he pointed out. “On pain of severe punishment I am to make sure that you read or write nothing unless I am present or Ani is present.” I folded my arms and stared down at him.

“That’s stupid. It makes no sense at all. Does Hui think that I will write nasty secret letters to my family about him?” Kaha smiled.

“Oh, I don’t think so. Only the most errant fool would endanger her place here in such a stupid way. No, I imagine that the Master does not want you to pick up any bad learning habits. They are almost impossible to undo. Run along, Thu. Disenk will be waiting.” The wry, slightly condescending tone was back. I gave him a mute bow and left him, following the slave who had already raised the sunshade although Ra’s fiery rim was barely touching the horizon.

I paced self-consciously a step ahead of him, but as we recrossed the courtyard a thought struck me and I immediately forgot that he was there. How stupid I was indeed, an innocent young fool. Of course Hui need not worry about nasty letters from me to my family. As Kaha had so incisively stated, I would be an idiot to jeopardize my chance for a better life and anyway, how would I go about finding a messenger to convey them? It would be almost impossible for me to slip into the city alone and I had nothing with which to pay a Herald. No. I was being carefully watched, my words and actions weighed and reported. I was not to be by myself. It was doubtless true that Hui wanted only the best-educated staff to serve him. That was obvious and logical. If I was to assist him in any capacity I must be at least as literate as Kaha. The thought was daunting. But there was more, and as I walked along the side of the house towards the rear door, turning the problem over in my mind, I was completely mystified. What was in store for me? I knew now, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that my clumsy, fervent dictation to my parents and Pa-ari would not be sealed and dispatched before being passed under the Master’s shrewd eye. Ani his tool, his employee, his Chief Scribe, Ani the necessary repository of his secrets, Ani the invisible man with the seductive voice who could blend so insidiously into any gathering, any background, he would at once have taken the scroll to Hui. A sudden hatred for the Chief Scribe shook me and then vanished. Ani was the perfect confidant. If I were the Master I would do the same thing. Yet why would he waste his time reading the insignificant letter of one of his servants, especially one on whom he had caused to be showered such attention, such care, and who would thus have no complaints to make to her family? To know me better? But why bother to know me better? If I succeeded as a servant, fine. If not, I could go home. Why go to so much trouble over a very disposable young peasant?

I was at my door. The slave bowed me inside and Disenk came towards me smiling. The room was full of the aroma of hot food, and several small, dainty lamps burned steadily, holding back the encroaching darkness. I greeted my body servant absently, stood while she washed the ink stains from my hands and pulled the rumpled sheath over my head, slipped my arms into the voluminous linen wrap she held out, sat while she brushed my hair and then allowed her to lead me to the laden table. All the time my thoughts were tumbling one after another, rolling past Ani and back again, hovering around Hui’s enigmatic presence that seemed to pervade the whole house though he was seldom glimpsed. I am being prepared for something other than a lowly assistant, I concluded, but what? The idea excited and terrified me. I did not speak to Disenk as she served me my food, and she remained silent.

By the time I had finished eating, full night had fallen outside and I could see nothing but the tangled clusters of black trees against a slightly lighter sky and one band of lamplight that slanted, yellow and faint, across the courtyard from Harshira’s office directly below. Finally I sighed. “What comes next, Disenk?” I said unwillingly. She began to stack the dishes.

“Nebnefer has sent word that he wishes to examine you and speak of your physical training,” she replied, “but he will not make you work tonight, and in the future your exercise will be taken in the morning, before you bathe. He will come to you himself.” How very obliging of him, I wanted to say sarcastically, but I did not.

I watched Disenk summon a slave, watched him remove the remains of the meal, heard, a little later, the knock on the door. Disenk opened at once and bowed to the short, squat man who approached me. His manner and his movements were crisp and fresh. I stood and bowed, mockingly removing my wrap before being asked to do so, and he met my eyes and smiled approvingly. I was becoming used to the appraisal of strange men and I did not flinch. His touch was as impersonal as the masseur’s had been.

“Good peasant stock,” he announced. “But not thick, not heavy. Fine, strong bones, long legs, tight musculature.

Well, so it should be at your age. I am Nebnefer, by the way.”

“You are the first person here who has had anything complimentary to say about my peasant stock,” I said drily, and he snorted and pulled the wrap back over my shoulders. I clutched it closed.

“There’s more than Egyptian fellahin in you,” he told me bluntly, his black eyes darting over my face, “but there’s nothing wrong with a peasant’s body. Where else do Pharaoh’s honest soldiers come from if not from Egypt’s fields? You’d make a good runner, Thu, or swimmer, but as it is, all I have to do is keep you firm.”

“Then I may swim?” I asked eagerly. He nodded.

“Under my direction, every morning, in the pool. Then you pull the bow, to keep those pretty breasts high. A few other things. I will see you in the garden tomorrow morning before you break your fast. Sleep well.” He spun on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.

… keep you firm …

… those pretty breasts high …

I turned to Disenk.

“I want to see the Master,” I demanded. “At once, Disenk. Go and tell him.” She clasped her pretty hands together, an expression of agony on her face.

“Oh pardon me, Thu,” she said in a high, hurried voice, “but that is impossible. He has guests this evening. They will be arriving at any moment. Be patient, and I will convey your request to Harshira in the morning.”

“I have been patient,” I snapped, “and all I get is evasions. I must talk to Hui.” She flinched, distressed, at my use of his name.

“If I go to him now he will be angry,” she persisted, her carefully feathered eyebrows drawing together. “He will not be disposed to listen to you calmly. Please wait until tomorrow.” Her anxiety seemed exaggerated but I supposed that she was right. I capitulated.

“Oh very well,” I said grudgingly. “I will wait for one more night. But tell Harshira my desire tomorrow, Disenk, for I am becoming uneasy in this house.”

Obviously relieved she began to prattle on about nothing while she prepared me for bed, and she drew the sheet up over me and extinguished the lamps with care. Bidding me a good night she went away and I was left to the shadows and the sweet redolence of the smoking wicks, and a mind whose storm of thoughts would not abate.

Disenk had not lied. A short while later I heard voices and laughter in the courtyard below, and after that the music of lute and drums and the tinkle of finger cymbals coming from somewhere within the house. The sounds were sweet but faint, a faraway enticement to a dimension of life here of which I knew nothing. I wondered if there would be dancers. The dancers in Wepwawet’s temple were dignified and graceful, clothed in the ankle-length linens and thin sandals of ritual and respect, systra in their hands as they moved through the prescribed gestures that praised and importuned the god. I had heard in the village that secular dancers often performed naked, glittering with gold dust, rings on their bare toes, that they could jump the height of a man and bend themselves backward until their heads touched their heels. The music faded in and out as the night wind gusted and the reed mat covering my window slapped against the casement. I wanted to get up and creep into the passage, follow the dull throb of the drums, find the company whose shouts and clapping now wove with the quick, high plucking of the lute. But Disenk slept in the passage and would inveigle me back to bed with her excessive, irresistible politeness. I heard feet running on the paving. An owl cried suddenly, loudly, in the garden. I drowsed.

It was still fully dark when I drifted out of unconsciousness, disturbed by the drunken rowdiness of the guests leaving. “Hey, that’s not your litter, that’s mine!” a strong male voice shouted, and a woman let out a shriek of laughter.

“Let me share it with you then,” she called, her words lazily slurred. “The cushions look soft and yielding and my husband has already left with ours. Harshira, what shall I do?” I came fully awake. The Chief Steward’s familiar tone was confident and clear.

“If you will retire to the reception room, Highness, I will order out one of the Master’s litters to take you home at once.”

Highness? I swung myself off the couch and sped to the window. Lifting back the mat I peered cautiously below. A group of people stood loosely together, lit garishly by flaming torches in the hands of several slaves. A gilded litter sat on the ground, four Nubians before and behind it, waiting for orders. A man in a knee-length red kilt, his gleaming chest afire with jewels, his face heavily painted, leaned nonchalantly against it, grinning. Around them more guests spilled from the main entrance into the torches’ light, and more litters were arriving into which they tumbled happily and volubly. Harshira, his broad back to me, was facing a woman whose elaborately pleated sheath was rumpled and wine-splashed. One shoulder strap had torn loose, exposing a sweat-streaked brown breast. The perfume cone atop her long, many-plaited wig had sagged over one ear and the oil from it had somehow been smeared across her cheek, taking a quantity of kohl with it. “Thank you, Harshira,” she was saying, one hennaed palm vaguely patting his shoulder, “but I want to go home with the General.” The man in the red kilt guffawed. Peeling himself away from his litter he took her flailing fingers, kissed them, kissed her again, this time on her loose mouth, then jerked his head at Harshira and propelled her firmly back into the house.