House of Dreams (51 page)

The remainder of that day I would rather forget. It haunts me still in spite of all I have done to wipe it from my memory. There was a harem in the Fayum, the Mi-Wer, a place where the very old, discarded concubines of royalty were sent, and Ramses decided to pay it a perfunctory visit. He was unannounced, and a flustered Keeper of the Door greeted him with many awkward prostrations and apologies, casting sidelong glances at me as I stood uncomfortably by.

We toured the precinct quickly, Ramses pausing to speak to this one or that one, and we had not been there longer than a few moments when I was in a fever to be gone. The building was old, the cells small and dark. Although the gardens were as verdant as the rest of the Fayum, they were melancholy and full of a kind of silence that weighed heavily on the ka and made the body tired.

Several hundred women inhabited the place, women with wrinkled, desiccated skin and rheumy eyes, women with the twisted limbs and grey, lifeless hair of impending death. Their voices were croaks or whispers, their movements slow and difficult. Some sat motionless under the trees, staring into space hour after hour. Some lay on their couches, misshapen shadows in the dimness of the open cells we walked past. Sadness, resignation and the patience of a slow dying saturated the air in spite of the attendance of many servants, and by the time the gates closed behind us I was in a state of near hysteria. To end like that. Like that! The prospect was insupportable.

Ramses brushed me as we got onto our litter. “Thu, your skin is utterly cold!” he exclaimed. “And you are shaking! Come. You need to eat. We will satisfy our hunger and then go into the temples to make our sacrifices. You will like that much better, for Sebek and Herishef are worshipped by women in the prime of life and their Houses will be full of younger flesh.” It was the only reference he ever made to our visit to the Mi-Wer and I was glad. I could only have sobbed out my impressions of that tomb for the living if he had asked me for them.

But in the temples of Sebek and Herishef, where indeed the courts were crowded with younger female petitioners, I refused with a panicked desperation to perform any sacrifice, and Ramses, doubtless to avoid making a scene, did not force me. Later, when his priests had enticed the gem-encrusted Sebek to the edge of the lake and his grinning snout with its rows of pointed teeth opened to receive the gift of food Ramses had placed in my hands, my nerve again failed me. I stood shaking, the bread and fruit and morsels of meat slipping piece by piece onto the paving, while the crocodile god snapped his jaws impatiently and the priests watched me from under lowered lids.

In the end the King thrust a plate under my fingers and I let the offering slide onto it. He passed it to one of the priests, took my elbow, and led me away. “You are not a scorpion today, you are a frightened hare,” he remarked not unkindly, as embarrassed and near to tears I paced beside him. “So you fear the gift of fertility Sebek and Herishef bestow? Why is that, I wonder? Can it be that you do not wish to bear your King a royal child?”

I wanted to stop and turn to him, grasp his hands and hold them to my breast. Remember Eben? I wanted to cry. Where is she now, Great Horus? Do you spare one thought for the woman you once doted on, or send to enquire after the baby you fathered on her? May the gods have pity on me if I should ever fall into that black pit! The women of the Fayum harem seemed to peer at me dismally out of the thin shade of the surrounding trees. I shook my head.

“Forgive me, Mighty Bull,” I managed. “Perhaps it is as you say. Perhaps not. Your pardon.” He did not reply, and we reached the litter and were carried back to the barge in silence.

It was a relief to return to the bustle and vitality of the palace harem. Thoughts of that other harem buried in the depths of the Fayum came often to trouble me in the days that followed, but I was able to balance the uneasiness they caused me by bringing to mind my precious fields. They represented life and vigour and hope. They would provide the only fertility I had ever wanted.

I was constantly in Pharaoh’s company. My own quarters became a place to hurriedly change my attire between one delightful interlude and another as I moved from banqueting hall to the royal bedchamber, from pleasant ambles in the palace gardens, trailed by guards, servants, heralds and ministers, to temple precincts thick with incense smoke and ringing with the sweet voices of the holy singers. If I was not called to assuage Ramses’ lusts, I was summoned to treat him for some minor ailment or other, usually his indigestion or indisposition after he had eaten and drunk too recklessly, for he loved the pleasures of the table almost as much as the dark delights of the couch.

My star shone day and night. I was beautiful and adored. All bowed to me. The courtiers gave way to me. Servants spread the bounty of Egypt before me with the anxious looks of those who feared to offend, and I revelled in it all.

My secret terror I kept to myself. As night after night I sat at my table before going to Pharaoh and ground the acacia spikes into dust before mixing the powder with the mashed dates and honey I prayed with a sober fervour to my totem Wepwawet, and to Hathor, goddess of love, that the contraceptive would remain efficacious and no life would be conjured in my womb.

It is unworthy of me, I know, to record that my finest moment came one scorching morning on a formal progress to the Amun temple where Pharaoh was to officiate at the dedication of a new altar of silver. He had appointed special sacrifices to be made, and everyone who was anyone gathered in their finery under the brilliant sunshine and jostled for position in Amun’s outer court. I had been carried through the city on my pretty litter, Disenk at my side.

Once having stepped onto the hot pavement beyond the towering entrance pylons of the temple, I was surrounded by guards and escorted into the pool of quiet and order that encircled the royal family. Ramses, in full regalia, dominated the little group, the Double Crown rising on his head, the pharaonic beard jutting from his wide chin. His hands already gripped the crook, flail and scimitar that symbolized his omnipotence but he smiled at me as I approached and bowed. Queen Ast on his right gazed past me steadily, her painted eyes narrowed in the feeble shade of the canopy under which we stood, and her son, dressed in a flowing pleated skirt and soft linen shirt that only served to accentuate his masculinity, greeted me politely.

I had arrived just before Ast-Amasareth, who now swept up to the King, executed the abbreviated obeisance that was her right as a Queen herself, and engaging him in conversation, moved to take up her position on his left. But Ramses waved her back, the gold and lapis flail glinting at his broad gesture. “You may walk behind me today, Ast-Amasareth,” he said. “But do not fret. You have not incurred my wrath in any way. Come, Lady Thu. Be pleased to grace your lord with your presence under the protection of the Fanbearer on the Left Hand. It will be good to inhale your perfume as it mingles with the holy myrrh of the God today.” A soft sound, half shock half indignation, came from Queen Ast as Ast-Amasareth halted, momentarily nonplussed, and I slid between her and Pharaoh.

“Thank you, Majesty,” I murmured. “I am uniquely honoured.” I shot a glance at the woman whose place I had usurped. She was backing away and bowing, a tight smile on her face, but her eyes were cold as they met mine.

To my credit I did not allow my triumph to show. I lowered my gaze discreetly to my feet, lined up now with Ramses’ own. Our shadows were short and faint on the blinding stone. The King took no further notice of me. Irritably he was calling to his Chief Herald to sort out the chaos to the rear. But I did not need his attention to reinforce the meaning of the demonstration. Neither did anyone else. Nothing and no one now stood between Ramses’ affections and myself.

Nothing, that is, but the tiny niggle of apprehension that nestled within me. My monthly flow was very late. Carelessly, busy as I was with the concerns of the court, I had lost count of the days, and when I had taken the time to sit down and reckon them my blood had run cold.

Pharaoh barked an order. Horns brayed from the temple walls. We began to walk slowly, and above my head the white plumes of the ceremonial ostrich fan trembled. From within the inner court a column of incense rose almost invisibly into the deep blue of the sky, and the tuneless yet compelling tinkle of a thousand finger cymbals filled the air. Behind me I heard Ast-Amasareth’s light breath and fancied that I could feel it, hot and venomous, on my neck. With stubborn deliberation I turned my attention from my belly to the victory I had achieved today, and my worries were forgotten.

Yet the following morning I was brutally reminded of the precariousness of my situation. After the interminable temple rituals and a feast to honour both Amun’s men and the silversmiths who had created the altar, Ramses had been interested in little more than sleep and I had managed to steal a few peaceful hours on my own couch. I woke feeling sluggish and heavy towards the middle of the morning, rising only to sit in the shade before my door and stare dazedly out upon the crowded courtyard while Disenk went to prepare my first meal.

By the time she returned I was more alert, and I picked over the contents of the tray she set beside me. There was a dish of sesame seed paste, sticks of celery, fresh lettuce leaves, a pomegranate, five figs steeped in purple juniper oil, and a cup of grape juice from which arose the bracing aroma of mint. I had dipped a stalk of celery in the paste and was biting into it and reaching for the juice when Disenk grabbed my wrist. “Wait, Thu,” she said urgently. “Something is wrong. Wait.”

I put the celery back on the tray and watched her. My heart began to pound as the moments slipped away. She sank cross-legged to the floor beside my chair and her eyes were fixed on the tray. A frown of concentration creased her smooth forehead. Otherwise she did not stir. A cloud of birds swooped by high overhead. A loud argument between two of the women by the pool broke out and ended in a burst of laughter. A ray of sun began to warm my foot as the shadow in which I sat shifted imperceptibly. Finally I took a deep breath.

“Disenk,” I ventured a little hesitantly, for she was still staring fiercely at the food. “What is the matter?” She blinked rapidly and chewed her lip.

“I prepare your food with my own hands,” she said in a low voice. “I take everything from the communal supplies and my choices cannot be predicted. They are arbitrary. This celery, Thu. Great bowls of it filled the kitchens this morning. I selected stalks from different bowls. I cut each stalk and ate a little before setting the remainder on your tray. I do this with everything, every time you wish to eat. And your wine and beer come directly from the Master and are well sealed.” She glanced up at me. “Yet something is not right in these dishes, something I cannot quite place. All is as I laid it out, and yet it is not.” Her small hands moved over the food, touching the cup and the edges of the dishes as though they could give her the answer she sought, then she froze. “The figs,” she whispered.

“Disenk …”

She swung towards me. “There are five figs,” she said deliberately. “Five. I set out only four! Someone slipped another fig onto this plate.” Our eyes met, and in spite of the warmth of the morning a shiver of cool air seemed to flutter against my skin.

Disenk scrambled up. Gingerly she lifted the dish of figs and stepped out onto the sunny grass. There were always a few puppies rolling and tumbling about with the children and this morning was no exception. I watched as Disenk unobtrusively made her way into the sunshine and set the dish down. She retreated to my side and together, tense and immobile, we waited.

For some time the offering went unnoticed, but then one fat, furry body became aware of the sweet odour of the figs and detached itself from the general mêlée. It approached the dish and sniffed the food cautiously, looked back at its plump companions, then its pink tongue came out. I heard Disenk draw in a quick rush of breath. With gluttonous speed the puppy wolfed down the figs, put a brown paw on the plate, and thoroughly licked up the juices before losing interest and beginning to wander away. I realized that Disenk’s nails were biting into my shoulder. The little animal did not get far. Suddenly his gait changed. He began to totter, then he stood retching. Limbs jerking, he fell onto his side, and then he went limp. I sat still. Disenk went forward, moving uncertainly, her normally graceful body clumsy as she used a corner of her sheath to recover the dish and paused to examine the puppy. She was all eyes as she returned, set the dish on the tray, and gazed out upon the rollicking children and their gossiping mothers.

“The creature is dead,” she said at last. “I will take the rest of the food away.” Mechanically she lifted the tray and set off towards the courtyard entrance, and as she went my gaze was distracted by Hatia. The woman was in her accustomed place, buried in red linen and unmoving under her canopy, her servant equally motionless behind her. Both of them were watching me steadily.

As casually as I could I rose, stretched, and withdrew into the safety of my chambers. Safety? I thought. Reaction was beginning to set in. My heart had gone from pounding to a nervous flutter and I was flushing hot. Someone had tried to kill me. Someone had attempted to sweep me away without compunction. My mind flew to the events of yesterday, to the cold glitter in Ast-Amasareth’s eyes as she was forced to give way to me. Had I at last become a serious threat to that ugly witch? I had always suspected that she practised an evil magic, for how else was she able to retain her powerful hold on Ramses?

Or was it Hatia? Oh surely not! Hatia was sodden with wine. She lived for the jug that never left her side. Or did she? Hatia had been in the harem for a very long time. Silently, inconspicuously, she inhabited her place on the grass day after day, year after year. Nothing that happened escaped her notice. Forgotten yet always present, she would make the perfect spy. And I did not think that she was as indifferent as she seemed. I remembered with an unpleasant jolt the glance of pure malice she had given me once during the three terrible days of my disgrace. Was she Ast-Amasareth’s tool? Did the wine she imbibed with such singleminded, chilling purpose come from the Chief Wife’s vineyards?