The Twice Born (3 page)

The homes of the wealthy lined the tributary, surrounded by high mud-brick walls and sheltered by thick groves of trees whose branches drooped above the beaten paths behind their dwellings. Ker and Heruben could have afforded a place beside the mayor, but Ker preferred to live close to the acres of blooms from which his income was derived. Farther back, the town became a maze of narrow, wandering streets choked with donkey carts, vending stalls, and slow-moving crowds dispersing only to trickle across the hard mud of the dike crests to reach another haphazard sprawl of buildings and alleys on one of the other mounds. The coherence of the settlement was lost at this time of the year, divided into broad atolls rising from a vast lake that would continue to rise for some weeks to come.

Khenti-kheti’s shrine, not far from the main western tributary, was a haven of peace amid the babble of an early spring morning. Walled and gated, it contained a small area of grass in the midst of which grew a tall sycamore, and a stone-flagged path leading to the modest domain of the god with his priest’s hut adjoining it. No pylon led the way to the single court, where worshippers stood talking quietly or moved close to the inner room to prostrate themselves before the god’s door, but the whole precinct was harmonious in its design.

One guard watched the ebb and flow of the sparse gathering, and Huy looked about with interest as he and his parents took off their sandals and proceeded barefoot to present themselves to the priest. Huy had not been here before. His home held a modest household shrine containing the images of Khenti-kheti, Amun, and Osiris that his father would open most evenings for brief prayers, but this was different. Here the stone god carved in the likeness of a crocodile held the soul of the god himself. This sanctuary was his actual residence. Huy was filled with awe.

The priest who opened to Hapu’s knock, seeing the trio in their best clothes and Huy clutching the linen bag, gave them a smile. “So this is a special occasion?” he asked Huy. “Is it the remembrance of your Naming Day?” Huy nodded. “Then you are one of the fortunates destined to die of nothing more terrible than old age,” the man continued. “This is your gift for Khenti-kheti? Good. Wait a moment and we will go into the holy place together.” He withdrew, reappearing some minutes later arrayed in a long white sheath and carrying a white rod topped with a tiny crocodile head. “Give me your hand,” he ordered, and Huy did so.

The two of them crossed the court, passing through the double doors of cedar that stood open to allow worshippers a view of the closed sanctuary. The priest turned and pulled them shut and at once a dim coolness surrounded Huy, broken only by shafts of morning light angling down from the slitted clerestory windows high under the roof. Smaller double doors now faced him, and before the priest opened them he took an incense holder that lay at the foot of the wall, lit the charcoal in its cup, and shook a few grains of incense into it. He asked Huy his name. “Do you know any of the thanksgiving prayers, Huy?” he wanted to know, then answered himself. “No, I suppose not. I have never seen your family here before. Well, I will say them and you will repeat them after me. Can you do that?”

Huy nodded. Thin wisps of grey smoke were beginning to curl up into the motionless air and Huy sniffed at them appreciatively. The odour was not sweet. Neither was it bitter. It reminded Huy of the sticky sap that sometimes oozed from the sycamore fig growing in the garden, but that was not right either, for this was richer and gentler and other strange smells were combined in it. The priest saw him craning to inhale it with eyes half closed. “You have not smelt frankincense before?” he inquired. “Your parents do not bring you to the shrine on Khenti-kheti’s feast days.” He sighed. “This incense is only used on very special occasions, Huy. It is expensive because it comes from far away behind the mountains where there is never any rain. In the mighty temples of Iunu and Abtu and Mennofer the gods may delight in its fragrance every day.”

“I am to go to school at Iunu after the flood,” Huy blurted. He liked this man’s gentle manner. “I don’t want to go. I’m scared.”

The priest set the incense carefully on the stone floor and bent close to Huy, laying a hand on the boy’s thin shoulder. “Of course you don’t,” he agreed. “You are safe at home. Everything is known to you. Every person, every room in your house, every corner of your garden. And what is Iunu? It is the name of a place you cannot imagine, full of people you have never seen, where strangers will tell you to do things you think will be beyond your power. Is it not so?” Miserably Huy nodded. The hand moved to his chin. “But you will go, little Huy, because you are not a coward, and because although you do not yet know it, Iunu is full of interesting things to see and do. You need not fear anything but the pictures you make in your head, the ones that try to tell you how unhappy you will be. They do that, don’t they?”

Huy looked up into the friendly face. “Yes,” he whispered. “They do.”

“Well, they are partly right.” The man straightened. “You will be very homesick for a while, and everything will seem too big and too confusing, and you will feel very small and unimportant, but that will not last long. Then something wonderful will happen. You will begin to learn the secrets of the great god Thoth, and everything else will fall into place.”

Huy’s eyes grew round. “What secrets?” he demanded.

The priest retrieved the incense. “Set your bag on the floor,” he said, and taking Huy’s fingers he closed them around the long holder. “Keep it level,” he warned. “Because this is your Naming Day you are privileged to be an acolyte. The secrets of Thoth begin with a mastery over the sacred hieroglyphs he gave to Egypt so that we would not be crude and ignorant like the animals but would learn the graces of dignity and nobility and thus be fitted to sit under the Ished Tree in Paradise.”

The holder was not heavy, but it was long and required careful balancing if you were only four years old. Huy held it out in front of him with both hands. “Master, I don’t know those words,” he protested.

“I speak of the knowledge of reading and writing,” the man explained. “You will learn these marvellous skills at Iunu, and you are most fortunate to be able to do so. Knowledge is power, Huy. Don’t ever forget what I tell you. I want you to make me a promise.”

Breathless with this exciting interpretation of something both his parents had described as not only commonplace but also alarming, Huy stuttered, “A … a … all right.”

“I want you to write me a letter as soon as you are able. My name is Methen. Will you do that?”

The prospect of being able to write his own name, let alone a whole letter, seemed as improbable to Huy as waking up one day to find himself sprouting wings, but he nodded vigorously. “I promise.”

“Very good. And what is my name?”

“You are Methen, priest of Khenti-kheti at Hut-herib.”

Methen laughed. “Excellent. Now we will pray.”

Opening the door to the shrine, he prostrated himself before the figure that had been revealed, came to his feet, and began the prayers of thanksgiving. Huy repeated the words automatically as he scanned Khenti-kheti’s image with fascination. It was not very big, no bigger in fact than Methen if it had not been standing on a pedestal. Its tiny black eyes regarded him thoughtfully. Its long jaw was slightly open, revealing a red tongue and white-painted, rather vicious-looking pointed teeth. Huy would have liked to feel one with a finger, just to see how sharp it was.

By the time the priest had finished the prayers, Huy realized guiltily that he had been saying the words without trying to understand their meaning. Methen took back the holder. Hastily Huy stepped forward, laid the bag containing the offending skittles at the foot of the pedestal, executed a clumsy kiss in the direction of the painted feet, and withdrew. Methen carefully tapped the remains of the incense and charcoal into a nearby urn, stood the holder against the wall, bowed to the god, and taking Huy’s hand he backed out, closing the sanctuary doors behind them.

The sunlight in the outer court was dazzling. Solemnly Huy came up to his waiting parents. “I have decided to go to school after all,” he told them haughtily. “I am going to learn the secrets of Thoth.” Their gaze fled to Methen, who appeared to be leaning on his staff of office. Hapu raised his eyebrows.

“We have had an absorbing conversation, Huy and I,” the priest said. “All about the marvels of Iunu and Thoth’s gifts to our forebears.” There was a subtle warning in his tone. “Your son seems eager to explore both. You must be very proud of his enthusiasm.”

Hapu moved forward and placed a small coil of copper on the man’s palm. “For the indulgence of the god,” he murmured. “I don’t know how you did it, Master, but we are very grateful.” With a short bow he turned away, Itu and Huy behind.

“How is it,” Itu remarked in aggrieved tones, “that a stranger can accomplish what we could not? Do you think he cast a spell on Huy?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Itu!” her husband snapped. “Why would he bother to do such a thing? He does not know us at all.”

“Well, he did something,” she muttered under her breath. Hapu heard her but chose not to reply, and they went on their way in silence.

Hapzefa had set out a feast composed of Huy’s favourite foods in the shade of the garden. Bowls of chickpeas, slices of watermelon, salads of lettuce and cucumber, and cold fried inet-fish lay invitingly beside fresh dates and figs, newly picked grapes, and succulent sweet doum fruit. Huy pounced on a dish of ribbed pods. “Bak seeds! Is Uncle Ker here?”

Hapzefa tapped his hand away. “Of course, or how would the seeds get here? What a strange child you are, mad to crunch up those pungent things! He and your aunt are in the orchard. Did you make a proper obeisance to the god, or did you squirm and grumble under your breath? Your father has included Ishat in your celebration meal. Be nice to her, Master Huy. Here—keep the flies away from the food while you wait. I must unseal the wine.” She thrust a fly whisk at him and hurried away.

For a while Huy amused himself in trying to accurately knock the insects out of the air just as they were about to settle on some chosen morsel, but the lure of the bak seeds proved too strong. His mouth was still full of the sweetly bitter radish taste of both pod and seeds when his uncle and aunt came through the gate leading from the orchard. He rose to greet them as his aunt flung herself upon him.

“Huy! Darling Huy! So you are four today! The gods have answered our prayers and kept you safe for another year! Give your Aunt Heruben a big kiss!” Obediently, Huy allowed himself to be crushed to her fashionably bejewelled bosom, kissing her cheek while inhaling her perfume, which he liked. His mother had told him that it was the most rare and expensive perfume his uncle made, a blend of imported cinnamon, myrrh, and cassia in a base of balan oil, unlike the simple aura of lilies Itu carried around with her. Ker provided Itu with that popular perfume also, and Huy loved it because when it drifted into his nostrils it meant that she was near. But Aunt Heruben smelled of faraway places, and that was almost as good.

Hapzefa reappeared carrying a tray, and behind her came Itu and Hapu, who presented Huy with the traditional bouquet of flowers. “We give you life, dear Huy,” Hapu said.

Huy buried his face in the cool blooms. Everyone loved him, and somehow the priest Methen had taken away his fears. Contentment filled him, and he beamed at them all as they sought the cushions scattered about. “I’m a lucky boy, aren’t I, Mother? Can I have wine today?”

Everyone laughed. Hapu nodded and Hapzefa bent almost double to offer him the tray. “Date wine, grape wine, or shedeh?” she asked. Beside the cups a square of spotless linen was folded. Hapzefa indicated it with a jerk of her head. “And that is my gift to you,” she went on. “I sewed it myself.”

Huy pulled it off the tray and it shook out to reveal a little shirt with yellow ankhs embroidered around the scooped neck and down the front. “Like gold,” Huy said, standing so that he could wriggle into it. It felt soft against his skin. He shrugged his shoulders experimentally. “I really like it, Hapzefa. Thank you very much.”

Seeing his genuine pleasure, the servant grunted. “Well, try not to get it dirty, and don’t wear it if you’re going to lie in the soil by the pond. What wine do you want? Are you ready to eat?”

He chose grape wine although he liked the pomegranate better. Adults drank a lot of grape wine and today he felt as though, with the anniversary of his Naming Day, he was much closer to being grown up himself.

He was allowed to fill his plate first, which he did with a child’s omnivorous appetite, chewing and sipping with serious concentration, taking care not to spill anything on his new shirt, and he had almost reached the point of satiation before he realized that he had not once thought about the gifts he knew his relatives would have brought for him. They were talking quietly with his parents about amounts of seed to sow, and the plague of dock leaves and wild oats that had infested the flower beds last season from a careless local farmer’s neglected fields, and the reasons for the poor crop of mandrakes. Huy lay back in the grass and dreamily watched the play of light and shadow in the leaves above.

Someone landed beside him. He could sense who it was before he turned his head to find Ishat rapidly filling her plate. Hapzefa had tied back her long black hair with a red ribbon. Her bony shoulders were hunched as she bent forward over her short kilt and bare, scratched toes to snatch pieces of fish and slices of cucumber. Huy sat up. “Ishat, you are late and I can’t hear Hapzefa objecting.”

Her strong white teeth bit a half moon from a sliver of melon. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I know,” she replied. “I was wading out in the flower fields with Father while he checked the dikes, and I tripped and fell. I muddied my kilt.” She lifted it away from her knees. “I had to wash it and it’s still wet. My other one was too stained to put on. I found a present for you, though.”

“You did?”

She shook the melon juice from her fingers and attacked a fig. “I wanted to keep it for myself, but I’m a nicer person than you, Huy, so I decided to let you have it.” At three years old Ishat was already no stranger to the instinctive combination of goading and enticement that constituted coquetry. “But I won’t give it to you if you’re going to try and drag me around by my hair when the others have gone inside for the afternoon sleep.”