The Twice Born (52 page)

“You have a smear of dust on your cheek and a dead spider caught in your hair,” he replied. “Let’s find you something to sleep on.”

She was delighted when Huy unearthed a travelling cot that folded into thirds. All the wooden slats belonging to it were piled under it, together with a stained mattress. “Look!” she said as she opened it out and folded it again. “I’ve never seen a bed like this before! I can have it, can’t I, Huy?”

“Of course.” He picked it up easily and pushed it into the cart. “It’s a travelling cot, Ishat, used by the nobles in the cabins of their barges or in their tents. Who knows, the last body to rest on this mattress may very well have belonged to a princess. Now we must get the whitewash from the gardener.”

“Those oil lamps will leak through the cracks,” she said over her shoulder as they creaked their way back to the court. “I can fix them with mud, but the mud will soon dry and crumble away. We need new ones. Not clay. Alabaster would be lovely. Would your friend at Iunu send you a gift of alabaster lamps, Huy? And I have no linen for my travelling cot.” She said the words with an innocent pride so at variance with the Ishat who had boldly filched whatever she wanted from the kitchen that Huy was disarmed.

“Methen has promised me a pillow and linens for my couch,” he answered the long fall of her disordered hair. “You may have them, Ishat. There’s the gardener. I’ll get the whitewash if you’ll pick up our bags.”

Methen had already placed two sheets, a pillow, and two blankets beside their belongings. By the time they had unloaded the cart, returned it to the gardener, and walked back to their house, the sun was beginning to set. Sitting on the two crude chairs, they ate the bread and cheese intended for the following day, washing it down with some of the beer. “I wish I had found an empty water jar, one of the big ones,” Ishat said. “We will need water to mix up the whitewash and to drink. Can I use the temple bathhouse, Huy? I like to be clean, but I’m too tired to wash tonight. We forgot the linen.”

They distributed the furniture through the tiny house. It did not take long, and when they had finished, the dwelling seemed even smaller than it had before. Ishat carefully filled the two lamps. Oil began to drip slowly from each one. “I’ll take them next door to the beer house and light them from the fire there,” she said, a trifle wearily. “Listen to the noise, Huy! Our celebration of Hapi’s generosity will not be necessary since we are forced to share the jubilation of every patron swilling beer on our doorstep.” She left.

Huy stood in the middle of his dark, musty reception room. He did not fight the sense of depression and dislocation growing in him.
What have I done?
he asked himself again.
It has all happened too quickly. I should have stayed in Iunu, even hired myself out in the marketplace writing letters for the illiterate—done anything but run back here to noise and stench and poverty. If I had worked in Iunu, perhaps Nakht might have seen my determination. He might have changed his mind and hired me. Anuket’s impending marriage might not take place after all. Anuket
… Despair came rushing in on the heels of his sudden dejection, and he wanted to sink onto his dirt floor and weep.
Do you see your Chosen One, mighty Atum?
he thought bitterly.
What do you think of your Twice Born now? I want to walk from my cell to the bathhouse and douse myself in scented hot water and have a servant knead fragrant oils into my skin. I want to lie on fine linen and talk to Thothmes on the couch opposite me while I watch the lamplight flicker on the ceiling above me. I want to summon a litter and go to Nakht’s house, where Nasha will hug me tightly and Anuket … Anuket will kiss me prettily on my cheek while her little hand presses slyly and quickly against the side of my neck, under my hair
.

But soon the courage that had always sustained him returned, and by the time Ishat pushed the door closed behind her with her foot and took the two steps into the room that brought her face to face with him, he was able to smile. She was carrying a tray on which a wide bowl steamed, and the two oil lamps sent out thin, black-tipped flames. Huy set the tray on the table and put the lamps beside it. Ishat rummaged about in the basket from the kitchen and came up with a large square of linen.

“The owner of the beer house wants neighbours who will not be constantly complaining about the noise,” she said. “The old woman who lived here apparently did so continually. He has offered me the use of his fire for lamp lighting or water heating. Sit down.” Huy did so. Carefully Ishat lifted the bowl onto the floor beside him and removed his sandals. Dipping the linen into the hot water, she began to wash his calves and then his feet. He began to protest, but she hushed him. “I am not a body servant, and it is not proper for me to wash any other part of your body but these. You can do that yourself, and after you have used the water I will wash myself. We are both tired and filthy. I will return the tray and bowl tomorrow.”

Huy’s arguments died in his throat.
This is an honest blow to your damnable pride
, he told himself.
A moment ago your mind was full of Anuket, but this woman, this friend, is worth a dozen Anukets. Would Anuket wash your feet, even if she loved you? I don’t think so. She would call a servant instead. But you, Ishat, even if you were a queen, you would still bring hot water and kneel and do this without hesitation
. Her touch was firm and gentle. On impulse Huy put both hands on her bent head. Her hair was warm, and as he leaned towards her he could smell the lingering, comfortable odour of Sweetness the donkey, and Ishat’s own sweat, and the slightly acrid tang of the cheap oil in the lamps.

All at once his fingers tightened involuntarily, weaving into her hair. She looked up, startled. A sickness had suddenly filled his mind with such potency that he wanted to vomit. His vision blurred. Then it cleared, together with the nausea, and he found himself gazing into a face whose lustrous eyes were ringed with kohl. The full mouth was hennaed red. Gold dust glittered on the lips and in the hollow of the long neck, where a thick chain of gold rested. More gold cut across the forehead—a coronet, it was a coronet of some sort, from whose links hung tiny green faience frogs and red carnelian scarabs. Rosettes of purple electrum swung on delicate silver chains from each earlobe. Huy’s nostrils were full of the expensive aroma of lemongrass and rose perfume. The dusky eyes blinked, giving Huy a glimpse of lids dusted with gilded blue paint, then narrowed in a smile. “Why, Huy,” Ishat’s voice said, “we did not expect to see you today. Come in and have some wine.” The exquisite face looked away. “Ptahmose! Bring shedeh and two cups! Are you too important now to drink the shedeh, my old friend?” The tone was teasing.

Huy had opened his mouth to reply when he found himself bent double over a struggling Ishat, his hands gripping her hair, his face pressed against her skull. “Huy!” she was shouting. “Let me go! You’re hurting me! Let go!”

Cold and shaking, he withdrew, sitting back on the chair, his head pounding as though it would split open. “Ishat,” he whispered because his strength had failed him. “You are going to be rich. You are going to be the wife or concubine of a very important man. How beautiful you looked!”

She had sat back on her heels, rubbing at her scalp, her expression furious, but at his words she knelt, placing wet hands on his knees. “Huy, the gift!” she breathed. “It has returned! It has come back to life in you! I told you it would! I will be beautiful? How beautiful? Tell me exactly what you saw!”

Mechanically he described the brief vision, one finger pressed hard against his left temple where the pain was greatest, while his thoughts ran swiftly in another direction.
I had hoped I was free. In spite of Ramose’s certainty that the gift was merely in abeyance, I deceived myself into believing that the turmoil might be over. I had even dared to imagine that Atum in his mercy might restore my sexual potency. Now he strikes at me, on this day of all days, with such vicious force that I feel I might die
.

“My mouth was hennaed?” Ishat was asking, eyes alight. “What about my hands, Huy? Shall I be a noblewoman?”

“I thought that you despised the nobility,” he joked feebly. “I did not see your hands, Ishat. Only your face. So lovely.”

She stood, lifting the bowl of water onto the table. “I only despise the little aristocrat you adore so much that she weakens your honour,” she insisted. “Perhaps you saw me as your wife.” Her head was carefully averted. “Perhaps you will achieve nobility. You will render a great service to our King and he will make you an erpa-ha or a smer and load you with gold, and then—”

“I told you what you said to me in the vision,” Huy cut in dully. “I was not your lover. I’ve already tried to explain to you why I can never … Oh gods, Ishat, I am in agony. I must lie down. I don’t suppose you found any poppy powder to steal from the kitchen?”

Instantly she was beside him, her arms under his, helping him to stand. “Only physicians have the poppy. Shall I go and find one for you?”

He shook his head, then yelped at the spasm the gesture caused. “What could I pay him with? Just help me onto my couch.” Leaning on her, he shuffled into his sleeping room.

She took his hand and placed it on the headboard as though he were a child. “Steady yourself here,” she ordered. Hurrying back into the reception room, she returned with Methen’s linen and blankets. Swiftly she made the bed. Huy was too tired to protest. He pulled off his mired kilt and loincloth, not caring that she was watching, and crawled onto the couch. The sheets smelled of the fresh wind in which they had been dried, but underneath that pleasant aroma he could detect the faint must of mouse droppings from the mattress. It did not matter. “Shall I bring one of the lamps?” Ishat wanted to know.

Huy closed his eyes. “No. The darkness is good,” he murmured. “I wish the beer house was more quiet. I’ll sleep now, Ishat. I’m sorry for taking the linen.”

He felt her lips brush his cheek. “Your skin is cold. Don’t be sorry, Huy. Your gift is back. That is so exciting. Rest well.”

He did not hear her leave. For a while every beat of his heart sent a shock of pain into his head, so that he turned onto his side and curled up his knees in a futile gesture of defence. S
o Ishat will leave me
, he thought, the knowledge adding to his agony.
The visions do not lie. Some wealthy nobleman will take her away, surround her with servants who will knead and stroke her until the last vestiges of our poverty have disappeared, load her with jewels and perfumes, dress her in fine linen. Will he love her as his wife or as a concubine? Will she still love me? She looked happy. How can she be happy without me? And when will this occur? The visions never show me time, only fleeting moments wrenched from the future and made to float untethered before me like bubbles. I have no right to be jealous of this anonymous man. No matter how much I wish it, I am unable to return Ishat’s desire. Even if full sexual power was restored to me, she would still be no more than my dear friend. Yet I am jealous of him. I am like a cur with an unwanted bone between his paws, growling at the circling pack who would snatch it away if they could. But no—I am not that petty. Mingling with my possessiveness is a genuine delight in the good fortune that must come to her. I pray it will not be too soon, though. I need you, my Ishat. Until today I did not realize just how much
. His heartbeat had slowed and with it the hammer blows in his head. His mind began to drift. Snatches of prayers to Khenti-kheti came to him, but halfway through one invocation he lost consciousness.

Waking late with a sense of both well-being and apprehension, he began to push himself off the couch, afraid that he would be late for his first class, but then reality asserted itself and he relaxed, lying on his back and contemplating the irregular undulation of the grey mud-brick ceiling. His headache had completely disappeared, in fact he felt full of energy, but at the remembrance of what had happened when he touched Ishat he tensed with the old, familiar anxiety.
I will not consider the implications
, he told himself sternly.
Not now. We have a day of hard work ahead of us. It will do me good to sweat
.

At that moment her head appeared around the doorless entrance. “You’re awake!” she said brightly. “Stay there, Huy. I have food.” In a moment she returned with milk, warm bread, fried fish, dates, and a clay bowl full of sweet sycamore figs. “The fish is cold, I expect. It won’t have held the heat of the pan.” Setting the dishes around Huy’s sheeted legs, she perched at the foot of his couch. “I have met the temple’s cook,” she announced as Huy thirstily drained the milk. “I charmed him, of course. He is perfectly willing to provide us with two meals each day because he prepares them for the High Priest and his assistant and their servants anyway. He remembers you from all the rumours that filled the town after Methen … after he rescued you. He wants you to See for him.”

“Well, I won’t.” Huy broke the fish in two. “I’m not going to touch anyone ever again.”

“Don’t be silly. How can you help it? Besides, we need his favours. These figs”—she pointed—“sycamore figs, are there for the picking all year round. Physicians often get to the trees first because the juices heal cuts and the fruit is wonderful for killing worms in the bowels, but then it’s only the little ones that are left for the rest of us. The cook will provide us with nice big sweet ones from the temple tree in the courtyard if we are good to him.” She shook her head at the half fish he was offering her. “I ate in the kitchen. This meal is all yours.” She left the couch. “I’ll go next door and fill the bowl with hot water again. Hopefully this time we can both wash. I’ve been through your satchels. You’ll have to put on your dirty kilt from yesterday unless you want to whitewash this hovel in gold-bordered linen.” Her voice held a mild contempt.

By the time she returned, he had put on his loincloth. As she set the steaming bowl on the table, he pointed into her sleeping room. “I glanced inside,” he said accusingly. “There is good linen on your cot, Ishat, fine white linen, and an alabaster lamp on the floor. Where did you go last night? You’ve been stealing again, haven’t you?”