One night, She had Amen-khep-shu-ef brought together with myself for dinner, and it was clear Her purpose was to encourage friendliness between us, or, failing that, bring us to some recognition of how we were each servants of Her “great need” as She came at last to put it, and it was then I came to understand something about the grandest ladies. One could not be a Queen without a great need. Whether Hers might be to injure Rama-Nefru, lay revenge on Usermare, or establish the Prince of Her flesh, Amen-khep-shu-ef, in succession to His Father—who could know? I remembered soldiers with terrible wounds in their stomachs. If they could bear the pain, their dignity became their highest honor. Those Gods one could respect the most seemed to gather about them. I thought of one charioteer who spoke to me in the calmest tones while the moon was rising, then he died. No sign of his pain did he show, yet I felt all of it.
Now, Nefertiri spoke to us of the lightest matters, of the amatory exploits of Her greyhound, Silver-Heart, who, sitting beside Her, kept looking at each of us as She spoke, and my Queen mused on how Silver-Heart mourned for his family left behind in the incense countries to the east of the Red Sea. Hearing that, Silver-Heart mourned, indeed howled as if to oblige his mistress, and She gave another sweet peal of laughter in which was all of Her unhappiness, all of what I call Her great need that I, in the soft light of Her dinner table, was so ready to serve.
Yet I suspected that Amen-khep-shu-ef was not likely to be my friend. Like Nefesh-Besher, He had a cast in one eye and never looked at you so much as His sight flew over your head like a bat. He, too, made me think of the Hittite who had come across the field of battle to fight, sword against sword, with Usermare. While Amen-khep-shu-ef had the long bridge of His father’s nose, the curve of His nostril was crueler than the arc of a scimitar—no, He would never love me. He loved His Mother too much, and with the wrong mouth as we used to say in the charioteers. Indeed, She even called Amen-khep-shu-ef by His little name as if the thought of His spear was always in Her thoughts. “Amen-Ha,” She would say, “why do You frown so?” and I, seated in the middle of the long table, felt smaller than myself, and not at all in the conversation. He spoke to Her only of matters about which I knew nothing, of His brothers and their wives, of hunts in the desert when She had accompanied Him, of a day most recently when She had stood beside Him in a boat of papyrus while He struck down eight birds on five casts of His throwing-stick and the last bird had fallen into Her lap: there was a purity of understanding between Them I could not enter.
She made efforts to bring the conversation to me. When I complimented Her on the beauty of her writing, I was treated to a little explanation on the rarity of the school to which She had been sent as a child. It was one of the very few of the Houses of Instruction in Egypt where girls might go, but many were the difficulties for the teachers. The students happened all to be Princesses, or, at the least, the daughters of Nomarchs (as was Honey-Ball, daughter of the Nomarch of Sais, and a classmate of Nefertiri, I would yet discover) and so could hardly be whipped by their teachers. “Yet,” She said, “as every scribe must tell you: ‘The ears of a boy are in his seat, and he learns best when he is flogged.’ Yet where were they to strike a Princess? No, they could not. Still we suffered. The ears of a girl are in her heart, and we wept when we made errors, and I could never learn to count. Each time I drew the sign for seven, I could think of nothing but the little cord that held My robe together. After all, the writing is the same.”
“Sefekh,” said Amen-khep-shu-ef. “I never thought of that.”
“Sefekh,” She said. “It is the same. I always mixed one with the other, and then the seams came apart in My head. All untied!” “Sefkhu,” mother and son said then both at once, and Their mirth could frolic over this fine word, so near to the other, but it meant taking off one’s clothes. I tried to smile, yet They knew words I did not, and laughter lived between Them like a wind I did not share. Of course, it was not the first time I had come to think that our language was too subtle, for I was well aware, having been tricked more than once, that the best Egyptians from the finest families know how the same sound can have many meanings and be written several ways. I thought, “I am as low as dung before Them, yet They use this same sound ‘dung’ to mean ‘bleached linen.’ Who is to know what They mean? They conceal much from those who were born beneath Them and then will turn a word into the opposite of itself.”
But then, going back so far as my first days in the charioteers, I had noticed that what characterized a noble most, even more than their fine accent, was much private wit. As a simple charioteer, I had often not known at all what they were saying. How could I when each one of our words in Egyptian has so many meanings? They might use the sound for “breasts” which is the word menti but they would be speaking of eyes. Yet another word for eyes is utchat, eye-of-a-God, also the word with but a little difference in tone, for “outcast.” One had to be clever to serve these nobles when they could play with many a meaning for each sound. All the same, no one had ever done this so well as Nefertiri. By a lilt in Her throat when She said “hem-t,” She could change a “hyena” into “precious stones.” That, too, was magic—Her wonderful use of the inflections of words until light sparkled on every sound. How She would move from one meaning to the next! “Khat,” She could say in disgust, but you had to know, by Her expression, whether She was talking of a “swamp,” a “quarry,” or the “Land of the Dead.”
Still, such games did not go on too long this evening. In His royal manner, Amen-khep-shu-ef was more a soldier than a noble, and not able to play at this so well as His Mother, indeed, left to Himself, He had a solemn dogged mind. Despite His effort to talk of matters where I did not belong, He was obliged at last, with the help of Her sympathy for me, to come back to a subject where I could offer a few remarks myself, and yet I cannot say I was happier that She turned the conversation to war since His exploits had usually been more celebrated than mine. “Foolhardy,” was how He was always described by the Generals closest to me, but even then, being handed the worst end of each story about Him, I knew how brave He was, and in the Gardens of the Secluded, although they never saw Him, the Prince was much admired by the little queens.
I was obliged to admit, despite all my desire to think less of Him, that no commander had ever had so great a reputation for conducting successful sieges. We took care when I was General-of-all-the-Armies to have the Division of Amen-khep-shu-ef away on the frontiers of Syria, but I never ceased to hear of the towns He took by siege, and some were strong cities never before fallen. He built forts to roll forward on wooden wheels, and one was even three stories high to equal the wall he would face. No labors were too endless for Him. He dug moats around towns so that none of the women and children could slip out—the wails of the starving gave strength to His troops, He would say. Yet the little queens spoke less of such cruel and stubborn skills than of His daring. So if I heard once in the army, I would hear again in the Gardens of how He not only climbed the face of high cliffs to accustom Himself to problems He would encounter on the battlements of cities, but had taught one squadron of His charioteers to climb nearly as well as Himself. On His last siege in Libya, to which His Father had dispatched Him in the hope He would stay away, Amen-khep-shu-ef and His men had been able to scale the walls without ladders on the first night of a siege before a single trench had been dug! His armies had only reached the place that afternoon. All talked of it. A siege that did not last a night! It was clear that Amen-khep-shu-ef wished to let everyone in Egypt know that He would be greater than Usermare.
Of course, there had been constant gossip in the Gardens over His prospects. Would Amen-khep-shu-ef ascend the Throne? Or might the Pharaoh choose another Prince? Rama-Nefru had given birth already to twins, and though one had died in His first week, the other thrived. Rare was the day, however, and rare the gossip, that did not carry a hint of some threat against little Peht-a-Ra who, having been given this mighty name of Lion-of-Ra, was also called by His Father, Her
a-Ra. Of course, to spend a season in the Gardens of the Secluded was to learn, if you listened to the little queens, that no Prince ever followed His Father to the Throne before ten of His half brothers by other women had been brought to a sudden death. I heard so many stories of death in beer-houses, on the field of battle, in bed with treacherous women, or suffocated in the cradle, that I believed none, not until I saw the size of the guard around the Palace of Rama-Nefru, and found myself thinking of the obstacles awaiting Peht-a-Ra before He, half a Hittite, would be King of Egypt.
I must still have been brooding on such matters, for at the end of dinner, Amen-khep-shu-ef took me by surprise. After making clear mention to His Mother of the beauties of the noble lady who waited for Him in Thebes tonight—I could see He wished to leave Her jealous—He spoke directly to me at last. The point was clear, and He made it in contempt. “You are a friend to My Father’s ear,” He said.
“No man like myself can make that claim.”
He smiled. He would remind me that He might yet be my King. And a meaner one. He said, “Speak well to My Father Who rewards you.”
Not only was He much pleased at the cleverness of these last remarks, but His Mother clapped Her hands, and kissed Him full on the mouth before He left.
“What do you tell His Father?” She asked of me.
“Not a great deal,” I said. “The Good God does not listen.” I sighed. “It is sad to be the wretch whose limb is crushed between two great stones.” Happily, I managed to put a smile on my face, sly and wicked I knew, and She smiled back. “You are as helpless as oil,” She said, “and have nothing to fear from two great stones.”
This joke is a fine example of what I mean by Her use of our language. “Helpless” and “oil” had the same sound and so were typical of Her magic, light as the wings of a starling. Indeed, it obliged me to ponder why the same sound could make you think both of oil and of helplessness, even as the word for “think” can mean as easily that you are thirsty, or you are a vase, or are dancing, or are ready to stop. Our word for “meditate” was next to “blasphemy,” even as our little sound for “ponder”—mau—could also mean “the light-of-a-God.” Or it could speak of your “anus.” There was no end to the nets that held our thought. Could it be that Nefertiri, because She wrote these words so often, knew how the drawing of a little God or some curlicue at the end of a word could take one’s meaning away from the light of the sun to the darkest coffin on the inside of your belly? Often, She would amaze me with the delicacy of Her offering. I, who was used to the urgent strength of Ma-Khrut, now came to appreciate how light was the touch of those who are near to the Gods. I knew, despite Her adoration of Her tall son, that She was also glad to be alone with me, but then it was in the nature of a great Queen and Consort of the God to live as if, truly, like Usermare Himself, She, too, had not one Ka but Fourteen, and so there were many women in Her, and each could find its pleasure in a different man.
May I say She knew me very well, for Her first act now that we were alone, was to go to a golden coffer that stood upon a large chest, and from it remove a disc of ebony as wide as one’s brow, and with a handle of electrum. Carrying it carefully, so that I could only see the back of this ebony disc, She sat beside me and placed it by its base on the table. Then She said, or so I thought, “Have you ever looked into a fine revealing?”
Once again, I was bewildered. I did not believe She could be speaking of the night when Amon came to Her and gave Amen-khep-shu-ef to Her belly, but, in truth, I was much embarrassed by the directness of such a question, for I supposed She could not mean anything like “conception” which was certainly one of the meanings of “revealing,” but, no, not by the light smile on Her face—no nearness to Amon there! So I took another meaning for the word, and wondered if She meant, “Have you ever looked into a foulness?” but again, by Her expression, I knew that could hardly be so. At last, and with what relief, I concluded that She had said, “Have you ever looked into a fine river?” for indeed I had, who has not seen the quiet Nile when the water is calm and clear, and your own face ripples on the surface of the small waves, so I nodded and said, “Yes, I know nearly all of the Nile,” much relieved, whereupon She reached up, pinched my cheek, brought a candlestick near to us, and turned the ebony disc around. I drew back in fright. By the glow of the flame, I saw the face of a man who had something like my own face, but more intimate than the surface of all those rippling waters where I had half-seen it before. Now, I truly saw my own features on this perfect plate of polished silver, and how much I looked like you, Nef-khep-aukhem, husband of my granddaughter, Hathfertiti, yes, I had the expression of one who serves the Good and Great Gods, and was startled by how much caution now dwelt in a man who had once been a charioteer. How smooth and worried were my cheeks. All those rubbings from the cheeks of Honey-Ball! A tomb of corruption must be my heart! That was the first thought at seeing my face, and it came from the side of myself that is noblest in spirit, nearest to the brave Gods, and most demanding of myself, but the next voice I tell you was from the sweetmeats of myself, and they were delighted with this look at me. I thought myself handsome, and knowledgeable in the desires of women, indeed, I was so handsome that I stirred unmistakably and almost came forth like a hound in a frolic, that intoxicating was the sight of myself. Then I was full of fear because I realized it was not my own face I saw, but my Ka, which lived on the surface of this silver, this polished lake of silver. Nefertiri stroked my cheek with the most mocking touch of Her fingertips, and said, “Ah, the dear man does not know a mirror.”
“Never a mirror like this,” I managed to say back to Her, but I could hardly speak. “Why this,” I wanted to say, “will change all that there is.” For I knew that if every soldier and peasant could see his Ka, why then all would want to act like Gods. Oh, I had looked into common mirrors, scratched and dull, their surface so impure that one’s eyes and nose twisted as one moved it about, but this was a mirror like no other, it must be the finest in all of Egypt, a true revealing—ah, there was the word She had used—and my Ka was before me, and we looked at each other.
Then I understood once again how cruel it must be to wander in Khert-Neter with no tomb for a home, nothing but the banks, the monsters, and the flames of the serpents. For I saw that my Ka was virtually me and there before me and so alive. He was the one who would be destroyed in the smoke and the stink. I wished to cry out against such monstrosity. So vivid was all I saw of this face, that even the light of the candle seemed like the flames of Khert-Neter, and I knew that I loved my Ka and it did not matter how much corruption was in those features when my life was also in them. Then I gasped. For by a turn of Her wrist on the handle of this “revealing,” so did I see Her Ka, not mine, and Her indigo eyes, blue as evening in the flame of the torch, looked back at me from the polished disc, and I could dare to lay my eyes full into the eyes of Her Ka, this One, at least, of Her Fourteen, and by my expression must have told Her how much love I knew for Her since She blinked as if She also saw the shadow of unseen wings. I think it was then She knew that I must kill Her if Usermare was dead. By way of the mirror we looked at one another until the tears came forth in both our eyes.
Yet by the strength of our gaze into each other, so did I enter Her thoughts for the first time, and before we were done, I took Her hand—I dared and took Her hand—and was able by way of Her fingers (just so well as with Usermare) to enter Her heart. The thoughts were not small. She was thinking of the night Amon had come to Her bed, and She conceived Amen-khep-shu-ef. Yes, the jealousy of Usermare was well-founded. My own had begun at the touch of Her palm in mine. For I saw Her in the lap of the God and nobody was more powerful than the Hidden One. The rush of Her thoughts came over me in this gallop like a thumping of horse’s hooves, a true set of blows to pay for daring to touch Her fingers, but then She was calm again, and wicked, and leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “Is it true that Ma-Khrut cannot keep her hands off you?”
Now I do not
know if it was my thoughts She could hear, or the lonely desires of Honey-Ball, or, whether, given the free passage of eunuchs, so much like birds, from the kitchens of one palace to the gates of another, Nefertiri had heard it all as gossip. Still, what a clamoring in my heart if I was now part of the common gossip.
I did not answer. I thought that if I pretended the question was not understood, why the dignity of a Queen might keep Her from asking again. I did not yet understand, so exquisite were Her manners, that Nefertiri’s desires were as close to the roar of the lion as Usermare Himself. “Come,” She said, “is it true? Ma-Khrut has said it.” Now, I had to wonder if Ma-Khrut was so intimate with the Queen that they spoke to one another through trusted friends.
I could have smiled like a fool, or merely looked wise, but some strength out of the heart that once spoke in me as a brave man drew my eyes back to the mirror, and I reached forward with my fingers and turned the handle so that we could speak again from the eyes of my Ka into Hers, and I said, “If it were not for the loveliness that surrounds Your Majesty, I would think often of Ma-Khrut.” In such an instant I understood that the true desire for revenge is like a serpent. If its tail rested in the pits of my dream its head spoke in the eyes of my Queen. We both felt the breath of Ma-Khrut, as if she did not give us her blessing so much as the power to use her curse. Nefertiri and I still looked at one another through the mirror, but now it might as well have been the high bank of a river past which flood waters wash in the great force of a bend. We saw each other with all the surprise one might know when looking at a stranger in the marketplace—yes, by Her size and by the poise of Her hips, so equal to mine, does that woman draw me forward, and by Her age as well—She is my age, and has my wisdom, She is a stranger who could be my mate. So I saw Her, and knew She saw me, She as a woman, not a Goddess, and I as a man, not a servant. It was wondrous to me how we met in all that is equal, and were so well met. We smiled tenderly at one another. Alas. That Ka was only one of Her Fourteen.