tinged with pink, painted brightly with birds flying towards the roof and vines tendrilling upward. Gingerly I approached it. No one seemed to be about, and there was no sound but the slap of my sandals against the paving. Before the gaping entrance I paused, briefly overcome by the same shrinking I had felt as I stepped under the pylon, but even as I drew a deep breath and pushed myself forward, a servant materialized from behind the nearest pillar, held up a hand, smiled, and disappeared within. I waited, my back to the courtyard, my eyes on the dimness where the servant had vanished.
Then the space was almost completely filled by the largest man I had ever seen. He reminded me immediately of the sacred Apis Bull, for his massive shoulders and the thick neck holding up his wide head exuded an animal power. His stomach cascaded over his calf-length kilt in an exuberant display of excess. If I had clasped him around his chest my fingertips could not have touched. Not that I wanted to do such a disrespectful thing. Just the thought of it gave me an inward shiver, for he could have broken my arms without blinking. Yet he was not a young man. His jowls were deeply grooved, his temples and full mouth lined. I felt sure that the starched linen helmet he wore hid a shaved skull, for there was no discernable hair on his body. He inclined his head.
“Good evening, Officer Kamen,” he rumbled. “I am Harshira, the Master’s Steward. You are expected. Follow me.” His black eyes, nested in folds of flesh, appraised me coolly before he turned and gilded away, his step almost silent and his great body moving with surprising agility. I did as I was told.
A huge room unfolded beyond the entrance, its gleaming tiled floor broken by several more white pillars. Cedar chairs inlaid with gold and ivory stood about haphazardly, together with low blue and green faience-topped tables. A servant was moving to light the lamps that stood about on tall pediments, and as he did so the scenes of feasting and hunting on the walls leaped into life. I would have liked to examine them, but Harshira was already passing through double doors on the other side of the hall into a much smaller antechamber and I hurried to keep up with him. Here I was confronted with a set of stairs on my left, running up into darkness. Straight ahead a passage led right through the house to a row of pillars and more garden beyond, now suffused with the red glow of Ra’s setting. To my right, several closed doors were set into the wall. The Steward approached one of them and knocked. A voice answered.
“You may go in,” Harshira said, opening the door and standing aside. I walked through and the door closed softly behind me.
The first thing that struck me was the odour, a blend of sweet herbs and spices. There was a faint whiff of cinnamon that brought Takhuru’s face vividly to mind, myrrh and coriander, and other scents I could not identify, but the fragrance overriding them all was jasmine. The second impression I received was one of extreme orderliness. Shelves filled the room from floor to ceiling and the shelves were crowded with boxes but they were stacked neatly and each bore a papyrus label. To my right and almost hidden by the jutting shelves was a small door. Another door faced it on the opposite wall. Directly ahead of me was a window, but between it and where I was gathering myself for an obeisance a large desk sat. The scrolls on it were lined up with a military precision. A scribe’s palette rested beside a plain but finely wrought alabaster lamp in which a new flame burned. Everything shone with cleanliness. I absorbed these details swiftly, my glance travelling the room with great rapidity, before I bowed to the man sitting behind the desk.
Or at least, I presumed it was a man. He was muffled entirely in white linen from the enveloping hood that covered his masked face to the wraps on his feet. The hands folded on the surface of the desk were
Then the space was almost completely filled by the largest man I had ever seen. He reminded me immediately of the sacred Apis Bull, for his massive shoulders and the thick neck holding up his wide head exuded an animal power. His stomach cascaded over his calf-length kilt in an exuberant display of excess. If I had clasped him around his chest my fingertips could not have touched. Not that I wanted to do such a disrespectful thing. Just the thought of it gave me an inward shiver, for he could have broken my arms without blinking. Yet he was not a young man. His jowls were deeply grooved, his temples and full mouth lined. I felt sure that the starched linen helmet he wore hid a shaved skull, for there was no discernable hair on his body. He inclined his head.
“Good evening, Officer Kamen,” he rumbled. “I am Harshira, the Master’s Steward. You are expected. Follow me.” His black eyes, nested in folds of flesh, appraised me coolly before he turned and gilded away, his step almost silent and his great body moving with surprising agility. I did as I was told.
A huge room unfolded beyond the entrance, its gleaming tiled floor broken by several more white pillars. Cedar chairs inlaid with gold and ivory stood about haphazardly, together with low blue and green faience-topped tables. A servant was moving to light the lamps that stood about on tall pediments, and as he did so the scenes of feasting and hunting on the walls leaped into life. I would have liked to examine them, but Harshira was already passing through double doors on the other side of the hall into a much smaller antechamber and I hurried to keep up with him. Here I was confronted with a set of stairs on my left, running up into darkness. Straight ahead a passage led right through the house to a row of pillars and more garden beyond, now suffused with the red glow of Ra’s setting. To my right, several closed doors were set into the wall. The Steward approached one of them and knocked. A voice answered.
“You may go in,” Harshira said, opening the door and standing aside. I walked through and the door closed softly behind me.
The first thing that struck me was the odour, a blend of sweet herbs and spices. There was a faint whiff of cinnamon that brought Takhuru’s face vividly to mind, myrrh and coriander, and other scents I could not identify, but the fragrance overriding them all was jasmine. The second impression I received was one of extreme orderliness. Shelves filled the room from floor to ceiling and the shelves were crowded with boxes but they were stacked neatly and each bore a papyrus label. To my right and almost hidden by the jutting shelves was a small door. Another door faced it on the opposite wall. Directly ahead of me was a window, but between it and where I was gathering myself for an obeisance a large desk sat. The scrolls on it were lined up with a military precision. A scribe’s palette rested beside a plain but finely wrought alabaster lamp in which a new flame burned. Everything shone with cleanliness. I absorbed these details swiftly, my glance travelling the room with great rapidity, before I bowed to the man sitting behind the desk.
Or at least, I presumed it was a man. He was muffled entirely in white linen from the enveloping hood that covered his masked face to the wraps on his feet. The hands folded on the surface of the desk were
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