disappointed to see no women on the premises, for the
beauty of Pharaoh’s wives and their maids was legendary. He had
imagined a court full of pretty females, decked in flowers… sheer
muslins… musky perfumes…
“Where are
Pharaoh’s
women?” Semerket asked Medjay Qar. They were outside the hall of
audience, well into the outer alcoves where the craftsmen and priests
lived.
“Our pharaoh
is a
soldier and has a horror of allowing women to meddle in the affairs of
men. He confines them up there—in the harem—or in the gardens.”
Semerket
looked up to
where the Medjay pointed. On an enclosed balcony, high above the
ground, he saw the gauzy figures of Pharaoh’s wives peering through the
window slits. The harem was the responsibility of Naia’s husband,
Nakht, who because of his noble name had been appointed the steward of
the king’s royal wives. Semerket shuddered, remembering their last
meeting. Seeing the movements of the women behind the grating, Semerket
flattered himself that he was the object of their gazes. As if to
confirm this impression, faint, high-pitched laughter pursued him as he
made his way under the harem’s balcony to the temple’s entrance.
At the Great
Pylons,
Semerket spoke to Qar again. “It’s not true, you know, that I avoided
your tower this morning. I stopped there to present myself when I went
into the Great Place. Whoever was on duty was asleep; I heard the
snoring.”
He did not
wait for
Qar’s explanations or protests but started once again on the path that
led to the Gate of Heaven. Qar, his lower lip thrust out in shame,
hurried after him, saying nothing.
As they walked
the
stone road to the north, Semerket asked, as if idly, “Tell me, were you
Medjays on maneuvers last night in the Great Place?”
“No.”
“Any party of
mourners… officials taking inventory? Something of that sort?”
“No. I told
you. Why
do you ask?”
Semerket had
not the
heart to tell Qar that not only had both Semerket and the boy
trespassed into the Great Place, but at least six others had come and
gone there as well.
TENDRILS OF DISTANT CLOUDScaught the setting sun
as Foreman Paneb emerged from Pharaoh’s unfinished tomb. Wearily he
climbed the long flight of limestone stairs up to the tomb’s door. His
team had labored there for their customary eight days and now they
would pack up their gear and go home to the village for three days of
rest.
A flame flared
to his
left. Over in the company shed, the scribe Neferhotep was trimming the
wick on a candle. It was the scribe’s custom at the end of the work
period to compose a report to the vizier concerning the tomb’s
progress, whether he asked for one or not. The scribe casually looked
up, inadvertently glancing at Paneb. No unspoken communication was made
between them, no gesture of deference or greeting uttered. Neferhotep
leaned forward and pulled the curtain shut.
The two men
had never
gotten along. It was ironic that now, thanks to the tomb and their high
rank within the Place of Truth, they were bound together closer than
brothers. Paneb admired how Neferhotep never let their current alliance
stand in the way of their mutual disregard.
Hearing his
men’s
footsteps on the tomb’s stairway behind him, Paneb turned to welcome
their paint-splotched forms into the fading light. “Going home to that
pretty wife of yours tonight, eh, Kenna? We won’t be seeing you for a
day or two…. Kofi, get some sleep these next days, you’re looking
tired…. Getting drunk tonight, Hori? Good man…”
Though his
words were
cheerful, Paneb was not. Since the day when his aunt Hetephras was
reported missing, misery had been his only companion. Nothing cheered
him.
Paneb was the
foreman
of Pharaoh’s tomb, a large, solid man of prodigious strength and
mercurial temperament. Though by no means handsome, for his nose was
smashed from fights with other foremen, his presence was mesmerizing.
Paneb’s status in the Place of Truth was
beauty of Pharaoh’s wives and their maids was legendary. He had
imagined a court full of pretty females, decked in flowers… sheer
muslins… musky perfumes…
“Where are
Pharaoh’s
women?” Semerket asked Medjay Qar. They were outside the hall of
audience, well into the outer alcoves where the craftsmen and priests
lived.
“Our pharaoh
is a
soldier and has a horror of allowing women to meddle in the affairs of
men. He confines them up there—in the harem—or in the gardens.”
Semerket
looked up to
where the Medjay pointed. On an enclosed balcony, high above the
ground, he saw the gauzy figures of Pharaoh’s wives peering through the
window slits. The harem was the responsibility of Naia’s husband,
Nakht, who because of his noble name had been appointed the steward of
the king’s royal wives. Semerket shuddered, remembering their last
meeting. Seeing the movements of the women behind the grating, Semerket
flattered himself that he was the object of their gazes. As if to
confirm this impression, faint, high-pitched laughter pursued him as he
made his way under the harem’s balcony to the temple’s entrance.
At the Great
Pylons,
Semerket spoke to Qar again. “It’s not true, you know, that I avoided
your tower this morning. I stopped there to present myself when I went
into the Great Place. Whoever was on duty was asleep; I heard the
snoring.”
He did not
wait for
Qar’s explanations or protests but started once again on the path that
led to the Gate of Heaven. Qar, his lower lip thrust out in shame,
hurried after him, saying nothing.
As they walked
the
stone road to the north, Semerket asked, as if idly, “Tell me, were you
Medjays on maneuvers last night in the Great Place?”
“No.”
“Any party of
mourners… officials taking inventory? Something of that sort?”
“No. I told
you. Why
do you ask?”
Semerket had
not the
heart to tell Qar that not only had both Semerket and the boy
trespassed into the Great Place, but at least six others had come and
gone there as well.
TENDRILS OF DISTANT CLOUDScaught the setting sun
as Foreman Paneb emerged from Pharaoh’s unfinished tomb. Wearily he
climbed the long flight of limestone stairs up to the tomb’s door. His
team had labored there for their customary eight days and now they
would pack up their gear and go home to the village for three days of
rest.
A flame flared
to his
left. Over in the company shed, the scribe Neferhotep was trimming the
wick on a candle. It was the scribe’s custom at the end of the work
period to compose a report to the vizier concerning the tomb’s
progress, whether he asked for one or not. The scribe casually looked
up, inadvertently glancing at Paneb. No unspoken communication was made
between them, no gesture of deference or greeting uttered. Neferhotep
leaned forward and pulled the curtain shut.
The two men
had never
gotten along. It was ironic that now, thanks to the tomb and their high
rank within the Place of Truth, they were bound together closer than
brothers. Paneb admired how Neferhotep never let their current alliance
stand in the way of their mutual disregard.
Hearing his
men’s
footsteps on the tomb’s stairway behind him, Paneb turned to welcome
their paint-splotched forms into the fading light. “Going home to that
pretty wife of yours tonight, eh, Kenna? We won’t be seeing you for a
day or two…. Kofi, get some sleep these next days, you’re looking
tired…. Getting drunk tonight, Hori? Good man…”
Though his
words were
cheerful, Paneb was not. Since the day when his aunt Hetephras was
reported missing, misery had been his only companion. Nothing cheered
him.
Paneb was the
foreman
of Pharaoh’s tomb, a large, solid man of prodigious strength and
mercurial temperament. Though by no means handsome, for his nose was
smashed from fights with other foremen, his presence was mesmerizing.
Paneb’s status in the Place of Truth was
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