larger fire burned on an altar, with hefty joints of oxen smoking at its center.
Rashidi dipped his bare hands into the bowl of gore and lifted dripping fingers. I looked into the flames, letting them burn away the image. The gods demanded my sacrifice, but did they insist that I enjoy the ritual? Rashidi tossed my offering to the flames, then intoned words too dark and deep for me to understand. I felt the weight of omen descend through the temple and settle on my shoulders.
Rashidi stared into the flames and spoke in flattened tones, as if reading my heart there in the embers. “You care only for your own goal, your own name, Hemiunu. You avoid what is necessary, what is important, to further your own ambition.”
I shifted and considered that it was time to leave.
“Only when you turn your back on your own ambition,” he continued, “and do what you know to be right, will the goddess Ma’at restore her blessing.”
Ashes from the charred meat clawed their way upward through the smoke-filled chamber. Some landed on my lips, and I thought I could taste the blackened flesh. Smoke burned my eyes.
“I must concentrate on the pyramid,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck.
Rashidi’s eyes reflected the firelight as he gazed at me, tiny double flames that seemed lit from within. “You must sacrifice yourself to bring justice.” His voice was like the hiss of a serpent in the fiery chamber, but then he lifted it to a surprising volume and delivered his prophecy like a hound baying at a feral scent. “Sacrifice yourself, Hemiunu! Or there will be more suffering, more pain, more disorder!”
I chose to leave the temple now, feeling that I had fulfilled my duties of sacrifice and had done all I could for the gods for one night.
As I crossed under the granite lintel, past the two mighty columns, and stumbled onto the sandy plateau, Rashidi’s voice seemed to echo behind me, over me, and out across the valley below. Like an ox-hide drum, calling men to judgment.
FIVE
Sacrifice yourself, Hemiunu! Or there will be more suffering, more pain, more disorder!
Throughout the next day and into the evening I found myself looking over my shoulder in anticipation of the next disaster. I drove the men hard to make up yesterday’s slack, but we were forced to quit early, as it was the Day of Accession and the king’s yearly festival would begin in late afternoon with a procession from palace to temple.
I stood at attention outside the palace entrance, with thousands of others who thronged the road to the temple. Khufu emerged on his gilded sedan chair, carried on poles by four brawny slaves. He wore the double crown, red and white, and inclined his head gently toward his people, while a fan bearer on either side kept him cool in spite of this tremendous effort. I occupied my mind with calculations and a frustrated reassessment of schedules based on the recent shortened workdays, the tension of the numbers creeping up my back and shoulders.
When Khufu had made his obeisance to the gods and been deposited back at the Great House, I departed to my own moremodest home to get ready for the feast which would begin at sunset.
My preparations were simple. I shaved my face and head quickly, then placed my shaving knives in an even line from smallest to largest as is my habit. I ignored the usual cosmetics and jewelry, except for a gold armband to circle the midpoint of my upper arm, and donned a white robe with a gold belt. I would leave my staff behind. Though I was careful about my routine, I did not particularly care to spend much time in my house. An empty treasury, still waiting to be filled.
My haste to the Great House did not stem from excitement over the feast. These evenings of pomp and supposed hilarity never reached into my heart with their fingers of glee. And there were far too many of them. Before the Great Hall had grown cold from tonight’s celebration, the Festival of Hapi would be upon us, with games of skill
Rashidi dipped his bare hands into the bowl of gore and lifted dripping fingers. I looked into the flames, letting them burn away the image. The gods demanded my sacrifice, but did they insist that I enjoy the ritual? Rashidi tossed my offering to the flames, then intoned words too dark and deep for me to understand. I felt the weight of omen descend through the temple and settle on my shoulders.
Rashidi stared into the flames and spoke in flattened tones, as if reading my heart there in the embers. “You care only for your own goal, your own name, Hemiunu. You avoid what is necessary, what is important, to further your own ambition.”
I shifted and considered that it was time to leave.
“Only when you turn your back on your own ambition,” he continued, “and do what you know to be right, will the goddess Ma’at restore her blessing.”
Ashes from the charred meat clawed their way upward through the smoke-filled chamber. Some landed on my lips, and I thought I could taste the blackened flesh. Smoke burned my eyes.
“I must concentrate on the pyramid,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck.
Rashidi’s eyes reflected the firelight as he gazed at me, tiny double flames that seemed lit from within. “You must sacrifice yourself to bring justice.” His voice was like the hiss of a serpent in the fiery chamber, but then he lifted it to a surprising volume and delivered his prophecy like a hound baying at a feral scent. “Sacrifice yourself, Hemiunu! Or there will be more suffering, more pain, more disorder!”
I chose to leave the temple now, feeling that I had fulfilled my duties of sacrifice and had done all I could for the gods for one night.
As I crossed under the granite lintel, past the two mighty columns, and stumbled onto the sandy plateau, Rashidi’s voice seemed to echo behind me, over me, and out across the valley below. Like an ox-hide drum, calling men to judgment.
FIVE
Sacrifice yourself, Hemiunu! Or there will be more suffering, more pain, more disorder!
Throughout the next day and into the evening I found myself looking over my shoulder in anticipation of the next disaster. I drove the men hard to make up yesterday’s slack, but we were forced to quit early, as it was the Day of Accession and the king’s yearly festival would begin in late afternoon with a procession from palace to temple.
I stood at attention outside the palace entrance, with thousands of others who thronged the road to the temple. Khufu emerged on his gilded sedan chair, carried on poles by four brawny slaves. He wore the double crown, red and white, and inclined his head gently toward his people, while a fan bearer on either side kept him cool in spite of this tremendous effort. I occupied my mind with calculations and a frustrated reassessment of schedules based on the recent shortened workdays, the tension of the numbers creeping up my back and shoulders.
When Khufu had made his obeisance to the gods and been deposited back at the Great House, I departed to my own moremodest home to get ready for the feast which would begin at sunset.
My preparations were simple. I shaved my face and head quickly, then placed my shaving knives in an even line from smallest to largest as is my habit. I ignored the usual cosmetics and jewelry, except for a gold armband to circle the midpoint of my upper arm, and donned a white robe with a gold belt. I would leave my staff behind. Though I was careful about my routine, I did not particularly care to spend much time in my house. An empty treasury, still waiting to be filled.
My haste to the Great House did not stem from excitement over the feast. These evenings of pomp and supposed hilarity never reached into my heart with their fingers of glee. And there were far too many of them. Before the Great Hall had grown cold from tonight’s celebration, the Festival of Hapi would be upon us, with games of skill
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