piece must be the undersheet.
Cleopatra hesitated, then plucked at one sheet. “I suppose we can figure it out.”
Iras snatched it from her. “We are not sunk so low as that! If it is necessity, let us make a pride of it. No one will touch your things except for us. Charmian and I can perfectly well learn to serve you as well as anyone. Better.” She grabbed up a load of linens and started sorting them out.
I followed. The long thin ones must be the curtains for Cleopatra’s window. I had seen the rod and clips in her room. By dragging the table over, I could stand on it and fix the curtains in the clips. I sweated and swore, balancing on the table, wishing I were taller, while Iras made up the bed.
Cleopatra hovered about, picking up one thing and then another. At last she said, a little sadly, “I have never thought of you as slaves.”
Tears filled my eyes, and I came down off the table and threw my arms around her. She bent her face against my shoulder. “I want to go home,” she whispered.
After a moment, Iras came and put her arms around us both, her long braided hair against my neck. “So do I,” she said.
“We’ll be the best handmaidens anyone has ever seen,” I said, a tear running down my nose and splashing on my sister’s shoulder. “There will never have been a princess in the world waited on like you. People will be amazed by us. You’ll see.”
T HUS WE BEGAN a new life. Each day Cleopatra rose at dawn to begin the Morning Offices with the temple’s acolytes. Male and female alike, they tended the statues in the sanctuaries, flinging wide the doors and sweetening the air with incense, bathing the statues of Bastet and all who shared Her temple, the statues of Nepthys and Horus in the side chapels, the old-fashioned statue of Isis Pelagia raised by Ramses III long ago in gratitude for his victory over the Sea People.
The morning hymns were sung. Iras and I were expected to join the others in the Inner Court and sing, and to join the temple servants in bringing the ritual meals to be blessed, that the gods might break their fast—bread and honey, melons dripping with moisture, fresh-drawn milk, fish or olives, and sometimes the flesh of a duck or a kid that had been dedicated for sacrifice. We carried them in all solemnity to the doors of the sanctuary or chapel, and handed them to the priests who waited within.
Since this was the Temple of Bastet, we were usually joined by a throng of Her sacred animals. Each morning, twenty or thirty cats would appear, ambling out of the shadows or flashing down from the rooftops, twining around our ankles adding their song to ours. Meowing, they leaped onto the altars. The milk and fish and duck did not last long, though they turned up their noses at the honey. Some of them, smaller kittens who could not yet jump up to the main altars, waited mewing on the floor while their mothers claimed a choice bit of duck entrails for them and dragged it down.
Needless to say, after the Morning Offices were completed, the next thing was to mop and clean the chapels entirely, getting the remains of the meal off the floor. Every last spot of blood and milk and honey must be scrubbed away by the temple servants, which in this case included Iras and me, while the Adoratrice, the priests, and Cleopatra retired to the dining room for their own breakfast, the Morning Offices having taken some two and a half hours after the sun rose. I hated this part of it, for the main statue of Bastet was not the common kind where she is shown as a smooth, sleek cat, but rather a seated queen with a cat’s head, the pediment completely covered with incised carving, perfect for getting tiny bits into where they should have to be scrubbed out.
When the temple and chapels were sparkling, the dining hall was cleared of the priests’ breakfast and the tables were laid again for ours. By this time the sun was high, and my stomach was invariably growling. The food was good and plain,
Cleopatra hesitated, then plucked at one sheet. “I suppose we can figure it out.”
Iras snatched it from her. “We are not sunk so low as that! If it is necessity, let us make a pride of it. No one will touch your things except for us. Charmian and I can perfectly well learn to serve you as well as anyone. Better.” She grabbed up a load of linens and started sorting them out.
I followed. The long thin ones must be the curtains for Cleopatra’s window. I had seen the rod and clips in her room. By dragging the table over, I could stand on it and fix the curtains in the clips. I sweated and swore, balancing on the table, wishing I were taller, while Iras made up the bed.
Cleopatra hovered about, picking up one thing and then another. At last she said, a little sadly, “I have never thought of you as slaves.”
Tears filled my eyes, and I came down off the table and threw my arms around her. She bent her face against my shoulder. “I want to go home,” she whispered.
After a moment, Iras came and put her arms around us both, her long braided hair against my neck. “So do I,” she said.
“We’ll be the best handmaidens anyone has ever seen,” I said, a tear running down my nose and splashing on my sister’s shoulder. “There will never have been a princess in the world waited on like you. People will be amazed by us. You’ll see.”
T HUS WE BEGAN a new life. Each day Cleopatra rose at dawn to begin the Morning Offices with the temple’s acolytes. Male and female alike, they tended the statues in the sanctuaries, flinging wide the doors and sweetening the air with incense, bathing the statues of Bastet and all who shared Her temple, the statues of Nepthys and Horus in the side chapels, the old-fashioned statue of Isis Pelagia raised by Ramses III long ago in gratitude for his victory over the Sea People.
The morning hymns were sung. Iras and I were expected to join the others in the Inner Court and sing, and to join the temple servants in bringing the ritual meals to be blessed, that the gods might break their fast—bread and honey, melons dripping with moisture, fresh-drawn milk, fish or olives, and sometimes the flesh of a duck or a kid that had been dedicated for sacrifice. We carried them in all solemnity to the doors of the sanctuary or chapel, and handed them to the priests who waited within.
Since this was the Temple of Bastet, we were usually joined by a throng of Her sacred animals. Each morning, twenty or thirty cats would appear, ambling out of the shadows or flashing down from the rooftops, twining around our ankles adding their song to ours. Meowing, they leaped onto the altars. The milk and fish and duck did not last long, though they turned up their noses at the honey. Some of them, smaller kittens who could not yet jump up to the main altars, waited mewing on the floor while their mothers claimed a choice bit of duck entrails for them and dragged it down.
Needless to say, after the Morning Offices were completed, the next thing was to mop and clean the chapels entirely, getting the remains of the meal off the floor. Every last spot of blood and milk and honey must be scrubbed away by the temple servants, which in this case included Iras and me, while the Adoratrice, the priests, and Cleopatra retired to the dining room for their own breakfast, the Morning Offices having taken some two and a half hours after the sun rose. I hated this part of it, for the main statue of Bastet was not the common kind where she is shown as a smooth, sleek cat, but rather a seated queen with a cat’s head, the pediment completely covered with incised carving, perfect for getting tiny bits into where they should have to be scrubbed out.
When the temple and chapels were sparkling, the dining hall was cleared of the priests’ breakfast and the tables were laid again for ours. By this time the sun was high, and my stomach was invariably growling. The food was good and plain,
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