her beautiful face inches from its teeth, and freed it from the wire snare which was wound around its leg. The dog had been wild with terror and pain, snarling and struggling, but under her hands it had lain quite still, even when she unwound the wire and hurt it afresh. The leg had never recovered, but the mastiff had been devoted to Nefertiti ever since, though it bit everyone else.
She was probably right about the devotion of the King. But men, I had heard, were more cruel than beasts, taking pleasure in pain, and who knew what gave a eunuch pleasure?
I resolved to ask, and to watch. I would know.
Ptah-hotep
To whom can I speak today?
I am heavy-laden with trouble
I have no friend of my heart.
To whom can I speak today?
Gentleness has withered
And violence rules the world.
To whom can I speak today?
Faces are averted
No man trusts his brother.
‘What are you reading, Lord?’ asked Meryt.
I let the papyrus roll up. ‘It is called The Man Who Was Tired of Life,’ I said.
She looked worried. ‘You haven’t had time to get tired,’ she chided. ‘And if you despair, your enemies will rejoice, for they would have no need to stain their hands with murder.’
‘True. And you would not have my enemies pleased?’
‘No, Lord, I would rather watch their hopes wither down to a forgotten grave,’ she said, a serious curse. ‘The Master of Scribes is here to see you, Master.’
‘Send him in, bar the door, and serve wine,’ I said hurriedly.
I had lived in the house of Ammemmes, Master of Scribes, for many years, and thought I knew him well; ancient, testy, his garment always spotted with ink and his eyes peering, short-sighted from construing ancient writings. He hobbled into my office now faster than I had ever seen him move and was about to sink to the floor to kiss my sandal when I caught him by the arm and led him to a chair.
Nothing was going to stop him, however, from conducting the proper verbal forms of address to a Great Royal Scribe. He rattled through my titles like a sistra in the hands of a musician from Hathor’s temple.
‘Humble greetings to the Great Royal Scribe, Whose Hand Moves as the Favourite of Re Akhnamen Lord of the Two Lands Keeper of All Secrets To Whom No Heart Is Hidden Marvellous in Wisdom Whose Heart is the King’s Ptah-hotep,’ he said, all in one breath. ‘How are you, boy? I rejoice to see you still breathing.’
‘I almost succumbed to a fatal accident with a scorpion,’ I replied. ‘My food is now tasted and I am about to appoint a staff of scribes who owe their positions to me.’
He gave me a shrewd look from his reddened eyes.
‘Pharaoh’s choice, though it seemed random, may have been better than he knew, my pupil. Now, give me some wine, and we will talk. Outside this room, you are the Great Royal Scribe. Inside, you are my pupil, Ptah-hotep, a young man forced into an intolerable situation who has a claim on my advice—if the Great Royal Scribe should desire it.’
‘Master, I am…’ I was touched almost to tears. He patted my hand briskly. Meryt came with my best vessels and poured wine. She sipped from both cups, swallowed, and nodded. Thereafter Ammemmes tasted it approvingly.
‘Zythos Tashery vintage, if I’m not mistaken, from the vineyards to the south. In the year 12?’
I consulted the terracotta label on the amphora and nodded. He was quite right.
‘Keep it for the most honoured of visitors,’ he advised. ‘You have acquired one slave already, I see.’
‘This is Meryt,’ I introduced her. She dropped to her knees as was proper, but her eyes were directed at the Master of Scribes, as was not proper. He returned her gaze evenly. They were examining one another, the Nubian woman and the elderly scribe. Meryt had put on the new clothes I had ordered for her. Her printed cloth was knotted beneath her breasts in approved fashion, and her wild hair was plaited under a beaded cap. But she was still Meryt whose ancestors were hunters and warriors, and she was
She was probably right about the devotion of the King. But men, I had heard, were more cruel than beasts, taking pleasure in pain, and who knew what gave a eunuch pleasure?
I resolved to ask, and to watch. I would know.
Ptah-hotep
To whom can I speak today?
I am heavy-laden with trouble
I have no friend of my heart.
To whom can I speak today?
Gentleness has withered
And violence rules the world.
To whom can I speak today?
Faces are averted
No man trusts his brother.
‘What are you reading, Lord?’ asked Meryt.
I let the papyrus roll up. ‘It is called The Man Who Was Tired of Life,’ I said.
She looked worried. ‘You haven’t had time to get tired,’ she chided. ‘And if you despair, your enemies will rejoice, for they would have no need to stain their hands with murder.’
‘True. And you would not have my enemies pleased?’
‘No, Lord, I would rather watch their hopes wither down to a forgotten grave,’ she said, a serious curse. ‘The Master of Scribes is here to see you, Master.’
‘Send him in, bar the door, and serve wine,’ I said hurriedly.
I had lived in the house of Ammemmes, Master of Scribes, for many years, and thought I knew him well; ancient, testy, his garment always spotted with ink and his eyes peering, short-sighted from construing ancient writings. He hobbled into my office now faster than I had ever seen him move and was about to sink to the floor to kiss my sandal when I caught him by the arm and led him to a chair.
Nothing was going to stop him, however, from conducting the proper verbal forms of address to a Great Royal Scribe. He rattled through my titles like a sistra in the hands of a musician from Hathor’s temple.
‘Humble greetings to the Great Royal Scribe, Whose Hand Moves as the Favourite of Re Akhnamen Lord of the Two Lands Keeper of All Secrets To Whom No Heart Is Hidden Marvellous in Wisdom Whose Heart is the King’s Ptah-hotep,’ he said, all in one breath. ‘How are you, boy? I rejoice to see you still breathing.’
‘I almost succumbed to a fatal accident with a scorpion,’ I replied. ‘My food is now tasted and I am about to appoint a staff of scribes who owe their positions to me.’
He gave me a shrewd look from his reddened eyes.
‘Pharaoh’s choice, though it seemed random, may have been better than he knew, my pupil. Now, give me some wine, and we will talk. Outside this room, you are the Great Royal Scribe. Inside, you are my pupil, Ptah-hotep, a young man forced into an intolerable situation who has a claim on my advice—if the Great Royal Scribe should desire it.’
‘Master, I am…’ I was touched almost to tears. He patted my hand briskly. Meryt came with my best vessels and poured wine. She sipped from both cups, swallowed, and nodded. Thereafter Ammemmes tasted it approvingly.
‘Zythos Tashery vintage, if I’m not mistaken, from the vineyards to the south. In the year 12?’
I consulted the terracotta label on the amphora and nodded. He was quite right.
‘Keep it for the most honoured of visitors,’ he advised. ‘You have acquired one slave already, I see.’
‘This is Meryt,’ I introduced her. She dropped to her knees as was proper, but her eyes were directed at the Master of Scribes, as was not proper. He returned her gaze evenly. They were examining one another, the Nubian woman and the elderly scribe. Meryt had put on the new clothes I had ordered for her. Her printed cloth was knotted beneath her breasts in approved fashion, and her wild hair was plaited under a beaded cap. But she was still Meryt whose ancestors were hunters and warriors, and she was
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