“Yes. We must return. But, little sister …”
“Yes?”
“You have a personal slave? One who can taste your food?”
“Yes.”
“Eat nothing that has not been tasted,” he warned me.
“But I … but I am only a child,” I said.
“A child who bears the blood royal,” he reminded me.
“And there is still Amenmose,” I argued, “and … and you.”
“But there are power-hungry men in Egypt who would love nothing better than to rule over the land. We do not know for sure – do we? – why Wadjmose died. Should the Pharaoh – the gods forbid it – pass into the Afterlife soon, all of his children might need to have a care.” His dark eyes were very serious.
“I see,” I said in a small voice. I had seen no more than seven risings of the Nile that day, yet it was the end of innocence for me.
I mourned my brother the Crown Prince. But I began to entertain a secret dream. I dared to dream of greatness.
It was the songs of the blind bard, coupled with Inet’s tales, that gave form and direction to my dream.
He came to the harem palace when I had seen nine risings of the Nile. It was the first time that I was allowed to attend a formal banquet where the King my father presided, instead of being sent to the children’s dining room with the rest of the palace children.
I wore a simple white linen shift and a little string of blue glass beads, but Inet had refused to let me line my eyes with black kohl and paint the lids with green malachite. There would be time enough for that later, she said. Yet she had tied a wax perfume cone on top of my head just like the other ladies had and I felt very grown-up. During the course of the evening it melted gradually, keeping me cool and scented with myrrh.
It was hot and noisy in the dining hall. I was given a gilded, richly decorated chair to sit on, just like the rest of the adults and their guests, a deputation from Syria who had brought tribute and gifts and all manner of things to barter.
The dinner went on and on. Female servants kept bringing more dishes piled high with delicacies, piping hot from the kitchen, where (I knew because I loved to go there) the chief cook sweated and shouted and swore and threw things at his minions. At the tables, though, all was decorous. I enjoyed the tender veal and the freshly baked wheat cakes, dripping with honey, and I had a slice of sweet melon afterwards. Naturally the adults ate far more – joints of roast beef studded with garlic, fat roasted ducks stuffed with herbs, rich goose livers pounded to a paste, steamed green beans, lentils and carrots, fig puree, cheese and dates. And of course, plenty of wine that had been cooled in earthenware jars. How could people eat and drink so much, I wondered.
I remember all these things so clearly because it was the first time, but also and mainly because of the blind bard. He was a member of a group of musicians, most of whom were girls; they played on double pipes and lutes and shook tambourines; the smallest rhythmically thumped a drum and several were expert at clicking the menat. But the bard, whose bald head shone in the lamplight like polished cedarwood and whose eyes gleamed milky white like pearls, played on a small portable harp and his music could have charmed the dead out of their tombs.
His first song was merry to begin with, ending, however, on a plaintive note. His fingers on the strings were gnarled, but the sound was like water over rocks, like the wind in the trees.
“Weave chains of blooms to give to your beloved,
Rejoice, rejoice in the days of youth.
Be happy, breathe in sweet scents.
Keep your loved one ever near,
Do not stop the music,
Do not stop the dance,
Bid farewell to all care!
Pick delights like flowers in the fields.
For soon, too soon the time will come
When to that land of silence
You and your love will both be gone.”
The bearded Syrians in their gaudy robes were becoming very merry and did not take kindly to the sad, haunting quality of the last lines. “Give us a song of great deeds,” their leader shouted, banging on the table with his fist.
“Aye,” chorused his fellows, who had already looked deep into the wine jar. “A song of great deeds!”
The blind bard inclined his head, swept his knotted fingers deftly across the singing strings, and said, in his deep voice: “I sing The Song of the Godlike Ruler.”
The rowdy Syrians cheered. Soon the power of his music had charmed them into stillness, and they listened even as I did.
“Hearken to the Song of the Godlike Ruler.
His Majesty came forth as the Avenger.
For the enemies of Ma’at were many
And the Black Land suffered, aye it suffered much.
His Majesty came forth as the Destroyer.
He smote the adversaries of righteousness,
He washed in their blood,
He bathed in their gore.
He cut off their heads like ducks.”
This was far more to the taste of the Syrians, who cheered and then settled down again.
“His Majesty drove back the fiends of Seth.
He triumphed over all the foul fiends.
Aye, he was victorious over his foes.
He fixed his southern boundary-stone,
He fixed his northern one like heaven,
He governed unto the eastern deserts.”
Now the rest of the musicians joined in, in a swelling chorus.
“His Majesty came forth as Atum.
He crushed iniquity.
He repaired what he had found ruined.
He restored the boundaries of the towns.
He rebuilt the temples of the gods.
His Majesty restored Ma’at,
And all the people praised him.”
A trumpet sounded a clarion call above the singing strings and the flutes. Cymbals clashed.
“Aye, His Majesty was a godlike ruler.
He came forth as Atum.
He held the Black Land in his hands,
He held it safe.
He triumphed over evil.
He was a shining one clothed in power.
And all the people praised him.”
There were more songs that night and much carousing – and drunkenness, I have no doubt. But Inet came to take me away before things became too rowdy and I did not protest. I lay in my bed, on my sheets of fine linen over a mattress stuffed with lambswool, and I kept hearing the thrilling words of the blind bard:
“Aye, His Majesty was a godlike ruler.
He came forth as Atum.”
How wonderful, I thought, to be a godlike ruler. As indeed my father the great Pharaoh was. How wonderful to hold the Black Land in one’s hands. To hold it safe, to triumph over evil. And to be loved by all, and praised:
“He was a shining one clothed in power.
And all the people praised him.”
A shining one clothed