'I and my family are in the Queen's hand,' replied Tey conventionally.
The plump woman shifted in her chair, cradling her burden. 'Yes, you are,' she agreed. 'So do not beat your little questioner, Great Royal Nurse Tey. It is never wise to beat children for exhibiting intelligence.'
'As the Queen says,' responded my mother through gritted teeth.
I walked behind her out of the Royal Bedchamber, thinking hard. A companion? I had been torn away from my friends when we had moved into the palace, and there were few children of my own age in the marble halls of Amenhotep may he live. And although I could read and write at least as well as my sister, my father had not considered that women needed much education, and had recalled his scribe to his other duties after we had mastered letters and numbers in the ordinary script enough to keep our household accounts, and understand recipes and prayers.
Father's scribe had been the old man Ani, a stern greyish man in a linen cloth with ink stains on his clever fingers. He had kept his eyes averted from us. I expected that a Royal Scribe would be sterner and older, and hoped that he would not hit me and my new companion if we made mistakes, as Ani had.
Running to keep up with my mother as she walked briskly down the corridor of tribute bearers, I did not ask questions. I had escaped one beating by divine favour, and I did not want to press my luck.
And the problem of the impotence of the Son of Egypt had not been addressed. Instant compliance, as recommended by the Queen, would not make an impotent King potent.
It never occurred to me that it was not my problem. I was intent on a solution. I could only think of one, and had already dismissed it as impossible.
When we were back in our own quarters, my mother not only did not beat me, but gave me a quick, fierce hug. My face was pushed into her breast and my cheek dented by her elaborate pectoral. I was eye to eye with a vulture, but Tey hugged me so seldom that I was resolved to enjoy it.
'Little questioner,' she held me out at arm's length and smiled at me. 'Tey's true daughter! Always one to ask the question that is on every tongue and to which no one dares to give voice...I wonder what will become of you?'
'Will you marry me to an old man who will beat me?' I asked slyly, and Tey laughed again and replied, trying to look stern, 'It might at least curb your inquisitiveness. You did well, daughter. For now we know, and otherwise she might not have told us.'
'About Akhnamen may he live,' I said.
'About him, yes. I had not heard about his... temper, 'Nodjme, had you?'
'No, Lady,' I replied honestly. 'They say that he is vague and gentle and lazy, that he sleeps a lot, that he is impulsive and pays no attention to right conduct or precedence. No one said that he is cruel, not where I heard them, or that he has tantrums.'
'Hush! That should not be said, daughter, not outside our home. Nefertiti, are you determined to stay with your husband?'
'Yes, Lady,' said my sister.
'Even though he may be dangerous?'
'He will not be dangerous to me,' said Nefertiti.
I had heard that tone before. Just so had she spoken before she had knelt down before a mastiff, 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 not abashed in the presence of the Master of Scribes. He was as different from the slave as possible; male, scholarly, sharp; but the look which they both directed at me before they considered each other again was identical; a slightly exasperated affection, which I did not deserve. Meryt I had taken from her position and placed in danger of her life. The Master of Scribes would now share her peril.
When Ammemmes spoke it was clear that some sort of agreement had been reached without need of words. He laid one veined hand on Meryt's decorated head in token of approval and asked 'Well, maiden, do you approve of your change in fortunes?'
'Yes,