Magic of the Nile Read online

  “But what if a response is required?” The scribe wasn’t giving up, apparently driven by curiousity.

  “You know I was taught to read and write hieratic as part of my training for the duties of high priestess. I’m perfectly capable of writing my own response.” Impatience made Tyema’s voice sharper than she’d meant the tone to be. She took a deep, calming breath and smiled. “Tell me about the number of new students enrolling in our school next month, hoping to become fine scribes.” She sat down, trying to find enough support for her aching back as the chair creaked under her.

  “We have fifteen, my lady, from all over the nome. The superiority of our graduates is becoming widely acknowledged.” Jemkhufu consulted his notes and launched into a discussion of the incoming students and the arrangements for them.

  Tyema forced her lips to curve in apparent good humor and nodded at the appropriate points as best she could, finishing the day’s work and finally escaping into the private garden a few hours later. The whole time her fingers itched to pull the private letter out of her pocket and read it. The baby was unusually restless as well, perhaps sensing her own inner turmoil.

  She sat on her favorite bench, under a large acacia tree, next to an unruly bed of chrysanthemums. Taking the scroll out of her pocket and balancing it in one hand, she stared at it for a long moment. Resting the other hand on top of her swollen abdomen, she said, “This is from your father, little one. Do you think he’d write me if he bore me ill will?” It warmed her to think she’d been on Sahure’s mind, wherever he was. “Well, only one way to find out.” She broke the seal with her fingernail, sending little shards of red wax falling to the pavement, and unrolled the scroll. The writing was bold, slashing black hieratic. From Sahure, Captain in Pharaoh’s Own Regiment to Tyema, High Priestess of Sobek in the Ibis Nome, may the gods grant you life, prosperity, health. Now posted by Pharaoh to take command of the Southern Oasis. I think of you often. His personal cartouche was scrawled at the bottom of the papyrus. A bit disappointed, Tyema flipped the scroll over to be sure she hadn’t missed anything. “Not lover-like in the least.” She remembered how proud he was of his station as a warrior. “You never claimed to be a poet, did you, my love?” Shaking her head, she levered herself from the bench. It was frustrating to be so big and awkward. “Still, baby, it’s a tremendous promotion for him. Huge responsibilities.”

  And the dangerous, remote Southern Oasis isn’t a place he’d take a wife to, so maybe he hasn’t gotten married yet. Immediately Tyema took herself to task. It was no business of hers where he went, what he did, who he did it with. She’d refused him for her own compelling reasons and nothing had changed. Glancing at her belly as the baby kicked hard, she laughed. “Well, all right, one thing has changed, even if Sahure remains unaware.” As she walked into her bedroom, her smile faded. Now that I know where he is, I’m going to have to tell him about our child. He deserves to know. Deciding today wasn’t the day for composing a demanding letter, she pushed the thought away. Time to change out of her simple dress into a robe suitable for singing the evening devotions. But first she put the scroll inside her ivory-and-turquoise embellished keepsake chest, pushing the papyrus to the back, under her tattered doll from childhood and the dried red petals from the flower Sahure had placed in her hair.

  ***

  Her older sister Paratiti, who’d been chosen by Sobek years ago to be Tyema’s guardian until she took over the temple, arrived from her home in the village one day late in the eighth month, by prearrangement bringing her daughters and the wives of her sons, as well as a gaggle of girl children. The group ate lunch with Tyema in the temple’s private gardens, laughing and chattering in the shade of towering palms and fragrant acacias. The older ones talked about when their babies had been born, exchanging funny stories and teasing each other. Tyema sat in the midst of her extended family, marveling at what a strange feeling it was to be with them all, but the impending birth of her child gave them common ground. She felt relaxed, unworried, since they were in her home and she was the hostess. In control. The baby moved and kicked just enough to remind her the two of them were in this together, and after all the entire gathering was in Tyema’s honor, organized by Paratiti. Some of the women had brought embroidered swaddling clothes for the baby and there was one big parcel they refused to let her open. It had taken two of them to carry the basket from the donkey cart at the front gate to the garden where the lunch was being held.

  Finally, as the temple servants brought plates of honeyed cakes and figs at the end of the meal, Paratiti gestured at the oversized basket. “Bring the gift now.”

  Her daughters hauled the sturdy container to Tyema, setting it on the ground next to her. Smiling, she said, “I can’t imagine what this might be.” Lifting off the lid, she set it aside and removed the top layer of straw packing. Below the straw she found a fine pair of birthing bricks, smooth, freshly painted in white, with stunning portraits of the goddesses Hathor and Tawaret drawn on the sides in turquoise, gold and red. Protective spells were inked in black hieratic. Tyema sat with a brick in either hand, examining the art.

  “Do you like them? I made the bricks myself,” Paratiti said anxiously. “I said blessings to Hathor as I mixed the mud and straw in the brick-making forms.”

  “And we had the best artisan in the village do the paintings,” Tyema’s favorite niece, Renebti, added. “He wouldn’t take payment since it was for you.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say,” Tyema stammered. “I’m touched.”

  “I hope your god won’t mind, but birthing a child is a female mystery and he isn’t known for involvement with such things. His crocodiles come from eggs after all. We were afraid you wouldn’t have proper bricks here when the time comes.” Paratiti gestured at the temple behind the garden.

  “You do know this isn’t Sobek’s baby?” Tyema asked.

  Her sister patted her on the hand. “No matter whose baby this is, you’ll need all the magic and charms and assistance you can get when the child arrives.” She eyed Tyema’s belly. “You’re so tiny and the baby is so big!”

  The older women laughed conspiratorially. Tears burning in her eyes, Tyema fought not to cry. For the first time ever she felt a part of the family, cherished and cared for. She set the bricks down with care, so as not to risk breaking or chipping them, and turned to Paratiti. Suddenly frightened at what might lie ahead when labor began, Tyema said, “You will come, won’t you? To help me?”

  “Of course, little sister. You don’t even need to ask.” She hugged Tyema hard. “But you’ll be fine. The women in our family give birth easily.”

  ***

  Surveying the neat lines of his temporary camp, humming with activity behind the shield barricade on the seventh night out from Thebes, Sahure was well satisfied with the progress his small army had made since leaving the capital. They’d had few breakdowns of chariots or support wagons, and the logistics staff under the chief military scribe was some of the best in the army. Marnamaret had given him seasoned infantry troops so the pace of the daily march was fast. Sahure sent scouts ranging ahead and always the report was the same— other than local traffic, the great caravan road was empty. An unprecedented and ominous state of affairs.

  Soon he and his three captains would gather around the fire to eat dinner and discuss strategy as they’d done each of the evenings on the march. He’d unroll the great map of the Southern Oasis issued to him by Pharaoh’s archivist and he and his staff would work on designing an approach to counter any eventuality the group could think of. Including the senior sergeants was a good move. Even if they mostly sit by the fire, listening and occasionally offering a suggestion, better they understand the entire picture so they can convey the strategy to the men. Soldiers fight better when they know the bigger picture. And Menkheperr is doing an excellent job as my second in command. He’ll always have my back, has ever since we were cadets together.

  Wheeling on the small hill, he admired the sunset—flamin
g reds and purples heralding the descent of the god Ra into the underworld, only to rise again in the morning. Not much time for personal reflection when marching to battle. Yet sunset reminds me of Tyema without fail, especially the haunting songs she sang to the setting sun, there on Sobek’s private beach. Under his breath he hummed a bit of the song she’d written herself. The more he considered the matter, aside from his own arrogance and ham handedness, the more he came to believe something else had been in play, something he’d been too in love to realize.

  The truth is she does hide herself away in Sobek’s temple complex. I may have teased her about it, but now I know I unwittingly hit on an underlying truth. Her elusive behavior wasn’t just village gossip and it wasn’t required by Sobek. Priestesses mingled with citizens in Thebes, were married, had families—so why was Tyema so reclusive? He didn’t feel she’d been false, or playing a role, but she’d hidden much beneath the serene surface. How often had she told him she was freer to be herself with him than at any other time? The girl learned to drive a chariot, by the gods. He chuckled at the memory.

  But when he reflected over their whirlwind two weeks together, he saw how in nearly every conversation she’d deflected the talk to him and he of course had been only too happy to pour his dreams, plans and hopes into her willing ears. No wonder she was overwhelmed when I casually assumed she’d marry me and move to Thebes.

  She always asked him excellent questions when he talked about his travels or Court life and politics, made good points when they debated some issue or surveyed potential sites for the new port. She had an undeniable grasp of business and administration. Tyema was no figurehead high priestess, propped up by scribes. She was shrewd, with a knack for running the complicated affairs of her temple. So she was beautiful, talented, brave, funny, smart—and somehow he’d lost her.

  When this assignment to the Southern Oasis is over, I’ll return to Ibis Nome and sort this out with her. I can’t imagine what barrier she sees in our way, but my love can withstand anything she might tell me.

  As darkness overtook the glorious sunset, he thought briefly of the girls the queen had named that afternoon in Thebes—Baufratet, his childhood playmate, and Nidiamhet the poetess, both the daughters of old noble families in the capital. Either would be a wonderful asset to an ambitious man trying to rise in the politics of Pharaoh’s Court. Neither holds a candle to my paradoxical little priestess. His heart was given. If I can’t sort things out with Tyema, maybe I’ll go to the Afterlife a bachelor. And my younger brothers will have to ensure the family name carries on.

  “Sir?” Menkheperr stood next to him. “The scout has returned from the Southern Oasis, with news.”

  “Bring him to me at once. And summon the other officers and the senior sergeants.” Pushing aside the personal musings, Sahure descended the hill and went to his small tent. He was unrolling the papyrus map of the Oasis to facilitate a more detailed debriefing from the scout as the men crowded into his tent.

  Wine was brought. Worn and shaking from exhaustion, the scout needed only a single gulp to drain the mug of beer handed to him. “The Oasis is besieged,” he said, wiping his lips.

  A murmur went through the ring of listening warriors.

  “Who dares to attack Pharaoh’s outpost?” Sahure asked, relieved to hear he faced a problem requiring a military solution.

  The scout accepted a second cup of wine from the manservant. “It’s a mixed force, sir. Primarily nomads, a few mercenary warriors from the southern tribes, but also a small troop of Hyksos.”

  Now there was cursing from his audience.

  Sahure clenched his fist on the hilt of his sword. “Hyksos! You’re sure?”

  The scout nodded. “There’s no mistake. I was with Pharaoh in the year he took Thebes from the Usurper Queen and in other battles of the campaign as well. I recognize Hyksos. This is a small detachment, maybe fifteen men.”

  “They’ve probably recruited this tribe of nomads to be their allies, made them extravagant promises,” Sahure told his officers. “It’s the Hyksos style nowadays to get others to fight their battles.”

  “Clever tactic. If the Hyksos can choke off the rich trade from Punt and Kush, Pharaoh’s treasury will be impacted. Which can create a ripple effect to harm Egypt.” Menkheperr took a deep drink of his wine, quizzing the scout, eyes narrowed. “Besieged, you say, not surrendered?”

  The scout shook his head. “The fort is plainly still resisting.” Moving to the table where the map had been set up, he traced the topography for them. “The oasis is basically a large bowl in the desert, ringed with limestone cliffs and canyons. The fort lies here, on a slightly upraised ridge at the entrance to the main portion of the oasis.” He stabbed a finger at the red dot on the chart. “The town is outside the fort and has a few wells, but the majority of the water is deep inside the oasis. The enemy can’t gain access to the water without taking our fort.”

  “I imagine rations are growing short inside the fort,” Sahure said. “Water wouldn’t be a problem for them, but if they were attacked several weeks ago, the stores of rations must be growing thin. They can’t go out to hunt either.”

  “What of the villagers?” Menkheperr asked.

  The scout shook his head. “I saw a few people moving about in the town without hindrance from the invaders. The locals seem to be staying clear of the fight.”

  “The townspeople are the Ta-itjawy, sent by a great Egyptian pharaoh centuries ago to settle this oasis and hold the caravan route. They believe they’re descended from the goddess Sekhmet,” Sahure said. “They’re Egyptians, but through the long years they’ve grown independent minded, more allegiant to their goddess and the local chiefs than to Pharaoh.” He shared his new concern with the circle of his officers. “A high priority challenge once we’ve retaken the oasis is building closer ties to the villagers again. Clearly we need them as allies, not neutral parties who wait out any problem, or worse, who might help the enemy.”

  “Certainly they did nothing to alert Pharaoh,” Menkheperr agreed.

  Nodding, Sahure gave his renewed attention to the scout. “Did you see any caravans?”

  “Massed to the south, sir, in a big camp, loosely guarded by the nomads and mercenaries. The Hyksos didn’t appear to be involved in directly managing the caravans. I’ve never seen so many in one place at one time before. Must be five to ten separate caravans, hundreds of camels and donkeys, all trying to stay as close to the oasis as they can.”

  “What water are they drinking?” Menkheperr said. “Caravans travel from oasis to oasis. They don’t bring their own supply.”

  “The invaders must be giving them rations from one of the small wells outside the oasis proper.” Sahure studied the map for a moment. “Were there any Egyptian-led caravans?”

  “I saw the standards for one or two. “ The scout ticked off a few names of caravan masters, then said, “Ptahnetamun—”

  “Wait,” Sahure stopped his recitation with an upraised hand. “You’re sure Ptahnetamun is one of the stranded caravan masters?” At the scout’s nod, Sahure said, “The gods may have given us an advantage in the game. He and I have mutual friends, so he’s unlikely to betray me to the enemy if I can sneak into his camp. By questioning him, I may learn more about the situation and the odds we’re facing in retaking the oasis.” Sahure nodded to the scout. “You’ve done a good job. Rest, regain your strength, and then tonight you’ll guide me to where the caravans are sequestered. I’ll attempt to contact Ptahnetamun.”

  ***

  Dressed in a plain tunic designed to blend into the brown of the landscape and label him as a common caravan worker rather than a soldier if caught, Sahure followed the scout as they crept the last few yards to overlook the spot where the invaders had interned the caravans. In the moonlight, Sahure could see how the various caravans had made circles of their animals and cargo, close but not mingling.

  “Ptahnetamun’s camped over there, sir.” The scout pointed to the western edg
e of the sprawling area.

  Assessing the odds for success of his plan, Sahure evaluated the terrain between his location and the caravan he was seeking as best he could in the poor light. “Does the enemy patrol regularly?”

  His man shook his head. “I think they rely on the threat of no water to keep the caravans docile until the fort has fallen.”

  “Which probably works.” Sahure checked his belt daggers and issued his final orders. “Wait here. If I don’t return by dawn or am taken, report back to Menkheperr.”

  Barely waiting for the scout’s acknowledgment, Sahure crept down the escarpment and closer to the perimeter of the caravan camp. Taking cover in what sparse brush there was, he circled the area to get closer to Ptahnetamun’s position, evading one half-awake nomad guard with ease. Sneaking between the restive camels and donkeys belonging to the caravan master he was seeking, Sahure crossed the line into the small, packed camp.

  He was immediately accosted by two large caravan workers, blocking his camp with drawn knives and hostile demeanor. “And who might you be?”

  “A friend of your master’s,” Sahure said, not intimidated. “I need to speak with him at once, and quietly.”

  The man who seemed to be in charge eyed him. “You’ve the speech and manner of an Egyptian officer in disguise to me. Deserter from the fort?”

  “None of your business,” Sahure answered, hand on the hilt of one dagger.

  “Don’t waste time, take him to Ptahnetamun,” the other guard urged. “The master’ll get to the truth of this in a hurry.”

  Motioning for Sahure to walk ahead of them, the first man said, “We’ll conduct you to the caravan master as you request and if you’re a deserter, he’ll deal with you quick enough. He hates cowards. Move one hand toward the pretty knife in your belt and you’ll die, whoever you are.”

  “I’m not here to assassinate Ptahnetamun.” Sahure set a path to the tent the men indicated. “He’d already be dead and none of you would be the wiser if I had been, although your sentinels are more observant than the enemy’s, I’ll grant you.”