Out of the Black Land (5 page)

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, lord,’ she said in her strong, liquid voice. ‘The Great Royal Scribe honours this humble person with his trust.’

‘He must be guarded and protected, Meryt the Nubian, for his foes ring him around like an embattled lion.’

‘Lord, they will have my life first,’ declared Meryt.

‘And mine,’ said Ammemmes in his precise scholar’s tone.

I did not know what to say. Meryt, making up her mind, kissed Ammemmes’ ringed hand, and he patted her cheek. Then she got up and poured more wine.

‘Now, Ptah-hotep, what advice do you require?’

I was suddenly flooded by a strong sense of my own bottomless ignorance.

‘Master, I haven’t paid any attention to the situation of the Court. I know nothing. Tell me anything and it will add to my knowledge.’

‘Hmm. Well, you have been appointed to a situation far above your merits by the co-regent Akhnamen, whose motives are obscure. He is Heir to Amenhotep the third may he live and that King, though robust, is over fifty and must die. Then the Heir will rule alone, an alarming prospect. You must consolidate your position while Amenhotep may he live forever is alive. As Akhnamen’s appointee you cannot directly consult the King, which is a pity, because he is justly famed for his wisdom. The only other Heir is the Lady Sitamen, who is healthy a woman, it is said, but has not borne a child; and the Great Royal Wife is pregnant and due to deliver, if Isis is kind, soon.

‘Medical opinion says that the co-regent is not expected to live a long life, but that does not solve our immediate problem. The person who was expecting the appointment may have sent you the scorpion; he must be curbed, you cannot spend all your life watching your back. Even your admirable Nubian must sleep sometimes.

‘You sent Kheperren away, boy, that took courage and I am proud of you. That should preserve his life. Now, who should you appoint as your second in command?’ He thought about it, drank some more wine, and stared absently at the papyrus heads painted around the cup.

‘Who is the least favourite scribe in the palace?’ I asked. Ammemmes was silent for a moment, then barked a short laugh.

‘Mentu, by the crocodiles of Sobek, Mentu is the perfect choice!’ He laughed again. ‘Mentu belongs to one of the best families, a relative of the co-regent Akhnamen’s new wife Nefertiti; a cousin, I believe, of Divine Father Ay. Mentu trained as a scribe after a fashion. He is boisterous, lazy and incompetent and Akhnamen finds him vastly attractive, being everything that Pharaoh is not. Mentu wishes to do nothing except race chariots and drink in the houses of ill repute by the river. No one can speak against his appointment, because Lord Akhnamen favours him. No one would want him to succeed, because he is immoral and stupid. Excellent. If you cannot have an efficient and devoted second, Ptah-hotep, there is a lot to be said for an idiot who pickled whatever brains he was born with in lowbgeh palm wine years ago.’ Ammemmes rubbed his dry palms together with a whispering sound.

‘I will appoint him immediately,’ I said. I was beginning to feel a little better. I began to think that I might live out the day.

‘Now, as to the staff—I think that you may as well have boys. You’ll need a sensible man to watch over them, but most of your work could be done by anyone who can add, subtract, and write a fair hand. You don’t want to be overawed, Ptah-hotep, in fact you cannot afford to have anyone with a lot more experience than you have yourself. What do you say to Khety? He is a commoner, though he shows no peasant good sense. He is skilled enough, in fact he was due to leave before Opet to go back to his father and become scribe on his estate, and I know that he was unhappy at the prospect. His father is a dreadful bully.’

I remembered Khety, a pleasant boy with an excellent memory. He was always in trouble for day-dreaming, but he told wonderful tales as we lay in the shade at noon. I nodded and called for a writing board. Meryt brought it with a speed which suggested that she had heard every word of my Master’s discourse.

‘Mentu and Khety,’ I wrote on a scrap of pumiced papyrus.

‘Hanufer, I know he’s not a bright cheerful boy but he’s determined and he’s thorough.’ I nodded and wrote down the name. I did not see much scope for cheer in my present situation. Hanufer’s stolid solemnity would suit my office.

‘And the supervisor?’ I asked.

‘Great Royal Scribe, you may command all of my men,’ said my Master. ‘Who would find favour in your eyes?’

‘I need someone who understands politics,’ I said, taking a sip of the wine—it was delicious, I noticed. Tashery was an excellent vineyard. And, as I now recalled, it was mine.

‘Not Snefru, then, he is interested in nothing except ancient scripts. Let’s see, it’s Ephipi now, isn’t it—that’s why it is so foully hot—but in seven days Hathor goes to Horus and we have the festival of Apis. Bakhenmut might be your man and he’ll be back from Memphis after the bull-sacrifice. He is a priest of Osiris, not allied to the priesthood of Amen-Re, which might be useful. He’s shrewd and no gossip. Also he is married with three children and an ambitious wife.’

‘And that is good?’

‘An ambitious wife will be pleased by his ascension and she will know that he owes his position to you. That means you will have an advocate in his household.’

‘Ah,’ I agreed, having not thought about this before.

‘Remember the Divine Amenhotep’s sayings, my pupil.
The wise man educates the ignorant to wisdom and those who are hated become those who are loved,
’ said my Master.

‘
He brings to shore him who had no profitable voyage. He who was famine-struck is the possessor of harbours,
’
I rejoined. ‘Whatever that means.’

‘One must always meditate on the sayings,’ said Ammemmes, ‘then their meaning will become clear.

‘Though you will doubtless understand this message which I was bidden to give you by a young scribe who left this morning with the soldier Horemheb. He did not dare write anything, but said that I should bid you to remember a hut in the reeds, and a dog called Wolf.

I blinked back tears, suddenly possessed of memory; Kheperren’s hands, his soft breathing, the way his eyelashes lay fanned on his cheek.

The Master of Scribes coughed, sipped more wine, and remarked, ‘I reminded this young man of his duty to write to me, his master, of his progress. I recalled to him his apprenticeship in my house, and told him that I expected a report every decan.
Those he loves he favours; he dries their tears
,’ he quoted.

‘I suggest that you send Hanufer to me at intervals—shall we say, a decan or so?—as he is still my pupil, and he may carry such messages as the Great Royal Scribe sees fit to send to the Master of Scribes. And such as that humble official may be required to send in dutiful reply.’

He did not look at me or smile but I felt that a great weight had been lifted from my heart. I could know of my dearest one, could even communicate with him, without bringing him into any more danger than he would face ranging out along the borders with the guard.

‘I will send the boys as soon as I return. Your office will, of course, be responsible for their board, and a suitable payment will be made to the Master of Scribes for the trouble of beating knowledge into a new collection of illiterate dirty boys.’

‘For yourself, Master? I have great wealth, it appears.’

‘For myself? A grant for the school for the acquisition of old manuscripts that will please Snefru’s heart. And you could order the sacred lake cleared of weed.’

‘I could do that,’ I agreed, wondering how.

‘Now, with your leave, I must go. I will instruct your staff suitably, and you will send news to Mentu of the honour of his appointment. Farewell, Ptah-hotep.’ He kissed me in familiar fashion, then knelt before I could forestall him and kissed my sandal, whispering something to my ankles. His voice was urgent and soft, so that I had to strain my ears to catch it.

‘Ptah-hotep, beware of the High Priest of Amen-Re. He will call for you soon. Tread as carefully with him as if you were walking barefoot through a field of serpents. He’s the most powerful man in the kingdom.’ My Master then rose, with Meryt’s assistance, and left.

I sank down on the floor, cross legged, to write out the appointments for the names he had given me. But before I began, I wrote a draft on my Tashery vineyard for one hundred jars of the best vintage to be sent every year to Ammemmes, Master of Scribes in the Residence of the Pharaoh at Thebes in the 28th year of the reign of Amenhotep III and the first of his co-regent Akhnamen, Lords of the Lands of Upper and Lower Egypt, Shining in Thebes, Enduring in Kingship, Establishers of Laws, Lords of Strength and Mighty of Valour, may they live.