Seer of Egypt (14 page)

“They’re a scruffy-looking lot, Huy,” Anhur commented. “You didn’t say so, but I presume you’re trying to find a replacement for the Lady Ishat. Why don’t you ask the Mayor for help? Or even the Governor?”

Huy turned to him. “Because I must have a scribe who owes his allegiance to me alone,” he said heavily. “Most of my staff were hired for me by Mery-neith. Are any of them spies for him or for the Governor? Or for Pharaoh himself?”

Anhur cocked an eye at him. “One or two of them, perhaps. What else would you expect? Pharaoh is your patron. His gold supports you, me, all of us on your estate. It’s only natural that he should want to make sure he’s not wasting the Royal Treasury.” He waved dismissively at the quiet group ahead. “Choose from them? Well, how? Take hold of them one at a time and expect the god to show you what to do?” He shook his leather-clad head vigorously to forestall Huy’s furious response. “I do not disrespect the god or your gift! I point out that you mustn’t be tempted to make a decision in that way and risk the god’s displeasure.”

“I was not so tempted!” Huy hissed. “And don’t tell me what I must or must not do! I know more of the god’s mind than you!”

Anhur was not upset. He merely shrugged and hefted his sword belt. “I speak my mind, Huy. You know my affection for you. I warmed to you when we were both stranded at Thoth’s temple while you pored over that Book, and I had to protect you when your old classmate wanted to give you a punch on the jaw. Now, can we at least get out of the sun?”

Huy was laughing. “Sennefer, the boy who sent me plunging into Ra’s public lake with his throwing stick. Well, let us approach these scribes and see what we can find.”

Several pairs of expectant eyes swivelled towards them as they approached the group. There was a stir. Palettes were lifted. The men would not cry their proficiency as common stall keepers shouted their wares, Huy knew. Their status forbade it. But the anxious straightening of their spines, the tense, almost imperceptible inclination of their bodies to meet him, was a silent plea. Only one of them seemed indifferent. He was sitting apart from the others, his palette still on the ground beside his hip. He had glanced at Huy and Anhur and then away, his face unreadable within a large piece of coarse linen that shaded his features and neck. The hem of his long, thick shirt had been lifted and laid across his knees, held in place by his folded arms, and he was slumped forward, hands loosely drooping. Huy was intrigued by the very impassiveness of his attitude.

Ignoring the group, he made his way to the thin sliver of shadow in which the man sat, glancing at the palette as he came to a halt. It was resting on a rectangle of linen much cleaner than the man’s stained and smudged clothes. A clay bowl in which another small scrap of linen floated sat beside it, and at once Huy knew that the water was both for wiping the constantly accumulating dust from the surface of the palette and for mixing ink, should it be required.
A good scribe takes care of the tools of his trade,
he thought approvingly.
This man may be poor, but he values the dignity of his calling.
He waited, but the head did not move. At last, annoyed, he said, “Scribe, are you for hire, or have you written so many letters today that you are too tired to even acknowledge yet another customer?”

The man stirred but still did not look up. “I am sure that you will be better served by one of my fellows, over there,” the scribe said, gesturing slightly in the direction of the others. “Few patrons trust their words to a woman.” The voice was cool, polite, and definitely female.

Huy stepped backward in surprise. Anhur grunted.

“On the contrary, my present scribe is a woman,” Huy said. “May I speak with you?”

Now the chin rose, and Huy found himself staring down at a small brown face and two dark, alert eyes without a trace of kohl. The short nose was slightly uptilted, giving the girl—for this was no mature woman—an air of arrogance Huy doubted. Arrogance would not have caused the long fingers to clench suddenly in what was surely apprehension before being deliberately uncurled. He waited while the eyes flicked over him and then moved on to briefly scan Anhur.

“If you already have a scribe in your household, then you are not here to dictate, unless she is ill,” the self-possessed voice pointed out. “And even so, a man of your station does not come into the market in person.” Both hands rose, pulling the linen more firmly around her cheeks so that her face was hidden. “I am occasionally mistaken for a whore,” she went on, and now Huy heard hesitancy in the low tones. Her accent held none of the harshness of a peasant’s cadence, nor did it hold the cultured softness of the nobility and their servants. It was as anonymous, Huy decided, as the faceless thousands who inhabited the region in between. “If you have come looking for such a service, I must disappoint you. If you have no work for me, please let me alone so that I might be available to someone else.”

Huy was tempted to laugh. Only the most desperate man could possibly lust after this ragged creature with her thick, voluminous linens and unpainted features. But as he looked down on her, the impulse died. There was a certain rather touching vulnerability beneath the defiant words that made him warm to her.

“Perhaps I do require a dictation taken,” he said, squatting beside her. “Perhaps I want to see just how good a scribe you are.”

For answer, she lifted her palette and, setting it across her knees, laid a hand protectively over it. From what Huy could see, it was very plain but for two long grooves intended to hold her brushes, one in use and one spare, and the hollow for an ink pot. But the wood was highly polished and the palette well made, the edges sharp and true, the small drawers under the writing surface fitting perfectly into the whole.

“Forgive me, but I would like a small payment first as evidence of your good faith,” she replied. “Otherwise I may not be able to fill my belly tonight.” She glanced at him sideways, then froze. Huy saw her eyes narrow. “I think I know who you are.” She swallowed, and the fingers lying on her palette trembled. “You are the Seer Huy son of Hapu, aren’t you? What do you want of me?” There was real fear in her voice. Her gaze went from Huy to Anhur’s intimidating bulk beside him.

“I want you to take a dictation before I and my captain fry in this heat.” Opening the pouch on his belt, Huy drew out a piece of gold. “Now, will you prepare your papyrus or not?”

The girl shook her head and the loose linen hood fell back, revealing a short cap of dusty, dark brown hair swept behind two tiny ears. “Master, unless you intend to dictate to me for the rest of the day, you are paying too much,” she pointed out warily. “And if you are simply dispensing charity, I do not need it.”

Anhur, who had begun to shuffle his feet and breathe increasingly heavily, burst out, “Oh, for Thoth’s sake take the gold and do what the Master demands, you stupid girl! Unless, of course, you have chests full of it in whatever slum you inhabit and you simply sit here because you enjoy burning with thirst. As I am,” he finished irritably.

The girl gave him a level stare, then she nodded, took the gold, and, opening one of the drawers in her palette, removed a sheet of papyrus and a well-worn burnisher before putting the piece of glinting metal inside. Huy sank off his heels onto the ground and watched her deft movements as she briskly scraped the papyrus smooth, got out her ink and expertly added water, mixed the black powder, set the pot in its cavity on the palette, and, pulling open another long drawer, retrieved two brushes. Both had seen better days. Her lips moved in the traditional prayer to Thoth, god of the written word—dry lips, Huy noted, as dry and rough as the skin of the fingers that had touched his as she took the gold.

“I am ready,” she said.

“Begin. ‘The tribute of the chiefs of Rethennu: the daughter of a chief with ornaments of purple gold, lapis lazuli of this country, 30 slaves belonging to her; 65 male and female slaves of his tribute; 103 horses; 5 chariots wrought with gold, with axles of gold, 5 chariots wrought with electrum, total 10; 45 bullocks and calves; 749 bulls; 5,703 small cattle; flat dishes of gold, which could not be weighed; flat dishes of silver and fragments making 104 deben, 5 kidet; a gold horn inlaid with lapis lazuli; a bronze corselet inlaid with gold; 823 jars of incense; 1,718 jars of honeyed wine; much two-coloured ivory, carob wood, mery wood, many bundles of firewood, all the luxuries of this country gathered to every place of His Majesty’s circuit, where the tent was pitched.’” He had deliberately recited quickly, watching the girl, alert for any hesitation, but she wrote steadily, pausing only to dip her brush swiftly into the ink before continuing. “Now take another sheet of papyrus and copy in formal hieroglyphs what you have written in hieratic,” he ordered.

Calmly she did so, her nervousness gone, her attention fully absorbed by the work. Only once did she stop, and then it was to wipe the sweat from her palms onto her shirt. When she had finished, Huy held out a hand and she passed the sheets to him. He scanned them carefully. Her writing was a trifle cramped and untidy, in order to conserve papyrus, Huy surmised, but her spelling was faultless and she had not dropped one word or figure. “Do you know what you have just inscribed?” he asked, testing her.

She grimaced. “No, Master,” she said hesitantly. “You did not tell me to be aware of the meaning. A scribe does not consider the meaning unless asked to do so.”

“Very good. Read now and then tell me what I said.”

Her head went down over the paper, one finger straying to a strand of hair that had crept across her temple. Absently she pushed it back behind her ear and her palm remained pressed there, an unconscious and well-worn habit, Huy supposed. When she had finished and he had removed the work, she clasped her hands together and closed her eyes, reciting haltingly the list he had quoted. Halfway through it, she stopped. Her shoulders rose towards her ears and stayed there.

“I am sorry, but I can remember no more,” she told him. “No one has requested such a thing since I was at school. The townspeople who come to me only want their letters written or other letters read to them.” Slowly her shoulders relaxed. “I know that memorizing is a skill a master or mistress would require. I have neither.”

Huy looked up at a resigned Anhur. “Tell her what I quoted.”

“It’s a list of tribute Osiris Thothmes the Third collected in year twenty-four of his reign during his second campaign in Rethennu and beyond,” he replied promptly. “It’s incised into one of his great monuments. Your friend Assistant Governor Thothmes would have been able to recite it all, Master, and more besides. He is a fervent admirer of our present pharaoh’s father.”

Huy smiled. “So he is. We are almost ready to leave, Anhur, and I’m sure I am quite safe here. Go and find my litter-bearers.”

Anhur bowed. “Good!” he said, and strode away.

Huy turned back to the girl. “What is your name?”

“Thothhotep.” She said it loudly.

“Thothhotep? But that’s a man’s name. Did the priests choose it for you?”

“No. Only the rich can afford to pay for a name that is chosen by the totem of one’s town.” She flushed, the colour creeping faintly under the sun-darkened skin of her neck. “My father had wanted a son. I am his fourth daughter. He named me.”

“And did he send you to school? Where did you study? Where are you from?”

“My father is a sailor and shipbuilder in Nekheb, far to the south, beyond Weset. Nekheb has always been known for its fine ships,” she said defensively, and Huy made a brusque gesture.

“I know much about the history of your town, and its totem the goddess Nekhbet, the Lady of Dread who sits above Pharaoh’s forehead with the Lady of Flame. I am hot and dry and uncomfortable, perched here in the dirt. Please be brief.” It was another test, but she was not aware that he was trying to force an equally irritable and certainly unprofessional outburst from her.

“One of my cousins does duty in Nekhbet’s temple, as a scribe,” she explained diffidently. “His father, my mother’s brother, being Assistant Overseer of His Majesty’s Docks, was able to send him to the temple school. He is literate. He insisted that I take lessons from him. He said that because I am the fourth daughter, my chances of making a good marriage will be slim and I needed a trade.” She gave Huy an apologetic smile. “I did not want to study with him, but he pressed my father for permission to teach me, and Father did not object. I don’t think he cared very much, seeing that my sex at my birth had disappointed him.” She began to tidy away her utensils, swirling her brushes in the basin of water beside her, tipping the remaining ink into the sandy grass and wiping out the pot, putting everything away in the drawers as she spoke. “My cousin wanted a marriage contract with me when I turned fifteen, last Khoiak. My father agreed to it, but I did not. I ran away to Weset and sat in one of the marketplaces there, but too many scribes much more proficient than I were plying their brushes, and besides, my father found me and tried to make me go home. He is a good man, and did not beat me for running away.” Setting her palette back on its square of cloth, she draped her shirt over her knees once more, her eyes straying past Huy to the noisy crowds milling about the stalls. “When he saw that I was making an attempt to earn my own living, he gave me his blessing, with some relief, I think, and left me. Since then I have worked in every town between here and Weset. I earn enough for papyrus and food,” she finished almost harshly,
as though,
Huy mused,
I might accuse her of something.
“Now, if I have acquitted myself to your satisfaction, Master, do you require anything else from me?”

Huy stood up. It seemed to him that he had made his decision before he had heard her voice or known her sex. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anhur and his soldiers approaching, carrying the litter.

“I want you to serve in my household as my personal scribe,” he said. “My own scribe is leaving me in two months. That will be enough time for her to train you, and for me to confirm your suitability. No other tasks will be required of you,” he added, seeing the question forming on her mouth as she swung towards him, startled. “Your needs will be met, and I promise not to turn you into a toad or a lizard if you displease me.”