Read Online City of the Dead by T. L. Higley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. L. Higley
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The smoothness of his voice testified to many years of soothing Khufu’s tempers.
Tamit leaned against me. “Ebo is like a loyal pet, is he not? A faithful greyhound at the foot of his master.”
Pharaoh sighed at Ebo but returned to his seat, then raised a smiling face. “It is a night for laughter!” he shouted. He leaned forward, past the few that separated us. “My wife has not yet arrived,” he called down the table, too loudly. “Hemi, have you seen Merit?”
Those between us quieted, as if the question held hidden meaning.
I blinked several times, then scanned the room. “I too look forward to the queen’s arrival, my king. Perhaps she is taking extra care to beautify herself for you.”
There was another moment of silent tension, then Khufu’s smile reemerged and he turned away.
I straightened the serving pieces on the table before me, then glanced at Tamit, whose eyes flashed with something more than the wine she had imbibed.
Merit’s absence wasn’t the only one I had noted. Somewhere at the head table there should have been a seat for Mentu. Already it had been filled by the next one eager for favor.
As if reading my thoughts, Tamit said, “Frightful business about Mentu.”
I nodded and studied a torch stuck in the wall.
“But the living must go on living,” she said brightly.
And you must go on talking. “Some of us are not so willing to forget.”
“Oh? It seems to me that you have not missed a step in your never-ending project.”
I turned on her, letting her feel the heat of my stare. “Mentu is not forgotten, and justice for him will be found.”
Tamit’s smile slipped a bit, and she fingered the gold collar at her throat. Her discomfort fled a moment later, replaced by a wink and smirk. “But not tonight, my Hemi.” She lifted a gold cup of wine. “Tonight, we celebrate!”
A storyteller appeared, an ancient little man, with hair that had been allowed to whiten and blind eyes. He lifted his voice, accompanied by a steady beat of sticks from the side of the hall.
“In the beginning there was water, only water.” His sing-song cadence brought the room to attention. He told of the eight gods in the primordial waters, then the ninth, Atum, rising from the water on the mound, the predecessor of the pyramid. On through Atum’s children, Shu and Tefnut—air and moisture. And their children,Geb and Nut—earth and sky. As he neared the apex of the story, the room grew silent, save the beating sticks.
“Four children issued forth from Geb and Nut. Isis and Osiris became husband and wife. Their brother Seth was evil, and Nephthys became his wife. Then Isis and Osiris came to earth to establish Egypt. But Seth plotted against them.” He told of Seth’s trickery, how he had nailed Osiris in a wooden chest and threw him into the Nile to die. Later, when Isis recovered his body, Seth hacked it into thirteen pieces and scattered it. Isis found nearly all the pieces, reassembled Osiris, and fashioned artificial parts so he would be whole. She returned him to life, the first to be resurrected and, now, god of the dead.
“And what of Seth?” the little man asked.
The people hissed.
“It is left to the son of Isis and Osiris to defeat him!”
The crowd knew their part. “Horus! Horus!”
The storyteller bowed deep to Khufu, our Horus on Earth. “Protector of the People!” he shouted, and the crowd cheered.
The festival continued in a blur of food and dance. I chose figs and grapes, beef and goose, jugs of beer and honey-sweet cakes as they passed by on platters. The harem danced again, and the hum of conversation rose in proportion with the wine that flowed, until the ribbons floated on a smoky haze and the music of flute and harp and lyre seemed to clash into one frenzied note.
I needed air. I shoved away from the table, then twisted through the crowded Great Hall. Outside, I welcomed the silent chill of the desert night and moved into the shadows of the palace garden.
Tamit leaned against me. “Ebo is like a loyal pet, is he not? A faithful greyhound at the foot of his master.”
Pharaoh sighed at Ebo but returned to his seat, then raised a smiling face. “It is a night for laughter!” he shouted. He leaned forward, past the few that separated us. “My wife has not yet arrived,” he called down the table, too loudly. “Hemi, have you seen Merit?”
Those between us quieted, as if the question held hidden meaning.
I blinked several times, then scanned the room. “I too look forward to the queen’s arrival, my king. Perhaps she is taking extra care to beautify herself for you.”
There was another moment of silent tension, then Khufu’s smile reemerged and he turned away.
I straightened the serving pieces on the table before me, then glanced at Tamit, whose eyes flashed with something more than the wine she had imbibed.
Merit’s absence wasn’t the only one I had noted. Somewhere at the head table there should have been a seat for Mentu. Already it had been filled by the next one eager for favor.
As if reading my thoughts, Tamit said, “Frightful business about Mentu.”
I nodded and studied a torch stuck in the wall.
“But the living must go on living,” she said brightly.
And you must go on talking. “Some of us are not so willing to forget.”
“Oh? It seems to me that you have not missed a step in your never-ending project.”
I turned on her, letting her feel the heat of my stare. “Mentu is not forgotten, and justice for him will be found.”
Tamit’s smile slipped a bit, and she fingered the gold collar at her throat. Her discomfort fled a moment later, replaced by a wink and smirk. “But not tonight, my Hemi.” She lifted a gold cup of wine. “Tonight, we celebrate!”
A storyteller appeared, an ancient little man, with hair that had been allowed to whiten and blind eyes. He lifted his voice, accompanied by a steady beat of sticks from the side of the hall.
“In the beginning there was water, only water.” His sing-song cadence brought the room to attention. He told of the eight gods in the primordial waters, then the ninth, Atum, rising from the water on the mound, the predecessor of the pyramid. On through Atum’s children, Shu and Tefnut—air and moisture. And their children,Geb and Nut—earth and sky. As he neared the apex of the story, the room grew silent, save the beating sticks.
“Four children issued forth from Geb and Nut. Isis and Osiris became husband and wife. Their brother Seth was evil, and Nephthys became his wife. Then Isis and Osiris came to earth to establish Egypt. But Seth plotted against them.” He told of Seth’s trickery, how he had nailed Osiris in a wooden chest and threw him into the Nile to die. Later, when Isis recovered his body, Seth hacked it into thirteen pieces and scattered it. Isis found nearly all the pieces, reassembled Osiris, and fashioned artificial parts so he would be whole. She returned him to life, the first to be resurrected and, now, god of the dead.
“And what of Seth?” the little man asked.
The people hissed.
“It is left to the son of Isis and Osiris to defeat him!”
The crowd knew their part. “Horus! Horus!”
The storyteller bowed deep to Khufu, our Horus on Earth. “Protector of the People!” he shouted, and the crowd cheered.
The festival continued in a blur of food and dance. I chose figs and grapes, beef and goose, jugs of beer and honey-sweet cakes as they passed by on platters. The harem danced again, and the hum of conversation rose in proportion with the wine that flowed, until the ribbons floated on a smoky haze and the music of flute and harp and lyre seemed to clash into one frenzied note.
I needed air. I shoved away from the table, then twisted through the crowded Great Hall. Outside, I welcomed the silent chill of the desert night and moved into the shadows of the palace garden.
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