Authors: Pauline Gedge
“Keep reading.” I obeyed.
“One hundred and sixty-nine towns in Egypt, Cush and Syria. For Amun seventy thousand talents of gold and two million talents of silver a year. One hundred and eighty-five thousand sacks of grain a year.” The list was short. Kaha gestured but I did not let the scroll roll closed. I reread the figures silently.
“What do you think you have just recited?” Kaha asked. I shrugged.
“It is an inventory of some kind, and seeing that the Great Cackler Amun is mentioned I presume these are his … his tributes.” The sheer size of the numbers shocked me. Kaha flicked his whisk irritably at the flies gathering around the water jug.
“You are right. This is a list of all possessions of the gods in Egypt. Listen carefully, Thu. I am going to give you some figures, and when I have finished you are to take up the palette and write them down as you remember them.” I took a deep breath and prepared to concentrate. These memory exercises were often difficult and at such times I resented Kaha’s blithe ability to recount seemingly innumerable numbers without hesitation. “One person in every fifty in Egypt is temple property,” he began distinctly. “One hundred and seven thousand slaves. Of that number, Amun of Thebes owns eighty-six thousand five hundred. That is seven times the number owned by Ra. Say it back to me.” I did so, not yet allowing myself to think, only alert to take in and remember what he said. “Good,” he went on. “Of the three-quarters of a million arouras of temple land, Amun owns five hundred and eighty-three thousand. This is five times as much as Ra who owns one hundred and eight thousand arouras at On, and over nine times as much as Ptah at Abydos. Of the half a million head of cattle, Amun owns four hundred and twenty-one thousand, in five herds.” I closed my eyes, repeating the figures feverishly to myself. “Of the eighty-eight ships, Amun has eighty-three. Of the fifty-three workshops and shipyards Amun has forty-six. In Syria, Cush and Egypt, of the one hundred and sixty-nine towns owned by the gods, Amun has fifty-six. In Syria and Cush he has nine. He is the only god to own towns outside Egypt. Ra has one hundred and three towns. Are you lost?” I opened my eyes and smiled at him, but there was a small twinge of anxiety in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the task.
“You forgot groves and gardens,” I pointed out triumphantly. “Of the five hundred and thirteen temple groves and gardens, how many belong to Amun?” He did not return my smile.
“Four hundred and thirty-three, impudent one,” he said. “Now give it back to me.”
To my amazement and, I think, to his surprise, I went through the exercise without one slip. It was as though his voice had sent the information flying straight to niches in my brain that had been formed and waiting for them. “Holy Isis,” I whispered. “The wealth! Seventy thousand talents of gold! And the silver, Kaha! Ten million six hundred thousand deben! I can’t …”
“One deben of silver will buy enough food to keep nine people alive for a year,” he said bluntly. “At Pharaoh’s last tax census the population of Egypt stood at five million three hundred thousand. Amun’s yearly tribute of silver would buy food for the whole of this country for nineteen years. He has seventeen times more silver, twenty-one times more copper, seven times more cattle, nine times more wine, and ten times more ships than any other god.” His tone was neutral and he was watching me steadily. The twinge in my belly was becoming an ache.
“Amun is a mighty God,” I said, whether in agreement or argument I did not know. “You have taught me that many hentis ago when Egypt was in the hands of barbarian invaders, Amun strengthened the hand of the great Osiris One Prince Sekhenenra of Thebes, and with the god’s help he drove out the Hyksos and gave the country back to its own people. In love and gratitude the Prince lifted Amun to become Egypt’s greatest God. He is deserving of our offerings.” I was thinking of Aswat’s beloved Wepwawet, and how the people would come on the god’s feast days with gifts for him, whatever they could afford. Flowers and freshly baked bread, pigeons, reverently woven linen, sometimes even a whole ox, and the men would each give his time in ploughing, sowing and reaping the little plot of land that belonged to the god.
“Of course he is,” Kaha agreed, but I was sure I heard sarcasm in his voice. “But is not Pharaoh the Horus of Gold, Incarnation of the God on earth? Does he not merit our offerings also, and the offerings of the priests who are surely his servants also, because of his divinity?” I did not know where this conversation was going but I was uneasy. I did not want to hear what Kaha was about to say, as though I had some intimation that yet another layer of my innocence was about to be stripped away.
“I suppose so,” I agreed cautiously. “Surely Pharaoh is himself a God.”
“Then why are the temples exempt from taxation? Why is the state of the royal treasury a scandal and a shame to every Egyptian who loves and respects his King? I have another history lesson for you, Thu. Listen well, and do not forget the numbers you have heard and recited today for they are a disgrace to this blessed country.” He spoke without force, without anger, yet with an intensity that trembled between us like a heat haze in the desert. “Pharaoh is entitled to one-tenth of all grain crops and animals from government land, from dues and monopolies, and from requisitions. But he may not touch the vast wealth of the gods. From this one-tenth he must support civil officials and the secular administration of Egypt. He must pay the army. He must support his households and his harems. And he must continually placate the servants of the gods, whose greed is insatiable and whose power is now almost absolute.” He had laid aside his whisk and had folded his hands in his white lap. His fingers were perfectly relaxed.
“I do not understand,” I broke in. “He is Amun on earth. He is the Horus of the Horizon, glorious in his majesty. He is the arbiter and upholder of Ma’at in Egypt, the embodiment of justice, truth and rightness in the universe. If Ma’at has become unbalanced he must set it right. This does not mean that he, a God himself, should do other gods a disservice.”
“He cannot set it right,” Kaha objected calmly. “After the time of the Good God Sekhenenra came strong kings who ruled with the wisdom and mercy and power of the gods. They worshipped Amun. Year after year they showed their gratitude to him by pouring riches into his coffers. But the prerogative of appointing his priests they retained to themselves, for they knew that though the God was perfect his servants were not. Thus they achieved harmony in Egypt, the harmony of Ma’at, temple and palace working together for the good of Egypt, with Pharaoh at the pinnacle, answering only to the God himself. But now Pharaoh must answer to the God’s servants, and they are arrogant and corrupt. They care nothing for Amun or for Pharaoh. They grow fat. Pharaoh can no longer appoint High Priests, for the office is passed from father to son, as though serving in the temple were a career instead of a responsibility. Other priests of lesser gods give their daughters in marriage to the priests of Amun, and so a net has been woven, Thu. The High Priest of Amun now rules all other priests everywhere. He also rules Pharaoh.”
I was shocked and very confused. Father had taught Pa-ari and me to regard Pharaoh as nothing less than a God on earth, all-powerful, all-wise, all-seeing, on whose word the Nile rose and fell, the preserver of Ma’at. The servants of the gods were also all-wise, custodians of Egypt’s health, men whose first duty was to enable Pharaoh to carry out the dictates of the gods and to do him homage as the living embodiment of all they held sacred. Pharaoh’s word was law, his breath brought warmth and plenty to Egypt. “Why does Pharaoh not dismiss the High Priests, all the greedy ones, and appoint persons more worthy?” I wanted to know. A sadness was welling up in me and I wanted to cry.
“He cannot,” Kaha said shortly. “They are richer than he, more closely knit than the officials of his administration, more able to influence those around him than he is himself. They even control the paying of the artisans who work on his tomb.”
“But what about the army?” I was thinking of my own father’s unswerving loyalty to Pharaoh. “Why can he not summon his generals and have the priests deposed by force?”
“Because an army must be paid, and to pay the army Pharaoh must often ask the priests for the means. Besides, the Egyptian army is now made up of many thousands of foreigners and mercenaries. If they are not paid they will not obey orders. If the priests approve of a royal project, the building of a temple, say, or a voyage to Punt or a trading expedition, they will give Pharaoh their permission. If not, well, he cannot afford their censure. Last year a new calendar of Feasts was inscribed on the walls of Pharaoh’s new temple at Medinet Habu. There is now a Feast Day for Amun every three days, as well as the customary days of observance. No one works on those days, Thu. It was a stupid decree and I would like to believe that Ramses had no choice in the matter.” He rose and I rose with him. I felt heavy and ungainly. “For our next history lesson I want you to ponder what I have told you and then give me your thoughts on what you would do to restore Ma’at to Egypt. Go now.” I bowed clumsily and walked away dazed, as though he had drugged my beer with poppy.
I could not drive Kaha’s figures from my mind. With an effort I moved through the remainder of my rigidly ordered day, strolling with Disenk, dining in my room with a formality that was fast becoming habit, taking a music lesson from Hui’s lute player who always became impatient with me because of my left-handedness. I tried to tell myself that Kaha could be wrong, that his interpretation of the situation between the Good God and the priests was one man’s opinion, but the sadness grew like grey smoke inside me, curling about my heart, stinging in my belly, its fumes filling my brain.
I grieved for the innocence of my parents, the trusting ignorance of the villagers who believed in the omnipotence of Pharaoh and who knew that whatever was wrong, the Mighty Bull would put it right. Could it be that Pharaoh’s divinity was a lie, that he was as weak, no, weaker than other men? I shied away from that consideration as from an open flame. I had been taught that the holy Uraeus, the rearing cobra on the Double Crown, would spit venom at anyone who tried to harm the King. Why did not Wazt, Lady of Spells, Defender of Kings, shower these venal priests with her righteous poison? Had Amun overcome her power, rendered her helpless?
I lay on my couch that night unable to sleep. Peaceful shadows painted the walls of my room. The sheets were cool and soft. No sounds drifted on the motionless air. The harmony of darkness and rest was complete. I began to cry, the tears slipping quietly across my temple to soak the pillow beneath. I did not know why I cried but my ka knew. It was for the crumbling of illusion, the destruction of a fond reality whose colours and contours had been dearly familiar to me from the time of my birth. That reality was a lie. Or was it? It had not been a lie in Egypt’s past. Surely it was possible somehow to restore true Ma’at, restore Pharaoh’s omnipotence and divinity, restore right worship … I put both hands over my mouth and the tears came faster. The sweet fantasies of my childhood could not be restored. They were gone, shredded and blown away in the strong wind of Kaha’s words. I was bereft.
The spending of my emotion did not bring exhaustion. Gradually the tears ceased to flow. I wiped my face on the sheet, reflecting half-hysterically how distressed Disenk would be if she knew that I had removed the skin treatment she so assiduously applied each evening, and tried to still my mind but could not. My eyes burned. My body was tense. In the end I rose, and wrapping a linen cloak over my sleeping shift I went out into the passage.
Disenk came awake at once, for as I stepped over her my robe brushed her face. She sat up. “What is wrong, Thu?” she whispered, no trace of drowsiness in her voice. “Are you ill?” She was an efficient watchdog.
“No,” I hissed back. “I cannot sleep and I thought I might walk about the house for a while.” She was on her feet in a trice.
“I will accompany you.” She groped on the floor for her own cloak but I gripped her arm.
“No! Please, Disenk! Just for once let me be alone. I promise you I will not go outside.” She was shaking her head even before I had finished speaking.
“It is not allowed,” she said firmly, anxiously. “I would be punished. Go back to bed and I will bring you a soothing drink.”
It was like trying to force my way through a papyrus thicket. The soft fronds swayed and gave but the stems were stiff, seeming to yield but snapping back as soon as my hand left them. I wanted to shake her. For answer I turned and strode away down the corridor. She gave a small bleat of protest and I heard her light footsteps pattering behind me.
The stairs descended into gloom. I took them absently, passed the Chief Steward’s empty table, and entered the passage that ran transversely to the reception hall. At the end of it a faint yellow light wavered over the polished floor. He was still at work in his office. Without bothering to tell Disenk what I intended I approached the door and knocked. Behind me she gave a low exclamation but it was too late. The door was opening.
“Forgive me, Harshira, but I need to talk to you,” I said swiftly, before Disenk could address him. He looked very tired. The skin around his eyes sagged and his shaven skull was slick with sweat. He wore only a rumpled kilt and his sandals. But if I had thought to catch him off guard I was mistaken. His gaze sharpened, slipped to Disenk, then back to me. One imperious hand waved the body servant to the floor. The other beckoned me inside. I obeyed and the door was shut.
It was not surprising that his light had not filtered up to me, for the mat had been down over my window and the only illumination in this room came from a small alabaster lamp on the desk. The rest was in deep shadow. Harshira lumbered to his chair and indicated that I might sit also. I did. We faced each other across the littered desk. His features, lit feebly from below and to the side, were like something out of a demon dream, the black eyes sunk in sockets made even more prominent by the exaggerated hollows below, the mountainous cheeks no longer smooth but a nightmare landscape of planes and valleys that slid into new forms as the tiny flame danced in its stone cup. I suppose I looked no better. For some time he regarded me, then he sighed, and pouring wine from the jug at his elbow he pushed the goblet across to me.