Orphan of the Sun (2 page)

She stood up and brushed herself down, inspecting her bare brown skin for injuries under the dust. These days, her tussles with Baki were sure to leave her with some. Her right thigh and shoulder were smarting – there were new grazes where they had scraped across the rough surface of the roof. She ran lightly down the steps back into the courtyard and poured some water from one of the water jars on to her hands. She splashed it over her grazes, giving a little gasp as she felt them sting.

‘What have you been doing to yourself, Meryt?' chided a voice. It was Naunakht, Senmut's mother. She came into the courtyard and sat down at the linen loom, which stood in one corner. ‘Not fighting with Baki again, I hope.'

‘No, Nauna,' lied Meryt. ‘I tripped on the roof. It's nothing.'

Meryt reached for a rough piece of linen and hurriedly dried herself off. She had no desire to be quizzed by Naunakht. She felt uneasy around the older woman, sensing that Nauna resented her presence in
the household; after all, she even resented Tia, and was forever complaining about her daughter-in-law. So it was more than likely that she fuelled her son's desire to get Meryt out of the house. Nauna probably knew all about Ramose and his proposal; she might even have put him up to it. Before the older woman could say any more, Meryt fled through the house, out on to the street.

Senmut's house was situated on the main street, which led from north to south for almost the entire length of the village. Meryt walked south, past the rows of whitewashed houses, then followed the street as it zigzagged south-west. She came to a house that was slightly larger than most of the others, and knocked. The red door was open to allow the air to circulate in the heat, and Meryt peered in while she waited. The front room was empty, but she could hear the murmur of voices further into the shady mud-brick building.

‘Dedi!' she called. ‘Are you there?'

A beautiful girl appeared and beckoned Meryt inside. Meryt slipped through the door and followed Dedi through the remaining rooms of the house. She nodded a greeting to the three women who sat surrounded by a gaggle of children in the middle room. They were deep in discussion and barely noticed her, so she carried on after Dedi until they reached the courtyard and sunlight once more.

‘We'll go up on to the roof,' said Dedi. ‘I'm keeping out of the way at the moment.'

‘Why?' asked Meryt curiously, as they climbed the steps to the roof. ‘What's going on?'

‘Our neighbour's newborn is dying,' explained Dedi. ‘They are discussing how to save him. My mother thinks it's a curse. All three of Tanefru's children have died before their first birthday. She thinks that the goddess Sekhmet is plaguing the household.'

At the mention of Sekhmet, Meryt-Re shivered slightly. Her uncle Senmut's words were still very fresh.
They say you are under the power of Sekhmet …
Then she pushed the thought to one side. It was all too easy to blame Sekhmet whenever events turned sour. The fearsome goddess was not of their village but of Men Nefer, far to the north, and Meryt's instincts told her that the reasons for things often lay closer to home.

‘Tanefru should make an offering to Tawaret,' she said. ‘She is there to help the newborn and their mothers. Surely it's more useful to call upon the gods who love us and wish us well than to talk of Sekhmet's curses.'

Dedi looked at her friend strangely. ‘You sound like Teti,' she commented. ‘That's the sort of thing she'd say.'

Meryt felt confused at this, and said nothing. The day's events were becoming difficult to fathom. There was the proposal from Ramose. There was Senmut's reminder that her reputation was becoming a danger. And now, her best friend was saying that she sounded like Teti, the village
rekhet
, the Knowing One.

The two girls sat down on a piece of reed matting in the shade, and Meryt decided to change the subject. ‘Is your lyre up here?' she asked. ‘May I play it for a while?'

Dedi shook her head. ‘It's down in the storeroom,' she said. ‘But I'll fetch it for you. I'll get the sistrum too.'

She scrambled to her feet and disappeared down the steps, leaving Meryt to stare out over the rooftops until she returned. She surveyed the scene. The afternoon heat was just past its peak; the sunlight was mellowing slightly, losing its harsh glare. On the neighbouring roofs, goats and sheep still lay in the shade, their sides fluttering in and out. Smoke from bread-baking ovens rose up in thin plumes in between the houses, then drifted away to the east. Two roofs away, there was a woman breastfeeding a young baby, and a toddler staggering around under her watchful eye, his naked skin golden brown in the sun. Meryt sighed, and stretched herself out on her stomach, waiting for Dedi to return.

Meryt loved and envied her friend Dedi in equal measure. They had known each other for years; they had met as small children, for Dedi's mother often bought the fine, soft linen woven by Tia. Then, they had just been two village girls, playing in the sun; it was only as they had grown older that their differences had become more apparent. Dedi was stunningly beautiful, and delighted everyone who looked at her – especially the young men, who
whispered among themselves about her up on the rocks above the village. She was also the only daughter of Nebnufer, one of the two foremen in the Great Place. The foremen were chosen by the king's vizier himself and, as such, they were the most powerful men in the village.

Because of all this, Dedi's future was bright. She would soon be marrying Neben-Maat, the son of Sennedjem, the second foreman, and her status would then allow her to become a musician in the village temple-chapels. Her mother Wab already held this position, as befitted a foreman's wife, and had given her daughter instruments to practise on as she grew up. It was these that Dedi brought up the steps now. Meryt sat up as she approached.

‘You took your time,' she said, with a smile.

‘I was listening to the women. They are still at it,' said Dedi. She sat down and handed Meryt the lyre, laying the rattle-like sistrum across her own knees. ‘They are talking about calling Teti, but also Harmose, the doctor. Tanefru's sister thinks they should call either one or the other but not both, for fear they should disagree. The others are trying to change her mind.'

‘They might as well forget Harmose. He is useless with young children,' commented Meryt. ‘He cares only about the men who work in the Great Place.'

Dedi smiled. ‘Well, that's what he's paid for.'

‘What is the child's problem?' asked Meryt. ‘Is it fever?'

‘He seems to have no will to live,' replied Dedi, with a shrug. ‘He has barely taken his mother's milk. He cannot live long like that.'

‘No,' agreed Meryt. She looked thoughtful. ‘I think that sometimes the gods wish it that way. They summon a child to the Next World before he can become too attached to this one.'

A look of apprehension passed over Dedi's face, and Meryt instantly regretted her words. A similar statement was at the root of her reputation. Earlier that year, a neighbour's child had been still-born a month or so too early. But her belly had stopped growing a month before that. Meryt had feared the worst, and had said as much in passing. When she was proved to be right, the rumours had begun to spread. Meryt-Re saw death before it happened – so could she not summon it too?

She smiled at her friend to reassure her, and picked up the lyre. ‘Well, I hope they make their minds up soon, for the child's sake,' she said lightly, and began to pluck the strings. Dedi smiled too, and watched her, the sistrum idle in her lap. Neither friend ever talked of it, but the fact was that Meryt was a natural, and drew more beautiful melodies from the lyre than Dedi had ever been able to, despite her mother's training.

Meryt played through all the tunes she had learnt, and then stopped. She placed the lyre by her side and looked out over the rooftops. A donkey brayed close by. She thought of Ramose, and sighed.

‘I have received a proposal of marriage,' she announced.

Dedi's eyebrows shot up. ‘Meryt!' she exclaimed. ‘Who from? Wait – let me guess – Kenna!'

It was Meryt's turn to look surprised. ‘Kenna! Dedi, he's our friend!'

‘So? He is more
your
friend. He always has been. Such friends can become lovers,' said Dedi confidently.

Meryt flushed. Dedi was much more versed in the ways of love and adulthood. She and Neben-Maat had courted each other for five years – since Dedi was only nine. They were only waiting for Neben to finish building a new house before they became man and wife.

‘Well, it's
not
Kenna,' stated Meryt firmly.

Dedi warmed to her game and reeled off a list of names. Meryt shook her head at each one.

‘Who, then?' cried Dedi at last, in frustration.

‘Ramose,' said Meryt. ‘Son of Paneb and Heria.'

Dedi looked puzzled. ‘Ramose?' she repeated in wonderment. Meryt felt her heart grow heavy as she imagined what her friend was thinking. Ramose was quiet and solid, a plodding reliable stonecutter. Although only eighteen, he already showed the signs of too much bread and ale. ‘Well, he's …' Dedi trailed off awkwardly.

‘Uncle Senmut wants to get rid of me,' Meryt said. ‘He wants me to accept.'

‘And are you going to?' asked Dedi cautiously.

‘No!' cried Meryt. ‘How am I ever going to join you as a chapel musician if I accept?'

Astonishment flooded Dedi's fine features all over again. ‘But that can't really be what you expect,' she said. ‘You would have to marry a scribe, at least – or a foreman! And a well-connected one at that.'

Meryt was silent.
Is that so impossible a notion?
she wanted to ask. But she knew the answer. Dedi hadn't meant to be hurtful. The chances of anyone of high status wanting to marry Meryt were slim. She had nothing to offer and she was only of average beauty.

She caressed the neck of the lyre longingly, then stood up.

‘I'd better get back home,' she said. ‘I'm supposed to be helping. You know what Nauna's like.'

The sound of Nauna's shrill voice was carrying along the street. Meryt's pace quickened as she approached her home, seeing that the neighbours were peering out in curiosity. She slipped inside and was met with a scene of chaos.

Her aunt Tia was sitting on the floor, crying. Henut, her three-year-old daughter, was clinging to her dress and weeping in harmony, while eight-year-old Mose sat nearby with his head buried in his arms. Nauna was shouting, waving two blackened loaves as she did so, while two neighbours chattered and interjected, inspecting another three loaves that were burnt a charcoal black.

‘What is the use of a wife who burns the bread!'
Nauna was crying. ‘My son deserves better than this. I deserve better than this, and look at the children. They have nothing but shame for their mother!”

Meryt stood in the doorway, aghast. Nauna spotted her. ‘Take the children and comfort them,' she ordered her. ‘Take them from this scene of shame!'

Meryt hurried to Mose and put her arm around his shoulder. ‘Come, Mose,' she whispered. ‘We'll play a good game on the roof.' Mose stood, his face wet and blotchy, and took Meryt's hand. Meryt reached out for Henut, but the little girl howled and clung fiercely to her mother.

‘We'll eat some special dates,' Meryt promised her desperately. ‘And a pomegranate.'

The tears dried quickly on Henut's face, an expression of greed taking their place. She left Tia's side and held out her grubby hand for Meryt to grasp. Meryt ushered the two children out of the room and through to the courtyard, as Nauna resumed her tirade. She picked out a ripe pomegranate from the fruit pile, and a handful of dates.

‘Mama's been bad,' said Henut solemnly, as they climbed the steps.

‘No, no, not bad,' Meryt assured the child, her anger with Nauna rising. ‘Maybe she made a mistake. That's not bad, sweetheart. Everyone does that sometimes.'

‘She left the bread in the oven too long,' said Mose.

‘Do you know why, Mose?' asked Meryt, spreading
out a reed mat for them to sit on. Mose was a quiet, thoughtful boy, the opposite of his older brother Baki. He often spoke a surprising amount of sense for someone so young. She sat down, and the children curled up next to her.

‘She doesn't know how it happened,' Mose informed her, as Meryt handed him a date. ‘Nauna was next door. When she came back, she smelt the bread burning.' He paused, playing with the edge of the mat, his eyes averted. ‘Mama says it was Peshedu,' he finished quietly.

Meryt looked at him sharply. ‘Is that what she said? Are you sure?' she quizzed him.

Mose turned his honest gaze to Meryt's, and nodded.

Meryt frowned. Peshedu was her own father, and Tia's brother. He had died of the coughing disease when she was only two, leaving Meryt an orphan. Her mother Simut had died in childbirth at the age of fifteen. Meryt had been her first child. It was difficult for Meryt to picture this shadowy, girlish figure, only two years older than she was now, and she rarely thought of her. But Peshedu was different. For as long as Meryt could remember he had been a restless presence in the household – although, as she had grown older, she had come to realise that it was only Tia who sensed him on a regular basis.

It puzzled and worried Meryt. Her father should be enjoying life with the gods in the Next World. She knew for a fact that no expense had been spared on
his embalming and funeral, and that he lay in the family tomb surrounded by everything he needed. While she did not begrudge it for a moment, it was partly for this reason that Meryt had inherited so little. It made no sense that he had lingered – especially to cause trouble, as Tia often claimed he did. She was beginning to wonder what lay behind it all.

‘I expect your mama said that because she was upset,' she said.