Orphan of the Sun (4 page)

The meal was a subdued affair. The family ate in a circle on the floor, mopping up the fish stew with hunks of the lesser-burnt bread. Meryt ate little, trying to avoid drawing attention to herself. As soon as
she could, she lit a lamp from the embers of the bread oven and slipped away up on to the roof, hoping that Baki would not follow and pester her.

For once, he did not. Meryt placed the lamp by the edge of the roof, where the mud-brick wall sheltered the flame from the wind. She sat for a few moments lost in thought, watching the lighted wick flicker in the oil. Then she crossed the roof and uncovered a little pile of ostraca, or limestone flakes. Next to them lay an old scribe's palette that had once belonged to her father, Peshedu – two little blocks of pigment, red and black, in a wooden base. With it were a papyrus brush and a little water pot.

Peshedu had been a sculptor, not a scribe, but along with many men in the village he had received a little schooling. If he had lived, he might have paid for Meryt to have some instruction too, for she was his only child. But as it was, Senmut would not dream of such an indulgence. Hori, the scribe who lived two doors down, held classes for boys who were not the sons of scribes; but only at a price. Baki had not studied for long and had quickly moved on to learning his father's art of plastering. Little Mose, on the other hand, loved learning his letters, and with Tia's encouragement, Senmut sent him to Hori whenever he had some spare grain. But Meryt only knew what she had managed to glean from Mose.

She selected a nice flat ostracon about the size of her palm and, with the palette and brush, took it back to the circle of light around the lamp. She
pulled the stopper from the water pot and moistened the black block, then filled the brush with ink. Carefully, she drew the face of a woman – but not just any woman. This woman's ears pointed out, like those of a cow, and a heavy wig curled into her neck as far as her shoulders.

Above the face, Meryt drew the hieroglyphic symbols that spelt out the goddess's name.
Hathor
. Then, in one corner, she drew the little image of a man wearing a linen kilt, his face turned towards the goddess. She waited for the ink to dry, then tilted her completed drawing into the lamplight and studied it. Smiling in satisfaction at her work, she picked it up and, with the lamp in her other hand, headed back down the stairs.

Naunakht had already retired to bed in the back room, while Senmut and Tia sat together in the middle room, talking in low voices. Henut was asleep, cuddled up to Tia, and Baki was absorbed in a round of the board game
senet
with Mose. Only Tia looked up briefly as Meryt slipped quietly through to the front room.

This room had a large raised altar-bed in one corner, which was where Tia gave birth. There were five niches in its walls. Meryt went to one of them and brought out a little packet of incense, wrapped carefully in linen. It was her own personal supply and she treasured it, only using it on special occasions. From the same niche, she brought out a copper incense burner and carefully placed some of
the precious substance inside it.

She looked around the room. The largest niche, above the altar-bed, had in it an engraving of Bes, the grotesque lion-maned dwarf who protected women through childbirth. In the next one there was an image of the god Ptah, Senmut's favourite, for he was the patron of craftsmen. There was another across the room that contained an engraving of Tawaret, the half-hippopotamus, half-crocodile goddess who also cared for women and children in their homes. In the last niche stood a bust of Peshedu, Meryt's father, to whom Tia made regular offerings.

Meryt approached this niche and balanced her own little ostracon against the bust. Then, with the wick from the lamp, she lit the incense and knelt before the niche.

‘I give praise to you, Hathor, Lady of Heaven, Mistress of all the Gods,' she murmured, swinging the incense burner. ‘May life, prosperity, health be yours. I turn to you as your humble servant, Meryt-Re, daughter of Peshedu and Simut. Answer my prayer: must I marry Ramose against my will?'

She repeated the prayer seven times, wafting the burner gently to and fro and breathing in the heady scent. Then she sat in silence as the incense burnt out, leaving nothing but a few blackened scraps. Meryt put the burner away, then picked up the lamp and the ostracon and padded back through the house and up on to the roof once more. The colder end of the year was approaching and the desert nights were
growing cool, but it was still just warm enough to sleep out. Meryt lay on one of the reed mats and pulled a linen sheet over her, then lay staring at her ostracon in the darkness.

She had never made such a request before. Of course, she had made offerings to the gods and her father out of respect, along with everyone else, and the presence of the god Re had warmed her for as long as she could remember. But she had never needed to ask anything of this nature, and she was unsure what would happen next. She thought for a few moments, then placed the ostracon near her head. Perhaps it would be in her dreams that the goddess would answer her.

The night was still. Meryt could hear the murmur of voices from the surrounding houses, and the yelp of a dog, somewhere down towards the river valley. At the far end of the village someone was throwing a party, and the strains of music and laughter floated over the rooftops. Meryt lay and looked up at the stars, mulling over the day's events.

A voice broke into her thoughts, calling from the street below.

‘Meryt!'

Meryt threw off the sheet and got up to peer over the wall. It was her friend Kenna who stood there, grinning and staring up at her. ‘Kenna! What is it?' she whispered.

‘I am going to trade some grain for my father in the morning,' he told her. ‘We are having guests
tomorrow night, and he wants me to exchange it for some extra fish in the market. Will you come with me?'

‘I'd love to!' exclaimed Meryt. ‘Are you leaving early?'

‘Just after dawn,' said Kenna. ‘Father says we can take the donkey. I'll come and wake you.'

Meryt grinned and nodded. ‘See you then.'

A noisy gaggle of geese flying overhead woke Meryt before Kenna returned. She sat up and looked to the east, where the pink light of dawn was spreading. Meryt waited for the first glimmer of sunlight before standing to stretch and yawn. As she did so, she caught sight of her ostracon, and frowned. She racked her brains for images, but no – there was nothing. Her sleep had been dreamless. Meryt swallowed her disappointment and ripped off a piece of linen from the sheet. She was wrapping it around the ostracon when she heard Kenna's voice, calling softly from below.

‘Coming!' she called back, and hastily hid the ostracon under the mats in the corner. Then she skipped silently down the steps and into the courtyard. She took a hunk of bread and two leeks from the store, then hurried through the house, where the rest of the family still lay sleeping.

Kenna was sitting astride his father's donkey. He grinned at Meryt and grabbed her elbow as she hoisted herself up lightly behind him. Kenna tapped
the donkey with a stick and they set off at a trot, taking the main street to the northern gate of the village, then the wide road that led down to the grand mortuary temples of the plain.

Once away from the village, Meryt began to relax. Trips to the market were always fun, especially with Kenna, who had been a friend from the day when Meryt had been chased up the street by a maddened dog at the age of six. Kenna, then nine, had shooed the creature off with a big stick, and Meryt had been awed by his bravery. Kenna was now sixteen. As the fourth son in his family, he could not become his father's apprentice and learn the craft of carpentry in the tombs. He had picked up a few skills, but essentially he had no craft of his own. He ran messages to and from the tombs and the village, did general odd jobs for his family, and made little sets of the game
senet
. His uncertain future didn't seem to concern him, for he was always easy-going and sunny; but Meryt was becoming aware that his father felt differently. She worried for her friend sometimes.

They passed near the walls of the massive temple of Ramesses II, which shone in brilliant hues in the morning sun, the paintwork still relatively unaffected by the sands that blew across the valley. Following the temple canals, they rode on to the temple of Amenhotep III, one of the oldest on the plain, and beyond, down to the river.

The early morning market was already in full swing. Kenna and Meryt dismounted and wandered
along on foot, looking at what was on offer. Some women sat selling produce from gardens – much in demand until the main crop was harvested; others offered reams of fine linen and clothing. The date harvest had begun and mounds of the mud-gold fruit lay everywhere, graded according to quality.

The sight made Meryt hungry and she offered Kenna some of her coarse brown bread. Kenna looked at it in disgust.

‘What happened to that?'

‘Tia burnt it,' said Meryt, with a giggle. ‘Have some. It's tasty, anyway.'

She ripped off a piece and handed it to him. Kenna took it and chewed it, grimacing. Meryt laughed at him, and handed him a leek. They ate a mouthful of each in turn, heading for the area where the fishermen sat with baskets of their shining catch.

Kenna waved as they approached. Two of the fishermen were well known in Set Maat. They visited often, because they were employed by the government to supply the villagers with a weekly ration of fish, which formed part of the craftsmen's wages. Once the fishermen had enough for the ration, they were free to sell whatever else they caught.

The two men shook their heads as Kenna and Meryt approached. ‘Go away,' said one, with a grin. ‘We haven't caught enough yet. We're just heading out in the boats again.'

Kenna laughed. ‘Go on,' he said. ‘I only want six.'

‘Six!' The fisherman shook his head in mock
dismay. ‘Well, as it's you …'

He tipped his basket so that Kenna could see inside. Kenna picked out six of the biggest with an expert eye, and handed over his grain for the man to measure out his payment.

‘What's the news from the east bank, and the north?' Kenna asked him, as the man measured out enough grain, handed back the surplus and wrapped the fish in fronds of fresh papyrus.

‘Another of the king's sons died last week,' said the fisherman. ‘That's what I heard. That's two in the last month. They'll all be coming down for the funerals – the king and half the court.'

‘Must be good for business,' Kenna commented.

The fisherman shrugged. ‘I don't see that end of things, Kenna,' he said. He smiled. ‘I still have to catch the right amount of fish whatever happens. You're the hoity-toity lot who get all the bonuses.'

Kenna looked slightly embarrassed. He placed the fish and the remainder of the grain in his bag. It was true that the families of Set Maat were better off than most, for the craftsmen's work was valued highly by the king, and their wages reflected that. In the eyes of the peasants who farmed the land or fished in the river, they were rich. ‘Bonuses from the king are good for everyone in the long run,' he said. ‘We come and buy your surplus, don't we?'

‘True, true,' laughed the fisherman. ‘You have to look on the bright side.'

Slinging his bag over the donkey's withers, Kenna
turned to Meryt. ‘I've some grain left over. Let's buy some dates.'

With a big handful of dates each, they began to lead the donkey back towards the village. When they reached the temple of Amenhotep III, they decided to rest for a while. The king's shrine was now neglected, as he faded from people's memory; so the area around this temple was often deserted. Kenna hobbled the donkey and they sat in the shade of the temple walls to finish the dates.

‘So what's your news?' asked Kenna, idly throwing the date stones at a pecking hoopoe. ‘Any gossip?'

Meryt bit into another date, not sure how to answer. A strange feeling crept over her. There was, of course, the proposal from Ramose, but she held back from speaking of it. Dedi's strange suggestion about Kenna came back to her and she found herself blushing.
Such friends can become lovers …

‘Nothing much,' she said.

‘I don't believe it,' said Kenna, with a laugh. ‘There's always plenty of gossip to report.' He looked at her quizzically.

‘Tanefru's newborn is sick,' said Meryt hurriedly, for something to say.

Kenna leant back against the temple wall. ‘Another sick child. This is nothing new.'

‘True.' Meryt leant back beside him, and they lapsed into silence. Another hoopoe flew down to join its mate, making a flutter of its brilliant feathers
as it landed. Meryt watched it, thinking about Ramose, and her devotional ostracon. She wondered how long it would take the goddess to answer her. A few days? A few weeks? It was impossible to know.

A movement caught her eye, and she looked up. She nudged Kenna. ‘Look. It's Nofret,' she whispered.

Nofret was scurrying past the temple, and seemed to be making her way towards the river. Her head was bowed, and it was clear that she hadn't seen them.

‘I caught her heading out of the village last night, on her own,' said Meryt. ‘She wouldn't say where she was going.'

Kenna snorted. ‘It's no big secret,' he said. ‘Userkaf has hired her out, that's all. How come you didn't know?'

‘Hired her out?' demanded Meryt-Re. ‘Who to? Someone outside the village?'

Kenna nodded. ‘She's working as a servant girl in the embalmers' workshops in the Fields of Djame.'

‘The Fields of Djame!' Meryt was astonished. The Fields surrounded the great mortuary temple of King Ramesses III, and as such were part of the main administrative centre for this side of the river. The king himself would be embalmed there, and in the meantime it was wealthy officials and royalty who kept the embalmers busy. ‘How ever did Userkaf manage that?'