and my ink is of the finest, solid black and bright scarlet. I compound and grind my own ink, which I dilute with water if I am writing on papyrus and with painter's size derived from boiled hoofs if I am inscribing a wall. Beside me are a pile of limestone shards and broken pottery, the ostraca for notes and random thoughts, and my master is reading out the Building Inscription of Amenhotep II, which the whole class is copying, miserably or obediently.
I am bored almost to extinction. Cruel father, to condemn me to this endless toil! Better I had been such as the young men who work in the fields, who care for oxen and fish in the river. Better even to be a slave carrying water or grinding corn, better to be a weaver in his little house or a laundryman beating filthy clothes in the shallows, a messenger on a fast horse, a soldier in danger of death on the border of Egypt, where the vile Kush lurk in ambush.
Better anything than this: the heat of noon, heavy on the eyelids. The glare outside of sun on marble. The silence except for the droning of a fly, the heavy sigh of some overburdened scholar, the scratching of styli on plaster, the scrubbing of someone rubbing out a mistake with a ball of cloth, the endless, endless droning voice and the never-ending Building Inscription of Amenhotep II, the grandfather of the present Pharaoh who lives, Amenhotep III. And my master goes on, and on:
Live the Horus: Mighty Bull, great in Strength: Favourite of the Two Goddesses: Mighty in Opulence: Made to Shine in Thebes: Golden Horus: Seizing by his Might in all Lands, Good God, Likeness of Re, Splendid Ray of Atum, begotten Son whom he made to shine in Karnak. He appointed him to be king of all living, to do that which his ka did: his avenger, seeking excellent things, great in marvels, creative in knowledge, wise in execution, skilful-hearted like Ptah; king of Kings, ruler of rulers, valiant, without his equal, lord of terror amongst the southern lands, great in fear at the end of the north. Every land comes to him bowing down...'
My fingers know their way. My ears hear the words and write them down. I do not need to pay attention and I find myself wondering, what would it be like, to stand guard outside the palace or to work at one's own trade and lie down in one's own bed at night with nothing more to worry about but tomorrow's labour? All my life I have written other men's words, made permanent their thoughts.
I began by copying the Maxims of Ptah-hotep, my namesake, and continued through the Story of Sinuhe, who was a man, and the Contendings of Horus and Set, who are Gods.
I have written down accounts of journeys and ventures, of wars and conquests. I have written endless lists of grave goods and marriage contracts and all manner of documents by which men regulate their lives and record their words, and I have done nothing at all for myself.
I have married no wife, begotten no children, though I am fourteen years old and a man, with a man's seed to give. I have built nothing, made nothing, repaired nothing, created nothing. If I was to write the inscription for my own tomb now, I could say nothing but 'Ptah-hotep knew all words and three scripts and wrote a clear hand'.
The blow from the master's staff stings across my shoulders. He is standing over me, and he is angry. He must have spoken my name and gone unanswered.
'Show me,' he growls. I hand him my board and rub the weal which is forming across my back. He likes hurting, this Priest of Amen-Re. He has come here to give us instruction in the high script, which only priests use. I can see, turning in my place, the wet lip of the man who relishes pain and I blink hard, determined that he shall not see me weep and drink my tears for his pleasure.
I have written, I observe, most of the chapter of the inscription which he has been dictating. My characters are well formed and flowing and I assume that they are correct, for he drops the board back into my lap and says nothing else, only resumes the droning chant:
He assigned to me all that is with him, which the eye of his uraeus illuminates, all lands, all countries, every road, the circle of water Oceanos, they come to me in submission to my majesty: Son of Re, Amenhotep, Divine Ruler of Thebes, living forever, only vigilant one, begotten of the gods.'
The staff comes down hard on the shoulders of my friend Kheperren, and he gratifies the master's taste for wailing, so he repeats the blow. I wince for him as I would not for myself.
Who will free me of this misery?
Freedom comes in unlikely guises, says the sage Ptah-hotep, and so it came to me. We were bathing in the sacred lake, washing ourselves free of impurity for the evening prayer. I sluiced cool water over my wounded back, still angry and resentful at my fate. The priests were at their meal, the masters were in their rooms with their wives, and for a little while there was no one watching us. My friend Kheperren embraced me in the water.
'I hurt,' he complained, and I stroked the raised weals on his smooth back.
'I, too,' I agreed.
'I made three errors,' he admitted. 'But he hit me too hard.'
'I made none and he still hit me,' I replied. 'Doubtless the monster Apophis will eat his heart in the end but this does not comfort me, brother.'
'Hotep, can we run away?'
I swung him around so that we were facing one another, floating easily in the water, legs entwined. Re who is the sun was westering, but there was abundant light, spilling over the temple, making the stones glow like gold. Kheperren's brow was wrinkled with thought. He had black hair and the smooth olive skin of the countryman, whereas I was pale, almost ivory, and my hair was tinted with the Theban copper. It was unfair that I, whose father was only a scribe because he had been a common soldier in the army, was as fair as one of the Royal House, and my heart's brother was as dark as a peasant, though he was descended from the high priests of Amen-Re. I liked our contrast as we lay together, his thighs twined with mine.
'We can't run,' I told him. 'Remember when Yuya tried that. They caught him, beat him, and made him sit for a week with his legs tied together.'
'I can't bear it,' Kheperren wailed, burying his face in my neck. 'If it wasn't for thy love, brother, I would die.'
His mouth was hot against my skin; our breath mingled. Floating, we drifted into a bank of papyrus, and the reeds closed about us. We had often lain here, where no man could see us, clutching each other for comfort.
'We are in a herdsman's hut on the banks of the river,' he breathed. It was our favourite of all the stories we told each other.
'We have stabled our cattle for the night,' I returned, sliding both hands down his body. I found the phallus, hard in my palm as I had always found it, in the dark of the dormitory or the cool of the morning.
'We have left our dog Wolf on guard.'He returned the caress. 'And we are shutting our door for the night, against the demons of the darkness, against the Goddesses of the Twelve Hours,' he continued, his breath catching as my hands, wise in the ways of his body, brought his climax near.
'And sealing our door with the sacred seal of the Brothers,' I whispered, and then could not speak further as he closed my mouth with a kiss.
Careful not to be heard - though such love was not forbidden, it would give our Masters leverage to play one of us against the other - we spilled our seed into the reeds, shivering and kissing. There was no one in the world whom I loved as much as my brother Kheperren.
And as we came up the bank together, still breathless with release, we found a priest waiting for us. We quickly schooled our features into the blank which gives nothing away, but it was not necessary. He smiled at us.
