sighed with relief.
Then the priests censed everyone, declared a blessing in language so hieratic that I could not understand it, and we were released to go back to the palace at Thebes and feast.
It was a good feast, and I was sick, after all.
Ptah-hotep
When Pharaoh declares his wish, it is as good as done; and so it was with me. I slept one more night with the trainee scribes in the dormitory. My destiny had been declared. I would now not be a priest. I had no great leaning towards such a life, anyway. I had just wanted to be a skilful scribe, if I had to be a scribe, not a priest.
But I was distracted with grief at leaving my heart's brother. The Master of Scribes, for some reason, relaxed his usual rule and allowed us to sleep my last night together. In fact the Master seemed strangely sorry for me, considering the fact that everyone else was congratulating me on my amazingly good fortune. He sent me bread and roasted goose and fruit from his own table, and the servant who brought it had been ordered to stay and serve Kheperren and myself as though we were grown and masters in our own house.
We sat in my little room, one on either side of a borrowed table, dressed in our best clothes, and the servant poured wine for us whenever our cups were empty. And because I was a boy and my heart had already been broken when Pharaoh touched my shoulders with the flail, I began to enjoy myself. The food was good, and we ate heartily and drank deep, and drunkenly embraced. Then we slept in each other's arms all night, and I woke to the dawn twittering of the swallows who nest in the temple of Amen-Re and saw my brother, my spouse, asleep with his head pillowed on his arm. By the cool light he was to me entirely beautiful and unexpressively dear. The light embraced the curve of his olive cheek and the fringe of his sooty eyelashes. Kheperren's other hand had been curled on my chest as I slept beside him.
I stood silently in the doorway, my bundle of possessions in my hand - a few spare cloths, a childhood amulet given to me by my father, the usual belongings. My palette and the gear of my trade had already gone to the palace. I did not want to wake Kheperren. I feared I would not survive a farewell.
So I dipped my finger in lamp-black and wrote 'I will always love you' on the wall near his face, where he would see it when his eyes opened, and went away.
I washed in the sacred lake, put on my best cloth, painted my eyes with kohl to protect them from the glare, and went with the servant who had come from the Lord of the Upper and Lower Lands to take me to the palace.
And despite my best resolutions, I wept all the way.
I was met by a Chamberlain, who exclaimed, 'So young! Amen-Re have compassion on us, boy, you cannot appear before Pharaoh like that. Come in here.' He ushered me into an anteroom where a young woman was bandaging a slave's foot. She did it very neatly, I noticed in my dreary grief. She dismissed the slave with a pat on the toe and an injunction to rest for at least a week, and then turned her attention to me; as the Master of Slaves scolded her patient for being stupid enough to put his foot under a falling bench. 'And you the King's favourite cup bearer, what am I going to tell him?'
'This is the King Akhnamen's new scribe,' said the Chamberlain, a fussy man of middle age wearing too much jewellery and paint. 'Do what you can, Meryt.'
'Sit down,' said the young woman. 'What's your name, Scribe? I'm Meryt the Nubian. Where does it hurt?'
'Only my heart,' I said as I sat down on the stone bench. She took my hand and her warm fingers found my pulse.
'The voice of your heart says that you are healthy,' she said gravely. Her skin was soot-black and her eyes twinkled. 'But drink this while I clean your face and re-apply your kohl.'
I drank obediently as she washed my face with precise strokes of a wad of damp linen and re-drew my eyes. She passed a red-ochre brush gently across my cheeks to restore the bloom of health. The drink was a warm compound of wine, honey and herbs, and it went down smoothly, not offending my already over-worked insides.
'You have left someone you love to come to Pharaoh's service,' she remarked. 'That is hard. But you will flourish in the regard of the Pharaoh, be happy, and come to your lover again.'
'How do you know?' I asked.
'I am a Nubian and we have some skill in foretelling though I am no oracle. But I know,' she said firmly.
For some reason I was greatly cheered.
'There are many people in the palace today, is it always like this?' I asked, as she straightened my earrings and flicked dust off my wig.
'It's the coronation of the great Royal Wife Nefertiti,' she replied, laughing. 'Where have you been?'
'His Majesty took me yesterday from the School of Scribes to be his personal scribe,' I told her. I felt her draw back in shock, and then she came and knelt before me, her forehead on my sandal.
'I did not know, Lord, pardon!' she whispered.
'Meryt, get up,' I tugged at her shoulder. 'Why are you bowing to me?'
'You are the Royal Scribe,' she said, looking up from her crouch. 'You rank higher than almost anyone in the kingdom, except those of royal blood or the priests of Amen-Re.'
'In that case I order you to stand up,' I was astounded and I needed more information. 'This can't be,' I said.
'Lord, if that is your position, then that is your rank.'
'I don't believe it,' I protested.
'If you will take some advice,' ventured Meryt in a whisper, 'beware the envy of others. Have your food tasted and search your rooms for serpents and your bed for scorpions. I am the lowliest of Pharaoh's slaves, but I know this much; there will be much murmuring at this appointment. No one will say anything to you, Lord, but they will be very angry. The person who was expecting to be royal scribe was the old man the Lord Nebamenet. He has expanded his household on the understanding that he would be awarded the post.'
'If this is true, Meryt, will you come to me and keep the serpents away?' I asked entirely on impulse. She looked away.
'Master, I am unworthy,' she murmured conventionally, which meant 'yes'.
Thus I acquired my first slave, for it was true - I had been elevated to one of the highest posts in the Kingdom, and with much more justice than Meryt I felt like saying, 'Lord, I am unworthy'.
The chamberlain took me into the first hall, where the common people come to speak to officials and those badly treated can appeal to Pharaoh their father. It was decorated with stiff lotuses and stiff papyrus heads, the symbols of Upper and Lower Egypt. A slave was sweeping the stone floor, another was sprinkling jasmine-water, and clearly something was about to happen. The soldiers at the gate had lined up in a long double row, light gleaming off their heavy belts and helmets. The wind carried to me the jingling of their accoutrements. The Chamberlain, muttering something about inconvenience, took me through the Audience Chamber and into the palace behind, and we stood at a window looking down into the hall.
'The Great Royal Wife Nefertiti was crowned not an hour ago,' he said under his breath. 'Both Kings may they live! Will be here soon. They will show the new Queen to the people, then come along this corridor into the feasting hall. There the Lord Akhnamen has ordered that you should meet him. Now I really should...'
'Wait,
