City of Dreams Page 2

  It was the season of drought, shemu, and from dawn to dusk all the Black Land endured the dreary, unchanging mildness of the sun. By the end of the year, in midsummer, the heat would be pitiless; but then the River would flood, and restore its green banks. Now was a time of long siestas and — to Huy’s frustration — monotonous inactivity.

  He had just turned thirty. A year earlier, he had been living alone in a little house in a side street in the collapsing City of the Horizon, contemplating not only the wreck of his marriage but also the ruin of his career. He had been a scribe in the court of Akhenaten, and since that king’s fall, no longer allowed to practise his profession but not important enough to punish, he had scraped along as an investigator, a solver of other people’s problems. Now he looked around the similar little house in which he presently lived, still alone, in a run-down quarter near the port of the Southern Capital. The one big case he had come close to solving had ended in disaster; and now the single good thing to have come out of it was gone.

  He said her name. Aset. He brought her image into his heart and tried to condemn her, but he could not. There had never been any hope of their being together for good; he had known that from the start. The sister of his friend Amotju, and now, after Amotju’s death, heiress to half a fortune — the other half, after a protracted legal battle, having been retained by Amotju’s widow, Taheb — Aset had never been within his reach, and was as far from it now as the moon.

  He tried to push the memory of their last meeting away, but it kept returning to his heart — a painful and unnecessary event, caused only by his having been unable to accept her letter. He wished now, in a spirit of self-torture, that he had not destroyed the papyrus on which her firm hand had spelt out their situation with such merciless exactness. The trouble with the end of an affair, whether it has lasted one year or twenty, Huy reflected for the hundredth time, retracing the barren ground of his life like a dog which has lost the scent, is that the partner who leaves has already left in the heart.

  Humiliated and miserable, he had subjected Aset to a series of wretched deaths in his imagination, before regretting each; just as he had envisaged a sudden change in his fortunes, making her accessible to him — but in his thoughts coming at a time when he no longer wanted her, however bitter her penitence might be at having thrust him aside. At his core, though, was a seed which would grow and grow, finally blossoming as the rank flower of acceptance, the harbinger of cure.

  By the time Aset had married Neferweben, the former nomarch at Hu and now a gold dealer in the Northern Capital, six months after her brother’s death and three since her letter of dismissal to Huy, the scribe was beginning to be able to thank his guardian Ka for small blessings: that she was no longer living in the same city, and that Neferweben may have been rich, but was also fat and fifty, and missing an ear from a skirmish against desert raiders in his youth. Aset, just turned nineteen, had explained to Huy that she needed to consolidate her fortune and business. For his part Huy, who might have entertained hopes of joining Aset in the shipping business and helping her to expand, in competition with Taheb, her former sister-in-law, now told himself that marriage to such a venal woman would have been doomed from the start in any case. All these new, righteous, male thoughts helped for short periods. In time, however, they had become a poor substitute for an empty bed and no work.

  The empty bed could be remedied with ease; living as he did near the port, the whorehouses were close by, and they were maintained to a fairly high standard of cleanliness by the city authorities. But a body paid to be there is no substitute for a heart that wants to be.

  Work was another matter. Certain people with influence knew the major part Huy had played in solving the mystery which had ended so tragically; but none of them were friends now. He was tolerated by the authorities, though still kept under occasional surveillance by General Horemheb’s police, the Medjays. His ambition — to be allowed to work as a scribe once more — was as far off as ever. Discreetly, he advertised for the work fate had given him. Former colleagues would mention his name as a problem solver at the foot of information papyri, and he made sure that in court and palace circles those whose matrimonial and business interests and difficulties might put them in need of him should not forget his services and his whereabouts. After that, it was a question of sitting, waiting, and growing thinner, together with his dwindling supplies.

  Amid shouts of warning and panic from the sailors on the foredeck, the huge barge, sunk to the waterline by the weight of the massive red obelisk in its cradle, wrenched free of the helmsmen’s control and, pushed by a vigorous undercurrent of the River, hurled itself against a jetty wall of the Southern Capital. Several men were thrown on to the deck by the impact, and in the brief pandemonium which followed, it seemed as if the boat had split, and might sink, there and then, at the end of its journey. But the groaning timbers held, though a plank in the half-decking astern snapped with a noise like a lightning crack, and one of the derricks on shore swayed dangerously, threatening to fall.

  Surere, released from his bonds by Khaemhet, along with the other prisoner-quarrymen brought to augment the crew, cast a quick glance fore and aft. The barge wallowed to such a degree that it was hard to maintain his footing, and river water washed over the deck, making it slippery. Overhead, the obelisk swung in its cradle, as the helmsmen fought to bring the barge under control and sailors threw ropes to those ashore who, catching them, hauled on them in teams in an attempt to wrestle the boat alongside. Taut copper backs glistened in the sun as the huge barge bucked and reared like a living thing.

  Khaemhet, standing by the bargemaster at the stern, was looking anxiously from obelisk to quay, shouting orders to men who grabbed stay-ropes and, with long poles, attempted to arrest the great stone’s pendulum-like motion. Satisfied that the mason’s attention was entirely taken up, and determined not to let this god-given opportunity slip, Surere hurried forward, slipping adroitly between the knots of men, losing himself in the busy crowd of sailors. Finally he stopped and looked over the shoreward side of the barge: it was still swaying away from the jetty wall before crashing into it again, but the amount of swing was smaller, and the movement less violent. If he misjudged his leap and fell, there was still a likelihood that he would be crushed to death; but the chances of that had lessened considerably.

  Choosing his moment, he hoisted himself on to the low wooden railing that ran the length of the barge, holding on for balance with both feet and his left hand, and stealing a final cautious look round to see if anyone had noticed him. No one had, but the bustle aboard was abating, and there was less frenzy in the straining figures at ropes ashore. It was now or never. Letting go of the rail with his hand, he pushed with his feet and launched himself forward into space, aiming at a coil of rope near a hardwood bollard.

  He landed heavily, grazing knees and wrists on the rope. Rolling over, he quickly found his feet, and walked determinedly, a man on an errand, past and behind the crowd of onlookers which had gathered to gawp and shout advice. No one spared him a second glance: the barge seemed to be under control and the drama had gone out of the moment. Some of the workers ashore had dropped their ropes and crossed to man the derricks.

  Brushing the dust from his stained and battered kilt, Surere thanked god that his time in the quarries had made him so fit. Safe in the crowd, he slackened his pace to still the pumping of his heart, and turned to take a final look at the barge. He could see Khaemhet walking forward, though it was too far away to see the expression on his face, and he could not tell whether the mason was already looking for him. It would be as well not to take chances.

  There was an open area to cross before he could reach the safety of the tightly-packed yellow and ochre buildings which marked the riverward edge of the town. Noticing a man leading a small procession of three pale grey donkeys, heads and backs bowed under a heavy burden of barley in coarse brown sacks, their shadows long in the late afternoon sun, Surere made himself wait for the
m to reach him. Once they had, he used them as cover to detach himself from the press of people at the harbour, and headed quickly for the mouth of the nearest street. He did not look back again.

  Had Khaemhet missed him by now? A brief sense of regret at his broken promise was quickly eclipsed by the thought of what would happen to him if he were recaptured, and he moved faster.

  Soon he was in the cool gulley of the street. Half running between the windowless walls, he turned a corner and even the sounds of the harbour were shut off. He paused to take his bearings before pressing on, still maintaining the purposeful pace of a man with an appointment to keep. He needed shelter and clean clothes and he needed to get to a part of town where no one would question the arrival of a stranger; where people had their own secrets to keep.

  Beyond that his plans were looser than he liked to admit, even to himself. But he was free, and he trusted to Aten, the god of the sunlight and the protector of the innocent, whose power he had never doubted despite all his tribulations since the fall of Akhenaten, to place him in the shelter of his hand now.

  TWO

  Huy was shown to his place by a dark-skinned girl dressed in nothing but a broad gilded collar studded with oval turquoises and a similar thin girdle resting on her hips. Her breasts were small and firm, the nipples only a shade darker than her skin; because this was a party, she had threaded beads of carnelian into the hair of her pubis.

  He drank from the beaker of wine she gave him and glanced around at his fellow guests. Some wore scented garlands round their necks, and most of the women had perfume cones on top of their black wigs. There were fifty people in the pillared hall, in groups of five at small tables dotted around a central area where a quartet of women musicians sat with a singer.

  Huy was late, and he gave apologies to the three people at his table — a sad-eyed woman he did not know, her husband, a grain broker whom he knew by sight, and a Medjay captain, Merymose. They were reserved, though no more so than any strangers would be at first acquaintance, and cordial enough for Huy to think that either they did not know his background, or did not care.

  ‘Where is our hostess?’ he asked, looking round the room again. The invitation from Taheb had come out of the blue, and at first he had considered not accepting it. He had not seen Amotju’s widow since his friend’s death, and although the events surrounding it had forced the two of them into an uneasy alliance, she had always given the impression that her feelings for him were anything but warm. For this reason, if for no other, he had decided to attend the dinner party, curiosity having got the better of him. If Taheb had decided to invite him, there must be a reason. He was more intrigued than flattered to notice that he had been shown to a table at which chairs were set, rather than the stools given to the less-honoured guests.

  ‘She will be joining us,’ said the broker, indicating the empty chair between Huy and the Medjay. ‘She has gone to talk to her steward about the acrobats. They have arrived too early, and have another booking later.’

  ‘I don’t see why they can’t perform now,’ said his wife, who looked bored.

  ‘They would get in the way of the food servers,’ answered her husband matter of factly.

  ‘Oh.’ She picked up the mandrake fruit by her place and sniffed its sickly-sweet odour, darting a glance at Merymose, who answered it with a friendly look, declining its invitation.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a little early for that?’ asked the broker, indicating the fruit. Muttering something under her breath, but without venom, the woman put the narcotic down and sighed. The awkwardness of the moment was saved by the arrival of two girls bearing golden plates with honey bread, cucumber, nabk berries, falafel and — luxuriously — roast beef. A third carried a pitcher with pomegranate wine, and refilled each beaker. The broker’s wife drained hers immediately and held it up for more. The broker pretended not to notice.

  In an attempt to deflect attention from this, Merymose asked if anyone had seen the great rough-cut obelisk which had arrived from the First Cataract a week earlier and which had lain on the third jetty ever since, one of the quayside derricks having collapsed during offloading.

  ‘I think they have rolled it on to logs,’ said the broker.

  ‘Isn’t the quay too narrow for that?’ asked Huy, politely.

  ‘The one thing to be thankful for is that the stone didn’t fracture,’ said the broker. ‘That obelisk is to be set up and carved as a memorial to Horemheb’s victories in the north during the reign of Nebmare Amenophis.’

  ‘Then it would have been most unfortunate if it had broken,’ said Huy, neutrally, avoiding the Med jay’s eye. The pharaoh Amenophis III had died over twenty years ago, yet now the carved records on all public buildings were being altered to show that he was the immediate predecessor of Tutankhamun.

  It would be as if Akhenaten had never existed. And yet during Amenophis’s long reign there had been very little military activity. During Akhenaten’s reign, when the northern empire had been lost, the commander-in-chief was Horemheb. The fifty-year-old general had now also been elected chief of police, and it seemed that he had the eleven-year-old pharaoh securely tucked into a fold of his blue-and-gold kilt.

  ‘I am surprised that Horemheb isn’t having his obelisk sheathed in gold — or at the very least, bronze,’ said the broker’s wife.

  ‘Why?’ asked Huy, though he guessed what was coming. Usually, only obelisks consecrated to the pharaoh or the gods were covered with precious metal. Dazzling in the sun, they were potent symbols of supreme power.

  The woman looked at him archly. ‘Well, it shows modesty.’

  Her husband bit his lip.

  ‘One of the prisoners from the barge escaped in the confusion,’ said Merymose. Huy glanced at him, and wondered if he did not see a humorous gleam in his eye. His lean body looked young, but the face belied it; Merymose must have been close to Huy’s age, and perhaps older. Huy wondered what his history was.

  ‘Have you caught him?’

  ‘No. It’s a problem, too, because he was a political detainee. From the court of the Criminal.’ He spoke harshly, and it was clear to Huy that he thought Akhenaten had indeed been a criminal, a betrayer of his country. Huy wondered who the escaped prisoner might be. It was likely that he would know him.

  ‘They’re holding the mason responsible in the Southern Prison,’ continued Merymose. ‘It turns out that he and the prisoner were lovers.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’ asked the broker’s wife, who had managed to take a pitcher of wine from a serving girl and keep it by her on the table.

  The policeman spread his hands. ‘If in five days the prisoner is not recaptured, they will cut the throat of the mason.’

  ‘And if they do catch him?’

  ‘Then the prisoner will be impaled, and the mason will lose his nose and his right hand.’ Merymose kept his voice neutral, but Huy thought he could detect distaste in it. He looked at him curiously, noticing for the first time bitter lines at the corners of his mouth.

  The woman drained her beaker and refilled it. ‘Poor people,’ she said, turning down her mouth. ‘One loses his life for following the wrong leader; the other stands to lose his livelihood and become a beggar at the very least. What a land ours has become.’

  ‘Shut up,’ hissed the broker. Merymose looked down, taking a bronze knife to his food. He had certainly heard. The broker’s wife, oblivious, ran her foot along Huy’s calf under the table and looked at him from under heavy lashes.

  ‘What muscles you have,’ she said. ‘What do you do?’

  The musicians had started to play, the two lutenists and the oboist exploring an undemanding melody against which the fourth player tapped out a gentle rhythm on her tambourine. The singer, for the moment, sat silently. Her turn would come later, as the party became rowdier. Already several of the guests were drunk; one woman across the room had called for the copper bowl and was vomiting into it, assisted by two girls, their faces masks.

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nbsp; Huy saw Taheb before she saw him. She had appeared at the other side of the room, and was now moving from table to table, talking briefly to all her guests, as servants cleared plates, brought further courses, and replaced the melting scent cones on the heads of the women guests. She was dressed in a richly-patterned blue pleated robe which swept in one line from waist to floor. Her eyes, made up with malachite and galena, looked both larger and darker than he remembered. She wore a large collar which reached from her throat to her breasts, made up of alternating rows of lapis and carnelian beads, counterbalanced by a silver mankhet pendant which hung down her brown back below the rich darkness of her hair. She no longer wore a wig, Huy noticed; and since he had last seen her, her figure had lost its angular thinness. She moved gracefully across the room towards them, including him in a smile which was truly warm, not just social. Could rediscovered happiness make so much difference, so soon, Huy wondered.

  She took fresh garlands from a body servant and came over with them, placing one each around the necks of the broker and his wife, Merymose, and, lastly, Huy.

  ‘I am glad you decided to come,’ she said, in a way that told him that she had expected him not to. ‘I have often thought of you since we last met.’

  ‘I am glad to see you so well recovered.’

  ‘It has not been so easy. Aset contested the will.’

  ‘What did Amotju write?’

  ‘He left me nothing. Nor the children. It was as if we didn’t exist. Half to his sister, and half to his mistress. As she died with him, Aset wanted to take it all.’

  ‘Perhaps she was badly advised.’