The Double Crown: Secret Writings of the Female Pharaoh (11 page)

“Thank you, Mahu. I am grateful that you were there. Would you know them again?”

“Yes, Majesty, but they disappeared. I think they may have been sailors,” said Mahu. “I do not think they will be found.”

“I must go to him,” I said, setting aside my writing implements.

“Majesty, no! I have told them to fetch Your Majesty’s own physician. He will …”

“I will see him,” I insisted. I was beginning to fear for Yunit, who is already several moons gone with the child she carries. “What did they do to him?”

Mahu looked distraught.

“Tell me!”

“They … they broke his legs,” he told me.

“By Seth and all his devils …”

“And … and …”

“Out with it!”

“They s-sliced off both his ears.” Tears stood in the scribe’s eyes. He too was fond of Bek.

“By the foul breath of Seth!” I was so angry that I could hardly breathe. I stepped past Mahu, who was almost dancing in his distress and urgent desire to keep me from seeing Bek, but he knows better than to touch my person. I strode swiftly down the passage to the servants’ quarters.

In the small room that Bek shares with Yunit, the dwarf had been laid down on a table, the better to be seen by the physician. His face had been battered into a purple ruin, and there was much blood, which several female slaves had been attempting to staunch with linen rags. Both of his legs stood out at odd angles. The room stank; he had clearly fouled himself in terror. Yunit stood by his side, her small face pinched with distress, holding tightly on to his hand. He was whimpering like a puppy too soon taken from its mother.

“Where is the physician?” I raged. “Has he not been called?”

At this moment one of the palace physicians sidled in. It was the one who looks after women’s complaints, an oily-looking fellow whom I dislike.

“You!” I said, contemptuously. “Get you hence and call the Chief Physician immediately! And he should bring one used to battle wounds. It is an emergency! Tell them if they are not here straight away I’ll have their ears as well – and yours, you scurvy toad!”

He backed out and scuttled away much faster than he had come in.

I walked up to the table and took Bek’s other hand. It felt like a child’s in size but he gripped mine like a man. He turned his swollen eyes on me.

“Do not speak,” I said. “Ah, they are curs who did this! I shall have their hides!” And yet I knew that Mahu had spoken true. They would probably never be found.

Bek groaned. The tears rolled down Yunit’s face.

“You should sit down, my dear,” I told her. “It cannot be good …”

“I will stay with him,” she said firmly, sniffing. “Until he is eased.”

The Chief Physician, one Hapu, appeared quite promptly with a younger man I did not know so well in tow. “Pardon, pardon, Majesty,” said Hapu, who is portly and was out of breath with hurrying (no doubt he values his somewhat batlike ears), “we did not know it was an urgent matter. This is Minhotep, who is knowledgeable about wounds.”

The younger man, taller than Hapu by a head and built like a military man, made a deep obeisance. When he stood up, he looked me in the eyes. I liked his straight and fearless gaze.

“See to my slave,” I ordered. “He must have the best of care, do you hear me?”

“Of course, Majesty. Please to clear the room,” said Minhotep, in a decisive voice. He had slender fingers, I noticed, as he gently touched the skewed limbs. “Bring boiling water and plenty of linen bandages,” he ordered the fussing slaves. “And some pieces of straight wood, we must have splints. Ask the palace carpenters.”

The slaves trotted off to do his bidding.

“Can you give him something to ease the pain?” I asked anxiously.

“Yes, Majesty. I will mix a draught,” said Hapu.

The slaves departed to do their bidding, but Yunit would not be moved.

“Let her stay with him,” I told Minhotep, adding in an aside: “But see to her also, she has had a great shock, and as you see …”

“A calming draught for her as well,” he promised. “Now, Majesty should leave it to us.”

I returned to my writings, but I was greatly distressed. Yet I set down what had happened, although my hand shook and it will be hard to read. I find that to write down what has occurred helps me to think it through.

I suspect Mahu of lying to me, although I had not thought he was capable of it. I think those ruffians did know who Bek was, and this was a clear indication of disrespect for my majesty. It smacks of revolt. I like it not.

Mahu waited until the physicians came to report. He sat in his scribe’s position, seemingly more relaxed, but he was trembling. At last they arrived to tell me that they had set the broken bones and cleaned the dwarf’s bruised body and his wounds and put on poultices and bandages. He had been given poppy juice for the pain. He would recover, Minhotep said. Soldiers survived far worse than this. Yunit was asleep with a girl to watch over her.

“Will he walk again?” I asked Hapu.

“He will walk,” said Hapu, “but somersaults will not come easy. He will not be entirely deaf, but his hearing will be impaired. Mainly, now, we should watch for a fever.”

“Attend him daily,” I ordered Minhotep, who bowed in assent.

This does not bode well.

Here endeth the fifth scroll.                      

Her Majesty has a falcon’s eyes. I did indeed lie to her. There were no ruffians in that tavern; no, it was a group of soldiers from the fifth division, the Division of Horus, who attacked the dwarf Bek. They came into the tavern where I was having lunch, but I was sitting outside in the courtyard with my back to the wall under the window and they did not see me. The sun was warm and my beer was pleasantly cool and the bread stuffed with coriander leaves and mint and olive oil was freshly baked.

At first I paid no attention to the rumble of conversation from inside the main room, but then I realised that they spoke of important matters and I pricked up my ears. They were discussing a scouting expedition to Canaan. Of course, they should not have spoken about such things in an ale-house, but they were not sober and they thought they were alone. There were no other customers, for it was early yet. I heard them refer to rumours about the loyalty of the Prince of Kadesh. The Great Commander does not trust him, I heard them say, and he wants to send a few crack troops disguised as Syrian merchants to discover the lie of the land.

Pharaoh would never agree to such an expedition, I knew, for if they were discovered it would be hard to maintain diplomatic relations. Her Majesty much prefers quiet diplomacy to military incursions. She would be sorely displeased. But Commander Thutmose clearly scented danger, and equally clearly, he was about to act without requesting permission from Her Majesty.

“You will look fetching with a curly beard,” said the one with the deepest voice to another of their number. “And rings in your ears.”

The reply was indistinct.

Suddenly there was an oath and a strangled yelp.

“So, you would spy, would you?” boomed the deep voice.

“No, no, Sire, I was fetching out my ball,” protested a voice that I recognised. It was Bek, Her Majesty’s dwarf. “I was juggling for the patrons, Sire, and my ball … See, here I have it, it rolled under …”

“You lie, you little devil,” said another voice. It was sharp and commanding. I ventured to peer over the windowsill. The room was dim and my eyes accustomed to the bright sun could at first make out only vague shapes, but then I saw that one broad-shouldered soldier had Bek by the ear. “So, you would spy, would you,” he said. “Take that, and that, and that …” His huge balled fist slammed into the dwarf’s head and body. I flinched for poor Bek.

The tall one with the commanding voice had drawn his sword. Peering at him, I realised that I knew who he was: Metufer, the standard bearer who had almost beaten the Great Commander at archery. “You were listening. You are a spy.”

“No, no, Sire, a humble juggler merely,” jabbered Bek. “Ask anyone, they know me, Sire.”

“I say you spied. And we know what to do with spies.” His sword whistled as he slashed twice, lopping off the little man’s ears. An inhuman screech tore through the quiet afternoon. Blood flowed over the dwarf’s tunic.

He cowered, rolling himself into a ball. “No, no, no,” he gibbered. “No, nooooo!”

I ducked down and huddled under the sill, terrified that someone might have seen me too. Oh, oh, oh, I muttered, may Hathor protect me, may Wadjet spit into their eyes so that they see me not.

The harsh voice came again. “We have fixed your ears,” said Metufer, “and next we’ll take your tongue and feed it to the dogs.”

At this, I tipped my beer and bread into the fish pond and scuttled around the mud-brick tavern to the front door, pretending that I had just arrived. “Hold!” I yelled.

Metufer lowered his sword and stared at me.

“Hold!” I shouted again. “It is the Pharaoh’s jester! Do him no more harm!”

The standard bearer sneered. Seen close up he had a face for sneering, that one; it was disfigured by a scar that ran across both cheeks; his nose seemed permanently drawn up.

“I have removed his ears,” he snarled, “and I shall remove his tongue also. Nor will you stop me.”

Bek gave another blood-curdling screech.

“You will not escape punishment,” I said. “I am Her Majesty’s scribe, and I know who you are. You cannot kill all of these witnesses.” My knees trembled, but I stood fast. By this time, the howls and screeches had drawn quite an audience, including the tavern-keeper and his anxious wife.

“The Great Commander will back me,” said Metufer. “I am within my rights to punish spies.”

“This is Pharaoh’s jester,” I said. “He has done no harm. He speaks true, he juggles for the patrons, I have seen him. L-let him go.”

Bek was sitting on the ground now, his hands to his bloody head, rocking and moaning.

“Please, we want no trouble,” begged the tavern-keeper. “I keep a good house, Sir, please, no trouble here.”

“I say this is a spy,” said Metufer. “Yet you may take him away. Only be sure that he does not speak of what he may have heard. If anything occurs to make us suspect that he has told, he will not only have no tongue, he will no longer breathe. And as I do now to his legs, I shall do to your hands, Scribe.” Deliberately, he stepped on Bek’s little legs that were spread on the ground and yanked them upwards from the heels. Bones cracked.

Another howl rent the air, followed by a series of yelps. The bile rose in my throat.

“Remember,” said Metufer.

Oh, I will remember. I will remember till I die. But I will not speak of it, nor will the dwarf. Only I will write it, so that the record may be accurate. I will note my shame. For if I had acted sooner, if I had run into the tavern when first they began to strike the dwarf, I might have saved his ears. But I was afraid, and I waited too long.

Yes, I shall remember. But I will not speak.

THE SIXTH SCROLL

The reign of Thutmose I year 16

After the mourning period had passed and my mother had been buried in her great tomb for some months, my father one day called me to his office at the administrative palace. When I arrived, he was standing at the window looking out at the water clock that he had had installed in the courtyard. I waited quietly, then made an obeisance when he turned to me. His face was thinner than ever and looked very drawn.