bands, dancing, singing and roistering, and there was beer and food aplenty supplied to everyone from the Pharaoh’s stores.
Commander Thutmose took part in various athletic games and competitions, winning almost every time – and there were no allowances made for his status. His physical strength and abilities are truly extraordinary. I was present for the archery competition on the last day, in which several officers of the army and some younger nobles pitted their skills against each other. In the final round, there were three targets instead of just the one, set up a few strides apart, and the test was to shoot at them from a military chariot moving past at speed.
It was a demonstration of the high level to which the soldiers have been trained, for quite a number were able to hit all three. But then the targets were moved further back and at last only Thutmose and one other, a standard bearer from the Division of Horus, were left. The standard bearer, one Metufer, was taller than Thutmose by almost a full head, slender and lithe, and it was a delight to watch him draw his bow to loose off one arrow after another with smooth and practised grace. A cheer went up from the watching crowd as his arrows struck home.
Then the chariot bearing Thutmose came thundering along the circuit. His charioteer was driving it at an even faster pace than Metufer’s, whipping the sturdy brown horses into a tearing gallop, the white plumes streaming from their heads. In comparison with the taller man, Thutmose looked almost squat, but one could see the powerful muscles in his naked torso and upper arms rippling as he snatched his arrows from the quiver on his back with economical movements and sent them winging from the tremendous bow that, rumour has it, few other men can bend. The roar that greeted his third bull’s eye could, I swear by the breath of Horus, have been heard in Memphis. Since Metufer’s arrows had not all struck the exact centre of the targets, Thutmose was the winner.
The prize was a golden bracelet awarded by King Hatshepsut. The Pharaoh was enthroned on a wooden dais and as Thutmose strode up to it the crowd broke into a chant, rhythmically repeating: “Thutmose! Thutmose! Thutmose!” He turned and acknowledged the adulation of the crowd with a victorious salute, his oiled skin gleaming in the sun. The women around me were shrieking with excitement. He passed close by to where I stood, squashed between sweating female bodies, and I noted that he grinned at them, showing his white, somewhat protruding teeth. He has the intense physical presence of a predatory animal. It made me shiver.
Her Majesty had the expression of one who has bitten into a sweet date with a rotten tooth, but she congratulated him graciously enough. His obeisance was sketchy at best. Then he arose and slipped the bracelet over his arm, thick as a mooring rope. Again he turned to wave at the cheering crowd. The chant accompanied him to his chariot: “Thutmose! Thutmose! Thutmose!”
The women around me were going crazy, leaping to try and get a good look at the champion. All that jiggling bounty pressed up close against me was dizzying to the senses, especially as it was accompanied by a somewhat piscine scent growing more powerful by the minute in the hot and humid air. I fought my way clear, desperate for a cooled beer. As I trotted to the nearest tavern, one that I often frequent, I found to my embarrassment that I had to carry my linen bag of scribe’s tools in front of my kilt in order to preserve my dignity.
There was a slave girl serving at the tables whom I have noted before, a well-fleshed wench with plump arms and dimples in her round cheeks. A Syrian, I think, brought here as a child after a punitive expedition in the time of Thutmose the Second, may he live. She was jiggling too, as she threaded her way through the crowded room balancing a loaded tray on an upraised hand, calling saucy answers to the raucous patrons. Her face creased into a huge smile when she recognised me.
“Well, well, the little scribe is here! And walking like a duck!”
I fell onto a chair. “I am not walking like a duck,” I said indignantly. “I have hurt my heel. Now bring me a jug of beer and some bread.”
“Of course, great lord,” she said, and winked.
I sat fanning myself, contemplating Commander Thutmose. He is a dangerous man who has the admiration of the people as well as the respect and loyalty of the army. An outstanding leader of men, who has shown himself to be both crafty and courageous, winning battles through clever stratagems coupled with discipline and utter determination. Yes, yes, indeed a dangerous man.
Truly, the Pharaoh should watch her back.
THE THIRD SCROLL
The reign of Hatshepsut year 20:
The first month of Peret day 12
I now continue with my task of setting out the proofs that I am the chosen of the gods. I loved hearing the tales of Hathor who had suckled me and Hapi who had cradled me. But the one I loved best was the story of Apophis, who had spared me from a certain early death. Apophis, the serpent god who lives in the nether regions of the world and is the enemy of men and gods, terrified Inet so greatly that she disliked even saying his name. As a child who was assured of safety, I greatly enjoyed the sense of danger that the tale gave me. “Tell me about Apophis,” I would beg her.
“Speak not of him,” said Inet, clutching at an amulet that always hung about her neck to stave off evil spirits.
“But he is on my side,” I said. “Otherwise I would be dead. Unless, of course,” and I glanced up at her sidelong through my lashes, “you have always lied to me about it.”
“Sitre, Great Royal Nurse, does not lie,” she said, her small black eyes narrowing to furious slits. She was own cousin to Hapuseneb and so of noble descent, although she had not been educated as he was. Sometimes she could be quite imperious.
“So tell me. It was two years after I sailed in the coracle, wasn’t it?”
“One,” said Inet, reluctantly. “You had four summers. In fact, it was the middle of the fourth summer of your life. The midday meal was over and everyone was resting in the heat of the day. It was extremely hot. Even your brothers were resting in their rooms.”
“It was here, in this very palace, wasn’t it?”
“In this very palace, right here, in hundred-gated Thebes. You and I were on this self-same portico with the stone pillars that looks out across the flower gardens.”
“I could hear the fountains splashing and the doves murmuring in the palms. I remember that.”
“I was resting on a wooden day-bed with cushions stuffed with wool,” went on Inet, “and a slave had been keeping me cool with an ostrich-feather fan. You lay on the floor on a thin cotton rug because the tiles were cool, and soon you fell asleep.”
“So did you,” I said. Another reason why Inet hated to tell this tale.
“Just for a minute,” she said, defensively. “It was so hot. And it was so quiet. Even the cicadas seemed to have gone to sleep.”
“And the slave went away,” I said.
“To fetch some cooled fruit juice, so he claimed. Since we would be thirsty when we awoke. And indeed, I did awaken. I am sure I had only just dropped off. But I sensed a presence,” said Inet, warming to the drama of her story. “An evil presence. An imminent danger. I looked around, but I could see no human being. And then I looked down at where you were sleeping. And in the shadows, on the edge of the portico, close, oh so close to your little sleeping head, with your child’s lock of hair falling across your face, cheeks rosy with the heat …” Inet clutched her amulet and made a sign to ward off the evil eye, her voice falling to a whisper … “there he was.”
“Apophis,” I said, shuddering deliciously.
Inet gulped and nodded. “Apophis,” she confirmed. The serpent god. The narrow-hooded cobra, who attempts to ambush Ra when he sails through the nether regions of the world in his solar barque.
“Swaying from side to side,” I added.
“Five cubits of dark evil, coiled