1

IT WAS THE BEGINNING of the month of Thoth when I first saw her. I had been detailed by my commander, the General Paiis, to escort a Royal Herald south into Nubia on a routine assignment and we were on our way back when we put into the village of Aswat for the night. The river had not yet begun to rise. It was flowing slowly, and although we were making better time on our return than we had on the journey out, we had covered hundreds of miles and were very eager to reach the familiar comforts of the Delta.

Aswat is not a place I would choose to visit. It is little more than a huddle of small mud houses crouched between the desert and the Nile, although there is a rather fine temple to the local totem, Wepwawet, on its outskirts, and the river road wanders pleasingly through shady palms as it enters and then leaves the village. The Herald whom I was guarding had not planned to beach our craft there, indeed he seemed very reluctant to do so. But a frayed rigging rope on which we had been keeping an anxious eye finally parted and that same afternoon one of the crew sprained his shoulder, so with bad grace my superior ordered that the oars be shipped and a cooking fire built on the bank not far from Aswat’s place of worship.

It was sunset. As I alighted I could see the temple’s pylon through the trees and a glimpse of the canal up which visitors to the God might float. The water was red with the glow of Ra’s setting. The air was warm and full of dust motes, and but for the rustle and twitter of nesting birds the silence was unbroken. Unless the peasants here had conceived a violent hatred for Pharaoh’s messengers, I would have no work to do this night. But mindful of my duties I left the beach where some of the sailors were already gathering what wood they could find and the rest were wrestling with fresh rope for the rigging, and I checked the river road and the sparse trees for any danger to my Herald. Of course there was none. If there had been any possibility of real harm on this journey, my General would have assigned a seasoned soldier to guard the King’s man.

I was sixteen years old, two years out of school and into my military training, and had seen no action at all apart from the rough and tumble of the training ground. I had wanted a posting to one of Pharaoh’s eastern forts where the foreign tribes pressed against our borders with longing eyes fixed on the lush fecundity of the Delta. There I might have been called upon to unsheathe my sword, but I suspect that my father used his influence to keep me safely in the city of Pi-Ramses for I found myself a member of General Paiis’s household guard, a position of monotonous ease. My military education continued, but most of my time was spent patrolling the General’s walls or standing outside the doors of his house, watching a steady stream of women come and go, nobles and beautiful commoners, drunk and happily dishevelled or elegant and deceptively cool, for Paiis was handsome and popular and his bed was always full.

I say my father, and so I think of him, but I have always known that I was an adopted child. My real father was killed in one of Pharaoh’s early wars and my mother died giving birth to me. My foster parents had no sons and were glad to take me in. My father is a merchant, very rich, and he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but something in me yearned for the soldiering life. To please my father I went with him on one of his caravans to the country of the Sabaeans where he trades for rare medicinal herbs, but I was bored and increasingly embarrassed as he tried to interest me in the sights we passed and the subsequent negotiations with the tribesmen when we arrived. We exchanged heated words, and when we returned to Pi-Ramses, he gave in to my begging and enrolled me in the officers’ school attached to the palace. So it was that I came to be walking towards the little temple of Wepwawet, God of War, on a still, warm evening in the month of Thoth, God of Wisdom, the village of Aswat behind me, the Nile rippling quietly on my right and the tiny barren fields of the peasants lying brown and furrowed on my left.

In truth I was curious to see inside the temple. The only link I had with my true parents was a small wooden statue of Wepwawet. It had stood on the table beside my bed for as long as I could remember. I had cuddled its smooth curves during the brief unhappinesses of childhood, paced furiously before it when my lamentably fiery temper was aroused, and fallen asleep night after night while watching the glow from my lamp illumine the God’s long wolf nose and pointed ears. I never felt fear with him beside me. I grew up with the fanciful belief that my first mother had appointed him to guard me and no danger, human or demonic, could reach me as long as Wepwawet stood gazing with his steady eyes into the dim recesses of my room. The craftsmanship was simple but sensitive, the hand that had formed the spear and sword the statue carried, that had carefully carved the hieroglyphs for “Opener of the Ways” across the God’s chest, had been devout as well as able, I felt sure. Who had made it? My adoptive mother did not know, and told me not to distress myself with fruitless fantasies. My father said that when I had been delivered to the house as a baby the statue had been wrapped together with me in the linen swathings. I doubted if either of my mysterious dead parents had actually put knife to wood themselves. High-ranking officers do not do the work of artisans and somehow I could not imagine a woman fashioning a God of War. Nor could I believe that the statue came from the poverty of Aswat. Montu was the Mightiest God of War, but Wepwawet was also venerated throughout Egypt, and in the end I had to sensibly presume that my dead father, a military man, had purchased the statue for his household shrine. Sometimes when I touched the God, I thought of those other hands, the hands that had made it, the hands of my father, the hands of my mother, and I imagined that I felt a flow of connectedness with them through the oiled patina of the wood. On this peaceful evening I had been given the unexpected opportunity to enter the house of the God and pray to him in his own domain. I skirted the end of the canal, walked across the tiny forecourt, and passed under the pylon.

The outer court was already full of evening shadows, its paving blocks dim beneath my feet, the unadorned pillars on either side shrouded in the coming darkness but for their crowns which still glowed in the last light of the sun. As I approached the double doors leading to the inner court, I stooped down, unlatched my sandals, removed them, and was raising a hand to pass through when a voice stopped me.

“The doors are locked.”

Startled, I turned. A woman had emerged from the shelter of one of the pillars and was in the act of lowering a bucket onto its pediment. She tossed a rag after it, put a hand to the small of her back, stretched, then came towards me, her step brisk. “The officiating priest locks the doors to the inner court at sunset,” she went on. “It’s the custom here. Few villagers come to worship during the night. They work too hard during the day.” She spoke off-handedly, as though she had made the same explanation many times and was only partially aware of me, yet I found myself looking at her carefully. Her accent held nothing of the harsh, slurred speech of Egypt’s peasants. It was clipped, precise and well modulated. But her bare feet were rough and splayed, her hands coarse, the nails broken and grimed. She was dressed in the formless garb of the female fellahin, a thick shift falling to the knees and secured with a length of hemp, and hemp also held back her wiry black hair. Her deeply brown face was dominated by a pair of clear, intelligent eyes whose colour, I realized with a shock, was a translucent light blue. Meeting them, I was immediately tempted to drop my gaze and the urge annoyed me. I was a junior officer of the King’s city. I did not give way before peasants.

“I see,” I replied more abruptly than I had intended, switching my attention to the inoffensive temple doors with what I hoped was a casual authority. “Then find me a priest to unlock the doors. I am guarding a Royal Herald. We are passing through your village on our way home to the Delta and I wish to perform my devotions to my totem while I have the opportunity.” She did not bow and back away as I had expected; indeed, she moved closer to me, and those peculiar eyes narrowed.

“Really?” she said sharply. “What is the Herald’s name?”

“His name is May,” I offered, and saw the sudden interest die from her face. “Will you fetch a priest?”

She scanned me, taking in the regulation-issue sandals in my hand, the leather belt from which hung my short sword, the linen helmet on my head and the armband denoting my rank that hugged my upper arm and of which I was so proud. I could have sworn that in that moment she had correctly assessed my position, my age and the limits of my power to command her. “I do not think so,” she said smoothly. “He is enjoying his evening meal in his cell and I do not wish to disturb him. Have you brought a gift for Wepwawet?” I shook my head. “Then it would be better to come back at dawn, before you set sail, and say your prayers when the priest begins his duties.” She turned as if to leave but swung back. “I am a servant to the servants of the God,” she explained. “Therefore I cannot open the doors for you. But I can bring you refreshments, beer and cakes or perhaps a meal. It is also my duty to see to the needs of those who journey in the service of Pharaoh. Where are you moored?” I thanked her, told her where our craft rested, and then watched her pick up the bucket and walk away through the gloom. She carried herself as regally as my older sister who had been trained in correct deportment by our nurse, a woman lured into our employ from the harem of the King himself, and I was left staring after her straight spine with a vague feeling of inferiority. Annoyed, I put on my sandals and made my way back to the boat.

I found my Herald sitting on his camp stool moodily staring into the flames of the fire the sailors had kindled. They themselves squatted in the sand a little way off, talking quietly. Our craft was now a bulk of darkness against a fading sky, and the water rippling gently against its hull had lost all colour. He glanced up as I approached.

“I suppose there’s no chance of a decent meal in this forsaken hole,” he greeted me wearily. “I could send one of the sailors to the mayor and demand something but the prospect of being surrounded by gawking villagers is too much tonight. Our supplies are running low. We will have to make do with flatbread and dried figs.” I crouched beside him and turned my face to the fire. He would eat and retire to sleep in the cabin of the boat, but I and the one soldier under me would rotate watches while he snored. I too was tired of indifferent food, hours spent in boredom and discomfort on the river, too many nights of broken sleep, but I was still young enough to be excited by my duties and proud of the responsibility that had me yawning and leaning on my spear in the small hours when nothing stirred but wind in the sparse trees along the Nile and overhead the constellations blazed.

“We will be home in a few days,” I answered. “At least the journey has been uneventful. In the temple I met a woman who is bringing us beer and food.”

“Oh,” he responded. “What did she look like?” The question took me aback.

“She was as anonymous as any other peasant but she had unusual blue eyes. Why do you ask, Lord?” He gave a snort of annoyance.

“Every Royal Herald plying the river knows about her,” he said. “The light-eyed crazy one. We try not to stop here, but if we must, we do our best to stay hidden. She works for the temple, but under the pretext of hospitality she pesters us to deliver a package to Pharaoh. I have met her before. Why do you think I was so anxious to bypass this mudhole?”

“A package?” I asked, intrigued. “What is in it?” He shrugged.

“She says that it is the story of her life, that once she knew the Great One, who exiled her here for some crime or other and if only he will read what she has written he will forgive her and lift the banishment. What she has written!” he finished scornfully. “I doubt if she can even scratch her name in the dirt! I should have warned you, Kamen, but it is a small damage done. She will annoy us briefly, but we will at least enjoy a meal.”

“So no one has actually seen inside the package?” I pressed.

“Of course not. I told you, she is insane. No Herald would risk embarrassment by carrying out such a request. And put away any romantic notions you may have, young man. Peasants in stories told by nurses may end up in the presence of the Lord of All Life, but in reality they are dull, stupid animals fit for nothing but raising crops and tending the herds they resemble.”

“She has an educated accent,” I ventured, not sure why I was defending her, and he laughed.

“She has acquired it through years of annoying her betters who have been luckless enough to encounter her,” he retorted. “Do not be kind to her or she will importune you all the more. The priests who employ her should control her behaviour. Soon no one at all will want to stop at Aswat, to trade or worship or hire workmen. She may be harmless but she is as irritating as a cloud of flies. Did she mention hot soup?”

Full dark had fallen by the time she came to us almost soundlessly, appearing out of the dense shadows and pacing into the flickering orange light of the fire like some barbaric priestess, her hair, now freed from the hemp, rioting about her head and waving on her breast. She had changed her shift, I noticed, but the one she now wore was no less crude than the garment in which she had been washing the temple floor, and she was still bare-footed. She bore a tray which she set ceremoniously before us on the collapsible table my Herald had called for earlier from the boat. Bowing to him, she then lifted the lid from a pot and proceeded to ladle a savory-smelling soup into two smaller bowls. Beside them were dishes of fresh barley bread and date cakes and, best of all, a flagon of beer. Her movements were graceful and delicate. She offered the soup first to the Herald and then to me with head bowed, both hands around each bowl, and as we began to spoon up the admittedly delicious broth, she poured the beer and unfolded two spotless linen squares which she placed carefully and unobtrusively on our naked knees. Stepping back, she stood with her arms at her sides as we demolished the food, coming forward only to refill our cups or remove the empty plates, and I wondered as I ate if perhaps she had been a servant in the home of some local dignitary, or if the Chief Priest of Wepwawet, a peasant himself but of necessity more highly educated than his neighbours, had taught her how to behave. At last the dishes were piled on the tray and covered with the now soiled linen and my Herald sighed and shifted on his stool.

“Thank you,” he said gruffly and, I thought, grudgingly. At his words the woman smiled. Her mouth parted to reveal even white teeth that glinted briefly in the light of the fire and I realized suddenly that she was beautiful. The dimness hid her chafed hands, the fine lines around those strange eyes, the dull dryness of her wild hair, and I stared at her boldly for a moment. Her gaze rested on me, then returned to my Lord.

“We have met before, Royal Herald May,” she said softly. “You and your entourage put in here last year when your skiff was holed. What news from the Delta?”

“No news,” May replied stiffly. “I am returning to Pi-Ramses from the south. I have been away for several weeks.” Her smile widened.

“And of course momentous events may have taken place in the north of which you are unaware,” she chided him with mock solemnity. “Therefore you can give me no news. Or is it that you do not wish to encourage me in conversation? I have fed you, Royal Herald May. In return, could I not sit here in the sand and enjoy your company for a while?” She did not wait for permission. Sliding to the earth, she crossed her legs and settled her shift across her lap, and I was reminded of how the scribe in my father’s household would sink to the floor and use just such gestures to place his palette on his knees in order to take the dictation.

“I have nothing to say to you, woman!” May snapped. “The food was very welcome and for that I have already thanked you. There is nothing happening in Pi-Ramses that could be of the slightest interest to someone such as yourself, I assure you.”

“I have embarrassed him,” she said, turning her face to me. “This mighty Herald. I embarrass them all, the important men who hurry up and down the river and curse when they are flung upon the barren shore at Aswat because they know that I will immediately seek them out. It does not seem to occur to them that I might embarrass myself in the process. But you, young officer with the handsome dark eyes, I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before. What is your name?”

“I am Kamen,” I answered her, with a rush of unworthy fear that she was about to make her insane request to me. I cast a sidelong glance at my Herald.

“Kamen,” she repeated. “Spirit of Men. Might I suppose that Men is your father’s name?”

“You might,” I said tersely. “And I might suppose that you are making fun of me. I too thank you for the food, but my duty is the care of this Herald and he is tired.” I rose. “Be pleased to take your dishes and retire.” At once she also scrambled to her feet, much to my relief, and picked up her tray, but I was not to be reprieved so easily.

“I have a favour to ask of you, officer Kamen,” she said, “a package to be delivered to the King. I am poor and cannot afford to pay. Will you take it for me?” Oh gods, I thought in exasperation. I felt shame for her as I shook my head.

“I am sorry, Lady, but I do not have access to the palace,” I replied and she sighed and turned away.

“I expected nothing more,” she called back over her shoulder. “What has Egypt come to, when the powerful will not hearken to the pleas of the destitute? It is no use asking you, Herald May, for you have refused me before. Sleep well!” Her scornful laughter trailed after her and then there was silence.

“Witless creature!” my Lord said curtly. “Set your watch, Kamen.” He strode off in the direction of the boat, and I signalled to my soldier and began to fling sand onto the fire. The food was souring in my belly.

I chose the second watch, gave my soldier the perimeters of his patrol, and retired with my blanket under the trees, but I could not sleep. The murmur of the sailors’ voices slowly died away. No sound came from the village and only an occasional muted splash revealed the presence of the river as some nocturnal animal went about its quiet business. The sky above me, latticed by branches, pulsed with stars.

I should have been content. I was on my way home to my family and my betrothed, Takhuru. I had successfully completed my first military assignment. I was healthy and vigorous, rich and intelligent. Yet, as I lay there, a restless sadness began to steal over me. I turned over in the sand, closing my eyes, but the earth beneath me seemed harder than usual, grinding against my hip and shoulder. I heard my soldier pace close and then stroll away. I turned again, but it was no good. My mind stayed alert.

I got up, strapped on my sword, and stepped through the trees onto the river road. It was deserted, a ribbon of greyness running through a shrouding of palms and acacia. I hesitated but had no real desire to see the village, which would differ little from a thousand others fronting the Nile from the Delta to the Cataracts of the south. I turned right, feeling increasingly insubstantial as the dark outline of the temple appeared limned in moonlight and the palm fronds above me whispered their dry night song. The water in the canal was black and motionless. I stood on its paved edge for a moment, staring down at my own featureless pale reflection. I did not want to go back to the river. I swung left and walked beside the temple wall. All at once I was skirting a ramshackle hut that leaned against the rear of the temple and before me the desert opened out, rolling in moondrenched waves to the horizon. A line of palms marking the edge of Aswat’s fragile cultivated land meandered away on my left, such a weak bastion holding back the sand, and all of it dim yet stark in the all-pervading streams of moonlight.

I did not notice her at first, not until she emerged from the deep shadow of a dune and glided across the ground. Naked, arms raised, head thrown back, I took her to be one of the dead whose tombs are untended and who wander the night desiring revenge on the living. But she was dancing with such vitality that my thrill of terror vanished. Her straining, flexing body seemed the colour of the moon himself, blue-white, and the cloud of her hair was a patch of blackness moving with her. I knew I should retire, knew I was witnessing a very private ecstasy, but I was rooted to my place by the savage harmony of the scene. The immensity of the desert, the cold flooding of moonlight, the passionate homage or expiation or act of intense pleasure the woman was performing, held me spellbound.

I did not realize the dance was over until she suddenly stood still, raised both fists to the sky, and then seemed to go limp. I could see dejection in the slump of her shoulders as she walked towards me, bent down to retrieve a piece of clothing, and came on more quickly. All at once I knew I was about to be discovered. Hurriedly I swung away but my foot hitched against a loose stone and I stumbled, falling against the rough wall of the hut in whose shadow I had been hiding. I must have grunted with the instant pain in my elbow for she halted, wrapping herself in the linen she was carrying and calling out, “Pa-ari, is that you?” I was caught. Cursing under my breath, I stepped out under the moon to come face to face with the madwoman. In the un-light surrounding us her eyes were colourless, but her lines were unmistakeable. Sweat glimmered on her neck and trickled down her temple. Strands of wet hair stuck to her forehead. She was panting lightly, her chest rising and falling under the two hands clasping the cloak to her. I had not surprised her for long. Already her features were composed.

“So it is Kamen, junior officer,” she said breathily. “Kamen the spy, neglecting his duties to guard the illustrious Royal Herald May who is doubtless snoring in blissful ignorance aboard his safe little boat. Have they begun to teach young recruits at the military academy in Pi-Ramses how to spy on innocent women, Kamen?”

“Certainly not!” I retorted, confused by what I had seen and angered by her tone. “And since when do decent Egyptian women dance naked under the moon unless they are …”

“Are what?” she countered. Her breathing was returning to normal. “Insane? Mad? Oh I know what they all think. But this,” she waved at the hut, “is my home. This,” she jerked her head, “is my desert. And that is my moon. I am not afraid of prying eyes. I harm no one.”

“Is the moon your totem then?” I asked, already ashamed of my outburst, and she laughed grimly.

“No. The moon has been my undoing. I dance in defiance under Thoth’s rays. Does that make me mad, young Kamen?”

“I do not know, Lady.”

“You called me Lady once before this night. That was kind. I did have a title once. Do you believe me?” I looked full into her shadowed face.

“No.”

She grinned and a brief glint of some internal fever in her eyes gave me a stab of superstitious fear, but then I felt her fingers, warm and commanding, on my arm. “You have grazed your elbow. Sit down. Wait here.” I did as I was told, and she disappeared into the hut, returning almost immediately with a clay pot. Sinking beside me she prised off the lid, took my elbow, and gently smeared a salve on the small wound. “Honey and ground myrrh,” she explained. “The wound should not infect, but if it does, soak it in the juice of willow leaves.”

“How do you know of these things?”

“I was once a physician, a very long time ago,” she answered simply. “I am forbidden to practise my craft any more. I steal the myrrh from the temple stores for my own use.”

“Forbidden? Why?”

“Because I tried to poison the King.”

Disappointed, I looked across at her. She was sitting with her knees hunched and her arms encircling them, her gaze on the desert. I did not want this strange, this eccentric creature to be insane. I wanted her to be in her right mind so that I might add another dimension, unpredictable and exciting yet legitimate, to my knowledge of life. Predict-ability had protected me through all my growing years. I had enjoyed the security of predictable meals, predictable schooling, predictable affection from my family, predictable feast days of the gods. My predictable betrothal to Takhuru, daughter of established wealth, was planned and expected. Even this assignment had brought no adventure, only predictable duties and discomforts. Nothing had prepared me for quixotic women who dance frenziedly under the moon in peasant villages, but insanity would render this new dimension illegitimate, an aberration of a sane society best ignored and then forgotten. “I do not believe you,” I said. “I live in Pi-Ramses. My father knows many nobles. I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Of course not. Very few knew of it at the time and besides, it was years ago. How old are you, Kamen?”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen.” She stirred and put out a hand. The gesture was irresolute and oddly pathetic. “It was sixteen years ago that I loved the King, and tried to kill him, and had a son. I was only seventeen myself. Somewhere in Egypt my son lies sleeping, knowing nothing of who he really is, from what seed he has sprung. Or perhaps he is dead. I try not to think about him too much. The pain is too great.” She turned and smiled at me sweetly. “But why should you believe me, the crazy Aswat devil? Sometimes I have difficulty believing it all myself, particularly when I am swabbing the temple floor before Ra has shaken himself to rise. Tell me about yourself, Kamen. Is your life pleasant? Have your dreams begun to come true? Whom do you serve in the city?”

I knew that I should return to the river. My soldier’s watch would soon be over. He would be waiting for me to relieve him and besides, what if some emergency had arisen on the boat? Yet the woman held me. It was not her now obvious insanity. Sadly I had to agree with my Herald’s assessment of that. Nor was it the contradictions she presented, though I found them intriguing. She was something new, something that troubled and yet soothed my ka. I began to tell her of my family, of our estate in Pi-Ramses, of my battles with my father who wanted me to become a merchant like himself, and of my eventual triumph and admittance to the military academy attached to the palace. “I intend to obtain a posting to the eastern border when I have been promoted to senior officer,” I finished, “but until then I am under the command of the General Paiis who keeps me guarding …” I got no further. With an exclamation she grasped my shoulder.

“Paiis! Paiis? That worm of Apophis! That granary rat! I found him attractive once. That was before …” She was struggling for control. Deftly I removed her hand from my shoulder. It had gone cold. “Is he still handsome and charming? Do princesses still plot to share his bed?” She began to beat at the sand. “Where is your pity, Wepwawet? I have paid and paid for my deeds. I have fought to forget, to abandon hope, and now you send me this!” Clumsily she scrambled up and ran past me, and I had only just got to my feet when she returned clutching a box. Her whole body was shaking as she thrust it at me. Her eyes were fierce. “Listen to me without prejudice please, please, Kamen! I beg you for the sake of my ka, take this box to the house of Paiis! But do not give it to Paiis himself. He would destroy it or worse. Place it into the hands of one of the King’s men who surely must come and go under your eye. Ask that it be delivered to Ramses himself. Make up any story you like. Tell the truth if you like. But not to Paiis! Think what you wish of me, but if there is any doubt in your mind, any doubt at all, help me! It is a small thing to do, is it not? Pharaoh is besieged with petitions every day. Please!”

My hand went to my sword with the instinctive reaction of my training. But I had been taught how to hold off hostile men, not obstinate women with only the most slender control over their minds. My fingers alighted on the hilt and rested there. “I am not the one to ask,” I objected, keeping my voice calm. “I cannot approach such people as freely as you might think, and if I make your request to one of my father’s friends, he will want to assure himself of its validity before risking loss of face before the One. Why have you not taken your box to Aswat’s mayor to be included in his correspondence to the governor of this nome, and through the governor to Pharaoh’s Vizier? Why do you trouble the Heralds, none of whom will ever help you?”

“I am an outcast here,” she said loudly. I could see that she was striving to appear reasonable, but her body was rigid and her voice was uneven. “I am a daughter of Aswat but to my neighbours I am a source of shame and they shun me. The mayor has refused me many times. The villagers make sure that my words are not heard by denying my story to those who might help me. They do not want the scab torn off the wound of their humiliation. So I remain the madwoman, an irritant they can explain honourably, instead of an exiled murderess trying to obtain pardon.” She shrugged. “Even my brother, Pa-ari, though he loves me, will do nothing. His sense of justice would be outraged if the King at last bent a sympathetic ear to me. No one will risk his position, let alone his life, for me.” Holding the box in both hands, she pressed it gently against my chest and looked full into my face. “Will you?”

I heartily wished myself a hundred miles away, for pity, the one emotion sure to drain all strength from a man, had woken in me. Perhaps if I took the box the madness of her obsession would decline. I had only the faintest idea of what it must be like for her to make her way month after month, year after year, to the riverbank to face the ridicule of the men she was forced to approach, their dismissals, the contempt or worse, the compassion, in their eyes. I hoped she could not read my own. If I took the box, she would be relieved of that burden. I could throw it overboard. No word would come to her from the palace, of course, but she would be comforted by the thought that the King had simply chosen to continue her banishment, and peace might come to her. Such a deceit was unworthy of an officer in the King’s service, but were not my intentions kind? Guiltily I sighed and nodded, my hands, as I lifted them to receive the box, sliding over hers as she stepped away. “I will take it,” I said, “but you must surely not expect any answer from the King.” A great smile spread across her face and she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

“Oh but I do,” she whispered, her breath warm against my skin. “Ramses is an old man, and old men begin to spend much time reliving the passions of their youth. He will answer me. Thank you, Officer Kamen. May Wepwawet protect and guide you on my behalf.” Drawing the cloak more tightly around her she walked away, disappearing into the shadow of the hut, and I tucked the damnable thing under my arm and began to run back towards the river. I felt like a traitor, but I was already furious at my lack of will. I should have turned her down. “Well it is your own fault for allowing the moon to bewitch you,” I berated myself as I stumbled through the trees. “Now what are you going to do?” For I did not think I was callous enough to fling the box into the Nile. When I reached my sleeping place, I hid it under my blanket, then hurried to relieve my soldier and spent the hours until dawn miserably pacing out the bounds of my watch.

While the sailors were preparing a morning meal, I stood in the inner court of the temple listening to a bleary-eyed priest chant the early salutations to the god. I could not see the form of my totem through the half-open door of the sanctuary. His servant blocked my view. Inhaling the thin streams of newly lighted incense that twisted towards me on the morning air and performing my prostrations, I strove to concentrate on the prayers I had wanted to say, but my thoughts refused to clear and the words stumbled over my tongue. By the time the merciless light of Ra had slipped fully over the horizon, I had finished rebuking myself for my weakness in allowing a mere peasant woman to manipulate my will and had decided to give the box back to her. I was angry with myself, but even more angry with her for foisting the responsibility of dealing with the thing onto me. If I kept it, the hard decisions would be mine and I knew I was too honest to simply drop it overboard and let the Nile receive its weight. As I knelt and stood, knelt and murmured my petitions with an absent heart, I kept glancing about the court in the hope of seeing the woman, but she did not appear.

The priest concluded his worship and the sanctuary doors were closed. With a cursory smile in my direction he disappeared into one of the small rooms that fronted the court, his two young acolytes scurrying after him, and I was alone. The box sat on the paving beside me, mutely accusing, a demanding orphan. Snatching it up, I hurried through to the outer court, jammed my sandals back on my feet and ran across the forecourt and around to the tiny shack that clung to the temple’s rear wall. As I opened my mouth to call, I realized that I did not even know the woman’s name. Nevertheless I raised my voice in a greeting and waited, aware that the sailors would be completing their final check of the boat and my Herald would be anxious to cast off. “Oh damn her!” I muttered under my breath. “And damn me for being a soft fool.” Calling again I pushed tentatively against the woven reed mat that passed for a door. It gave, and I was peering into the dimness of a small room whose floor was packed dirt and whose walls were bare. A thin mattress covered a low wooden cot that was surprisingly well constructed, the patina of its smooth legs and sturdy frame gleaming expensively in the relative poverty of its surroundings. The table beside it and the stool at its foot, though simple, were also obviously the work of a craftsman. A crude clay lamp lay on the floor. The hut was empty, and I could not wait. Briefly I considered placing the box on the cot and fleeing but discarded the idea, not without another curse, as unworthy of me. Letting the reed mat fall closed behind me, I swung back towards the river.

As I ran up the ramp and onto the deck of the craft, my kit and blanket under one arm and the offending box under the other, my Herald gave a loud guffaw.

“So she has finally found her fool!” he chortled. “Are you going to drop it overboard, young Kamen, or will your principles get the better of you? How did she persuade you to take it? With a quick roll on her doubtless flea-ridden mattress? You are carrying a load of trouble there, mark my words!” I did not reply. I did not even glance at him, and as he shouted the order to raise the ramp and cast off and the boat slid away from the bank into the glittering morning, I realized that I did not like him at all. My soldier had saved bread and beer for me. I sat in the shade of the prow and ate and drank with no appetite while Aswat and its sheltering vegetation slid away behind us and the desert swept around the few fields and isolated palms remaining. The next village was of course not far away, but as I brushed the breadcrumbs from my knees and drained the last of the beer, a weight of loneliness descended on me and I fervently wished this assignment to be over.