TEN

If I had not seen him before, I would still have known that he must be not only the Vizier but the High Priest as well. For he entered with enough assurance to have been a great foreign Prince. I, who shared with the Pharaoh a breath that only the birds may know, which is that our wings—if we had had wings—would quiver at every shift in the air, knew my Monarch’s bad mood had been as well placed as the hinge of a door.

The High Priest passed by me like a Royal Barge. I could have been no more than a raft of papyrus undulating in his wake. He was not a man of great size, but his head was huge, and his shaven scalp, being anointed with oil, made me most aware of how his head gleamed. He was also dressed in a short skirt that showed his heavy thighs, and his shoulders were covered with a wide cape of a sort I soon learned—since my mother’s first greeting to the High Priest was to inquire about it—had been worn on rare occasions by the priests of olden times. It put me even more in awe of him than before.

“There may be food from the beast left for you,” said our Pharaoh.

“I have had my evening meal,” replied Khem-Usha in his slow, deep voice. Then, he added, “I do not observe the Night of the Pig.”

Ptah-nem-hotep said: “Let us pray no Gods are insulted by such restraint.”

“I do not consider my abstention an insult to any God.” His manner suggested that he could annul sacrilege by the correct tones of his voice, and as if to show his displeasure, he did not sit down when our Pharaoh pointed to a seat, but instead said in his deep voice, “I would ask for an audience with Your Ear.”

“It is the Night of the Pig. You may speak before all of us.”

Khem-Usha was again silent.

“Our little feast has been altered,” said the Pharaoh, “by your desire to visit. Yet you do not wish to sit with us. You have something to tell Me, therefore, and it is miserable. Khem-Usha, I was enjoying a merry evening. Do you often see Me when I am merry? No, you may agree with Me, you do not. Thereby, the people of Egypt suffer, don’t they? For people can only play when the Gods are merry. You know that?”

Khem-Usha nodded, but with a look of weary patience.

“Tell me, has the King of Byblos killed the Egyptian envoys he is holding?”

“No,” said the High Priest, “I did not come to speak of the King of Byblos.”

“Nor is it about the Prince in Elam who imprisoned the chieftain favorable to Our interest?”

“It is not,” said Khem-Usha.

“Then, I would ask you, Khem-Usha. What new and unhappy matters are before Us?”

“The Chief Scribe of the Vizier’s office in Memphi just came to me with a message from the Chief Scribe in Thebes. It arrived by courier this evening. It tells me that two days ago, the metalworkers and the carpenters of the Necropolis of Thebes went on strike.”

“Two days ago. Then why could this not wait for morning?”

Where others would have knelt at the rebuke, or even tapped their head seven times to the ground, Khem-Usha merely pursed his lips. “Divine Two-House,” he said, “I came to see You tonight because the situation is onerous, and I am much occupied tomorrow. We must discuss it now.”

“Yes,” said Ptah-nem-hotep, “you have chosen the only moment that is possible.” He was pleased by the droll look with which my mother supported His remark.

“It could be said,” Khem-Usha stated, “that these Necropolis workers have been treated with much consideration. For two months no heavy work has been laid out for them. Yet these seventy light days of labor were credited to their account for the standard ration. Despite our generosity, they have still gone on strike.”

“Khem-Usha, have they been given the ration, or merely credited?”

“The payments were ordered but delayed. All through Phamenoth, the corn, I am afraid, has been a week late. During Pharmuti, the oil and beer have been forthcoming, but, unhappily, not the corn.” He paused. “And a shortage of beans. Then the fish could only be given half-ration. So they went on strike.”

“How can your Officials allow such short measure?” Ptah-nem-hotep asked.

Now Khem-Usha looked as if there had been good reason why he wished to be alone with the Pharaoh. “The Chief of the Metalworkers and Carpenters in the City of the Dead at Thebes,” he said, “is Nam-Shem. He was selected by You. If You recall, Great Two-House, I asked You not to choose our petty Officials. The sympathies of Your godly nature allow You to see the gifts of our people more quickly than their deceits. Nam-Shem owes more than a few gamblers and pimps. So he has sold fifty sacks of corn that belong to the Necropolis workers, and much else. When they did not receive their ration this week, they went on strike.”

“Get the food to them,” Ptah-nem-hotep said, “from your temple supplies.”

Khem-Usha shook his head. “I fear,” he said finally, “that is not a wise solution.”

“One hundred and eighty-five thousand sacks of corn went to the Temple of Amon last year from the Royal Treasury,” Ptah-nem-hotep replied. “Why do you begrudge fifty sacks to these workers?”

“They are well paid,” said Khem-Usha. “My priests are not.”

Ptah-nem-hotep looked at my great-grandfather, and repeated, “My priests are not!” Then He began to speak with a mockery in His voice that would have proved withering to any man who was less composed than Khem-Usha. “Do you know,” He said, “in thirty-one years of His Reign, My Father gave more than one hundred thousand slaves to the temples, half a million head of cattle, and over one million plots of ground. Not to mention His little gifts. One million charms, amulets, and scarabs. Twenty million bouquets of flowers. Six million loaves of bread! I go over His records—I would not believe the amounts if I did not know that I, year by year, have been paying out nearly as much to Khem-Usha and his temples, and our Royal Treasury is not nearly so rich. Perhaps our festivals do not bring the river to the right height. Too much or too little—usually too little. Either I am not near enough to Amon, or you, Khem-Usha, do not say the prayers well enough. In any case, we are certainly low on grain. All the same, I do not know how you can begrudge fifty sacks of corn. My Father gave the temples half a million fish in thirty years and two million jars of incense, honey, and oil. A great Pharaoh was My Father, Ramses the Third, but not great enough to say no to the demands of the Temple on the Treasury. And I am only in His shadow. All the same, I tell you, Khem-Usha, give the Necropolis workers their share of grain. Put that situation in order. If I have made a mistake with Nam-Shem, do not take pride in it.”

“I must do as You say,” said Khem-Usha, “but I will also remark that Your gift will encourage these workers to strike again, and for less.”

“Put the situation in order,” Ptah-nem-hotep repeated.

Khem-Usha’s face was without expression. He answered, “It has been, Divine Two-House, another occasion to live in the subtlety of Your heart. Yet, before I go, I must still ask for an audience alone. There is another matter, and I can speak of it before no one.”

“As I have said, it is the Night of the Pig. So, tell it to all.”

Khem-Usha, in disobedience of the Pharaoh, bent forward, however, and whispered into His ear. Then they looked into each other’s eyes. I felt something in my balance waver. Ptah-nem-hotep said, “Yes, perhaps I will walk with you through the garden,” and with a quick smile in our direction for so suddenly removing Himself, left with His High Priest and Vizier.