Chapter 15
In the past few days Tentamun had come to wish he had never undertaken employment with Zulaya. Indeed, he had begged the gods to deliver him from this man, but his entreaties had brought no rescue. When the stranger had come to his village asking questions about Satet, Hunero, and Bay, he had led the man to Zulaya. Now Tentamun was Zulaya's guest, a guest without the freedom to leave.
He wasn't imprisoned or maltreated. Zulaya's steward had given him a chamber in a small, white-plastered house that lay opposite the main residence. They fed him and even provided clothing. But someone was always around. If he left the house and walked toward the gates, a servant or a guard always appeared and watched him. Tentamun had never been brave enough to continue on to the gate and past the sentries that stood there day and night.
He'd been here four days. Or had it been five now? In all that time he hadn't seen the stranger again. The first night he'd awakened to muffled screams. They'd been distant, as if coming from underground, but the screams had grown faint, then inaudible. Tentamun hadn't been able to sleep again until dawn. Now he waited in a richly decorated antechamber for an interview with Zulaya, and he was afraid of what would happen to him once he entered his master's presence.
The first time he'd seen Zulaya had been over a year ago. A fine pleasure yacht had docked near the village, and the cook from the kitchen boat that served it had come seeking fresh fruit and meat. Tentamun was drawn to the ship, which was painted a deep lotus-leaf green. It had a white deckhouse with a painted gold frieze around it. The people on board wore filmy, cloudlike clothes and jewels that glittered more than sunlight on water. He had never seen the like.
For hours Tentamun watched the ship, a craft built only for leisure, and the richly dressed occupants who seemed to have nothing to do but sit beneath multicolored awnings and sip cool drinks while slaves fanned them. Then he looked down at his own loincloth with its patched tears and soiled spots that no scrubbing could remove.
That day he had promised himself that someday he would own such a ship. It would be just like this one, a shining green leaf forever floating in the gentle current. And he would rest on a gilded couch, his body cool from the breeze of a dozen fans, his eyes closed against the glare of the sun, with no work to do and only orders to give that work should be done. No more trudging behind an ox pulling a plow. No more threshing grain beneath the withering white eye of the sun.
As he dreamed of a life of riches and laziness, Zulaya had appeared, crossing the plank to shore like a god stepping out of the sun boat of Ra. He'd been dressed in a foreign robe tied at the shoulder and secured by a golden lion pin. Tentamun remembered the robe's color, a deep, dark red like the finest jasper. But what he remembered most vividly were Zulaya's hands. Clean, long fingers without the disfigurement of large knuckles, they had been free of calluses and scars. Unlike Tentamun's, the nails were unbroken and free of soil.
Zulaya said he'd noticed Tantamun's interest. He offered employment. Tentamun didn't hesitate. Because he had wanted a boat of lotus-leaf green and clean hands without blemishes.
Nebra came in through the tall double doors of Zulaya's apartments and beckoned. Tentamun disliked Nebra, although he'd never spoken to the man. He disliked Nebra because he moved like a cobra and had eyes like the false glass ones used by artisans for statues and death masks. Nebra seemed to have no position about the household or tasks to perform. He appeared suddenly and stayed for many days, during which his only occupation seemed to be secret conferences with Zulaya. Then he vanished again.
Nebra had an Egyptian name, but his skin was a shade lighter than most men's, and his hair had an auburn tint. It was a natural color, similar to that hairdressers achieved with henna. But what was most disturbing about Nebra was his youth; he was only a few years older than Tentamun.
In spite of his age, however, his appearance always caused a stir in Zulaya's household. Servants grew jittery and dropped things. Guards found patrols in the fields and desert suddenly rewarding. Slaves sent to wait upon Nebra went unwillingly and returned with great speed. And yet Nebra was quiet, undemanding, courteous.
As he passed Nebra in the doorway, Tentamun glanced quickly at him. It was obvious that Tentamun hardly existed in whatever landscape those glasslike eyes surveyed. Tentamun shivered, for he suddenly realized that Nebra reminded him of a shabti, a statuette provided in a tomb so that it would perform any labor demanded of the deceased by the gods. With his vivid coloring and almost total lack of facial expression, Nebra could be a magically animated statuette. When he was still, Nebra gave the impression that he was waiting and would wait for eternity to perform some mysterious and frightening task for his master.
Tentamun had hoped that Nebra would leave once he'd admitted him, but he guided him into a room of high columns and bright airiness. Leaving Tentamun, Nebra crossed the chamber to the long, low window that formed a kind of balcony running most of the length of the room's west wall. Zulaya was there, a hand resting on a low balustrade as he gazed out at the Nile. Nebra whispered to him, then retreated to lean against a column on the balcony. Zulaya beckoned without looking at Tentamun.
'Come.'
Tentamun went cold, but forced his legs to take him to his master. Zulaya still didn't look his way. The balcony overlooked the lapis lazuli band of the Nile, and Zulaya seemed fascinated by the activity on the bank. There a freighter had docked. Hundreds of pottery jars had been stacked on the ship's deck in an orderly mountain. Sailors perched on the slope of the mountain, on the deck, and ashore in a line, swinging the vessels to each other in a chain of motion.
Farther along the bank where the ground was level, workmen scooped up rich, dark mud and slapped it into wooden brick molds. Line after line of drying bricks marched up the slopes of dry ground. Beyond the brick molds, gangs of laborers shored up canal banks and dikes, for Inundation would soon turn the Nile into an inland sea.
Zulaya suddenly leaned out and pointed across the river, beyond the west bank, at a trading caravan. Dark- robed, herding a long line of donkeys bearing panniers, the group trudged away from the Nile on its way to one of the desert oases. Two of their company struggled with several bulky parcels wrapped in tattered sailcloth. Finally the last bundle was strapped into a pannier and the donkey persuaded to join the line plodding out to the sand.
'There,' Zulaya said with quiet satisfaction. 'A scene of peace and beauty. I never fail to gain pleasure from watching the life of the Nile.' He cocked his head to the side and smiled at Tentamun. 'And of course, it pleases me that we're rid of that annoying spy you brought me.'
'Rid of him, master?'
Zulaya wasn't paying much attention. His gaze had returned to the caravan. 'Yes. The desert will swallow what we no longer have use for. It was fortunate one of my parties was about to set out.'
A lump formed in Tentamun's throat as he darted a look at the last donkey plodding along, its tail flicking back and forth, the panniers on its back bobbing gently as it walked. Was Zulaya referring to the cargo loaded on that donkey? Tentamun couldn't make himself ask. He might get an answer he didn't want.
Zulaya closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. 'When my affairs become too pressing or I find myself growing annoyed or weary, I come here. Gazing upon the Nile is like a small rebirth.' Zulaya glanced down at Tentamun, his smile fading only slightly. 'And now that I've renewed myself, we will talk. We've never done that, have we?'
'No, master.'
'Come, then. You may sit on that stool. Don't concern yourself with Nebra. He too enjoys the scene from my window, and he's most interested in what you have to say.'
'But I know nothing more than what I've told you, master.'
'Oh, I'm not talking about that spy you brought. He was persuaded to confess the nature of his interest in your village. Forget him.'
Tentamun lowered himself to the stool, glad that he wouldn't have to keep his knees from folding but more alarmed than ever. A master did not allow an underling to sit in his presence, especially not on a stool. Zulaya sat in a chair fitted with cushions of the softest leather and placed his feet on a padded rest. His robe, long, loose, and decorated with borders of electrum roundels in the shape of rampant bulls, settled around his legs. The material made a hushed, rustling sound that increased Tentamun's tension.
'Now, my dear youth, are you quite comfortable?'
'Yes, master.' He was going to die, and Zulaya was playing with him for amusement. What master asked
