‘What?’
‘Strangers approaching-they might just be herdsmen, but they have no animals.’
The guards set forth, and soon brought the men into our presence, prodding at them with their flashing spears. It looked like the meeting of two worlds; ours, with its clean white robes and polished weapons, and theirs, nomadic and dirt-poor, their meagre clothing bright with bold colours and patterns, heads shaved, grins wide and spare of teeth. They were honey-gatherers, who inhabited the margins of the desert lands. The leader stepped forward, bowed his head respectfully, and made an offering of a jar.
‘A gift for the King, for he is the Lord of the Bees.’
He was a delta man, and as such the bee was not only his livelihood but also the symbol of his land. Wild honey is much prized, more so than the variety cultivated from the clay hives of the city gardens. It is said the flavours are as intense as the tears of Ra, because the bees forage among the rare and earliest-opening flowers of the desert; and so these men spend their lives following the transitory blooming of the seasons along the desert margins. I was inclined to think they offered no harm-they were thin as their walking sticks, dark with use and age, and what use could they be against the power of our weapons? I ordered that they be offered food and water, and then I implied they were welcome to continue on their way. They backed away, bowing with respect.
I weighed the honey jar in my hands. The crude vessel was sealed with bees’ wax. I considered opening it, but thought better of it.
‘What should we do with this?’ I asked Simut.
He shrugged.
‘Perhaps you should present it to the King,’ he decided. ‘He has a notoriously sweet tooth…’
At the King’s tent, I was announced, and entered. The broad light of the desert filtered in, glowing on the patterns of the linens on the walls. The royal paraphernalia had been set out to make a temporary palace: couches, chairs, objects of great value, mats, and so on. It was warm inside. A fan bearer stood discreetly behind the King, his eyes seeing nothing, slowly wafting the heated air. The King was eating. As I bowed and offered the jar, I saw my own shadow on the tent wall like a figure in a temple carving making a holy offering to the God.
‘What is it?’ he asked cheerfully, rinsing his fingers in a bowl, and holding them out for a servant to dab dry.
‘It is wild honey from desert flowers. An offering from some gatherers.’
He took it in his elegant hands, and examined it.
‘A gift from the Gods,’ he said, smiling.
‘I suggest we store it, and when we are back in Thebes, it will remind you of this hunting trip.’
‘Yes. A good idea.’
He clapped his hands, and a servant came and removed the jar.
I bowed, moving backwards, but he insisted I remain with him. He offered me a place on a couch opposite him. He seemed much more light-hearted, and I began to think we had been right, after all, to travel out here. Away from the palace of shadows and its perils, his spirits were already much revived.
We drank a little wine, and some more dishes of meat were brought.
‘So this evening we will hunt?’ he asked.
‘The trackers are confident of finding something. There is a watering hole not far off. If we approach downwind, and silently, then there will be many kinds of creature there at sunset. But the trackers also tell me lions are very rare now.’
He nodded, disappointed.
‘We have hunted them almost to extinction. In their wisdom they have retreated deeper into their own domains. But perhaps one of them will answer my call.’
We ate in silence for a little while.
‘I find I love the desert. Why do we condemn something so pure and simple as a place of barbarity and fear?’ he said, suddenly.
‘Men fear the unknown. Perhaps they need to name it, as if by doing so they might exert authority over it. But words are not what they seem,’ I replied.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, they are slippery. Words can change their meaning in a moment.’
‘That is not what the priests tell us. They say the holy words are the greatest power in the world. They are the secret language of creation. The God spoke and the world came into existence. Is it not so?’
He gazed at me, as if daring me to contradict him.
‘But what if words are made by men and not by Gods?’
He looked disconcerted for a moment, but then he smiled.
‘You are a strange man, and an unusual Medjay officer. One could imagine you think the Gods themselves are our own invention.’
I hesitated to reply. He noticed.
‘Be careful, Rahotep. Such thoughts are blasphemy.’
I bowed. He gave me a long, but not antagonistic, stare.
‘I will rest now.’
And so I was dismissed from the royal presence.
I stepped outside the tent. The sun had moved beyond its zenith, and the camp was silent, as everyone but the guards along the periphery, under their sunshades, had retired from the conquering heat of the afternoon. I did not wish to think about gods and men and words any more. Suddenly I felt weary of them all. I listened to the great silence of the desert, and it seemed the finest sound I had heard in a long time.
29
The Master of the Hunt, accompanied by his chief tracker, beckoned me forward. I moved as quietly as possible across the scrubby ground to the low ridge from where they were scouting the watering hole. I carefully peered over the scuffed edge of the bluff, and looked down on a remarkable sight. In the late light, herds of gazelle, antelope and a few wild cattle were quietly pushing forward, taking their turn to drink, then gazing cautiously into the now golden distances of the savannah, or dropping their elegant heads to crop. The trackers had dug out the watering hole earlier in the day to lure as many animals as possible; some sniffed the dark ground uneasily, scenting the presence of men, yet drawn by the need to drink.
The Master of the Hunt whispered, ‘The water has done the trick. There is good hunting here now.’
‘But no sign of a lion.’
‘They can survive for long periods without water. And they are rare in our time. Once they were plentiful, along with leopards, which I have never seen.’
‘So do we hunt what is here, or do we wait longer?’
He considered the possibilities.
‘We could kill an antelope, and let it lie to see whether the lion will come and eat.’
‘As bait?’
He nodded.
‘But even if we are lucky enough to encounter one, it takes great skill, great courage, and many years of practice to hunt and kill a wild lion.’
‘Then it is well we have some skilled hunters among our group who can support the King in his moment of triumph.’
He turned a nicely sceptical eye on me in reply.
The silent tracker, whose keen eyes had not left the spectacle of the watering hole and its sudden population, suddenly spoke: ‘There will be no lion here this evening. Nor any evening, I think.’
The Master of the Hunt seemed to agree.
‘The moon’s light will help, but we could wait many long hours for nothing to happen. Better to occupy the King and his hunters with what is available now. Everything is prepared, so let us hunt. It will be good practice. And there is always tomorrow. We will search further into the wilderness.’
