Ramses, trained since childhood to observe what others missed, surveyed the missteps of the acrobats and dancers who somersaulted between low tables scattered throughout the banquet room. Wearing only thin skirts and bracelets, they tumbled and twisted to the music, heavy disks braided into their hair adding another rhythm whenever they swished against the floor. Ramses scoffed. His Nefertari was far more graceful.
Allowing himself the pleasure of admiring his wife, he saw she watched their daughter, Merit-Amun, pick at her food. The girl must be considering how soon she could leave without incurring the wrath of her parents. Ramses saw the change when she realized her mother watched. Abruptly she stretched a smile across her face and turned her attention to the person beside her.
Ramses tapped his fingers. What was the name of the man seated near his daughter’s table? The foreigner, inferior and thus forbidden to share a table with Egyptians, had shifted his seating cushion close to the princess. A brash move. A foolish decision.
Ramses recalled the man’s accent as atrocious and that the lotus-scented cone of wax dripping down his hair did little to cover the sour odor of his body. The foreigner crowded another chunk of food into his mouth. Merit-Amun wiggled in her chair and adjusted her bracelets, probably thanking the gods for his gluttony and trying to think of something to say.
Her mother would excuse her soon unless angered. If that happened, Merit-Amun might be forced to sit throughout the entire banquet. Ramses left the discipline of his children to their mother, and although Nefertari did not ask much of her children, rudeness to a guest brought a reprimand hotter and more stinging than a khamsin wind with its fiercely blowing sand.
He lifted his silver cup and listened to the laughter and clapping. His people were happy, enjoying the wealth of Egypt’s bounty.
Ramses noticed Merit-Amun sway with the tambourine’s beat, her yellow-gold eyes half closed. Music made banquets almost bearable for her. If she could join the dancers, she might not mind these lengthy feasts at all. He knew his daughter resented her dances being sanctified to Amun and the goddess Hathor and her songs confined to honoring the goddess Mut.
He watched as she drummed her nails on the table, and wondered how long it would take her to learn to play the instrument. She had already mastered the sistrum. Nefertari said the girl was restless. Perhaps she needed something new to amuse her, something interesting to think about, something he could use to … manage her.
Merit-Amun flinched as the man moved closer. A sudden stillness beside him told him Nefertari had seen it, too. If the foreigner dared offend … Ramses focused his concentration on the two and leaned forward to hear their words.
“Your hair was still in a side-lock last time we dined together. Such a little girl you were.” The foreigner belched and wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand before reaching for a stuffed quail. “You played the sistrum and danced naked for us.” He licked his thick lips. “I hoped you would dance tonight. I often think of that performance.”
Ramses saw Merit-Amun’s amber eyes become narrow slits. His daughter’s expression should have warned the fool that his comments offended her.
Merit-Amun stiffened and examined her hands as if to admire a new ring.
“I dance only in the temple for Amun or the goddess Hathor.”
Ramses frowned. The foreigner overstepped the bounds of courtesy, becoming too personal with a royal.
“I wish I could hear you play again.”
“Impossible.”
A boisterous laugh from nearby drowned the man’s words, and when Ramses could hear again, the man’s mouth was full, his attention on the table of delicacies.
Ramses looked at Nefertari staring at the man and knew what he would command. Only when she believed her children were threatened did her face look as it did now—cold and hard as marble. It was most unwise to displease his beloved. Nothing and no one distressed her … and lived.