She fought the two guards mightily, but was powerless against them. They dragged her to the other side of the island, where five large sailing boats floated offshore.
‘Meemoo!’ she yelled, but a callused hand pressed against her mouth.
She was placed upon a papyrus raft and was piloted to the prow of the largest boat in the fleet. The men lifted her aboard and ushered her past seven massive oars and through an entrance to a long cabin that sat atop the wooden deck.
There was no seeing in the cabin at first. The rich smell of incense assaulted her senses, and she could hear the soft musical clinking of chimes. As her eyes adjusted to the low light she beheld a space like none she had ever seen. Thick, luxurious carpets and massive cushions covered the floors, and the walls were decorated with richly coloured tapestries. There were small low tables stationed throughout the room. Upon them sat glazed earthen pitchers, and platters overflowing with fruits, nuts and breads. Above it all several high, thin windows let in rays of sunlight that bounced off the gilded furnishings.
For a moment Kiya thought she had died and been transported to the heavenly quarters of some benevolent god. Then she felt the squeeze of the guards’ grips upon her arms. She strained against them, fighting to free her arms as they escorted her across the room. The guards motioned to a stack of cushions and bade Kiya sit, but she refused.
What was this floating temple of opulence? What richly decorated prison lay before her eyes?
In the corner of the room, a tall, ornately dressed bald man watched her from the shadows. ‘It is useless to fight,’ said the man. ‘You must resign yourself to your fate.’
‘What fate?’
The man did not answer. With a quick nod he dismissed the guards, who exited through the curtained archway onto the outer deck.
‘Who are you?’ Kiya growled.
‘I am Imhoter,’ said the man.
He stepped from the shadows and bowed low. His long robe was as white as Khufu’s tomb. He held its wide sleeves together in a priestly manner, concealing his hands. Kiya observed the finely embroidered skin of a leopard, the symbol of a high priest, adorning the robe’s thick edging. The only part of his body that that was not covered by cloth was his head, which was so well-shaven it shone like a copper bowl even in the somnolent shadows.
‘Where am I?’
‘Look around,’ said Imhoter. ‘Where do you think you might be? Think hard, for the owner of this ship does not fancy a fool.’
Kiya observed the richly decorated room. Feeling the holy man’s eyes upon her, she sought clues to the occupant’s identity. He must be quite highborn indeed, she thought, to be able to afford such finery. Kiya knew nothing about the Khemetian aristocracy, except that they lived in palaces and villas and floated about the streets of Memphis in litters borne by slaves.
‘If I guess incorrectly will you let me go?’ she asked.
‘An interesting question. Already you show cleverness,’ said Imhoter. ‘But, nay, I will not let you go.’
Kiya felt as if she were being put to a test that she did not wish to pass. Still, she would not have the priest believing her a fool.
Her eyes scanned the cabin’s adornments, searching for clues. On one table she noticed a gold pitcher, displaying a hieroglyphic relief. Kiya could not read hieroglyphs, but she recognised two of the symbols easily enough: a sedge plant and a bee. The symbols of Upper and Lower Khemet.
Next to the pitcher, a platter of finely glazed faience pottery held a pile of kebabs. Kiya’s mouth watered as she admired the succulent cubes of recently cooked mutton and drank in their earthy scent. Since the beginning of the drought only the most landed nobles had been able to afford to consume meat. Kiya spied plates that held other meats—duck and perhaps gazelle. Clearly the owner of the boat possessed land.
Behind her she beheld a beautiful tapestry. It depicted two women: one with the head of a cobra, the other with the head of a vulture. They were the Goddesses Wadjet and Nekhbet—the celestial guardians of Upper and Lower Khemet, the Ladies of the Two Lands. It seemed safe to say that the owner of the boat was part of the Khemetian government, probably quite high up. The King’s vizier, perhaps? Or some very powerful nomarch?
It wasn’t until she beheld the small wooden statue of a falcon-headed man that she realised just how high up.
‘I am on King Khufu’s ship?’ Kiya asked, disbelieving.
‘That’s a good girl,’ said the priest. ‘In fact you are in King Khufu’s living quarters. His sleeping quarters are on another ship. You see, the Great River was too low for the royal barge. I think these smaller vessels serve admirably, though, don’t you?’
The priest was speaking to her as if she had been ferried about on ships of gold her entire life. What could she possibly say in response? Yes, they are quite nice, good priest, though it would be well if the cushions were a bit larger.
Hem! Never in her life had Kiya beheld a space like this, let alone been allowed into it. She wondered what Tahar would think of this boat and felt her throat tighten.
‘This is a very nice vessel, yes,’ Kiya said carefully. ‘It is certainly worthy of His Royal Highness, King Khufu, Lord of the Two Lands.’ She was not sure if she had embellished enough so she added, ‘Horus Incarnate, Keeper of Khemet, He of Sedge and Bee, long may He reign.’
The priest nodded reverently, but she thought she could detect a slight smile dancing faintly across his lips. ‘I am the King’s Advisor and Holy Seer, though I admit that I have not seen you in any vision.’
The priest was unusually tall and exuded strangeness, as if he had come from another world, and yet there was something familiar about him.
‘Am I a prisoner?’ Kiya whispered.
‘Far from it,’ he said.
She straightened herself and spoke with firmness. ‘Well, there must be some mistake. I am not royal. I am not even highborn. Good priest, I do not belong here.’
‘Speak no more, silly woman. Of course you belong here. You were chosen by the King himself.’
The priest seemed to be floating across the room towards her.
‘The Gods have set you upon a path far more important than whatever path you travelled before,’ he explained.
He stopped just inches from where Kiya stood, and she had to tilt her head to see all of him. There he was, looming above her like the spectre of a god.
‘In a few short hours you will break bread with the King of Khemet. In this very room.’
What? Kiya felt herself grow dizzy. To balance herself, she grasped the holy man’s arm. This couldn’t be. She needed to return to Meemoo and her grain. She needed to make camp and a fire. Something to signal to Tahar if he should come for her.
What if Tahar should come for her?
The priest placed his cool, soft hand on her arm. ‘Do not fear for your beast or any of your possessions. They are being cared for.’
Kiya gazed up at the holy man’s impassive face. This could not be happening. Tahar might still be alive. Even now he might be on his way. If he arrived upon Abu and did not find her, what would he think? Perhaps he would simply give up. Or, worse, he would comb the island in search of her and instead find the tips of soldiers’ spears. And when they noticed Tahar’s Libu scar? What then? They would surely place him in bonds—that was if they did not simply slay him on sight.
‘Whoever he is, Hathor, you must let him go now,’ the priest said, reading Kiya’s mind. ‘The next few hours will be the most important of your life. You must not speak to the Living God unless he speaks to you. You must never turn your back to him—not even if you have been dismissed. I pray that you will not be dismissed, however.’
‘Dismissed? What do you mean?’ Kiya’s skin prickled.
‘I mean only that you should try to win the King’s favour. Many have endeavoured; all have failed. You will likely fail. But let us not speculate. Only the Gods know what is meant to be. That is all I will say.’
A perfectly manicured hand poked out from under his sleeve. He reached for a bell and rang it. Seconds later a small woman stood in the doorway. She wore a plain white tunic and a striking black wig that framed her face and accentuated her large brown eyes. They stared at Kiya in wonder, then quickly looked at the floor.
‘This is Neferdula,’ explained Imhoter. ‘She is a gifted artist whose job it is to paint the face of the King. She will also paint your face.’
The woman bowed.
‘Neferdula will groom you for your encounter. She will bathe you and clothe you and anoint you properly. She will also explain how you should comport yourself. You must do as she says. Do you understand?’
Kiya nodded.
‘Now I will leave you to begin,’ Imhoter said, nodding to Neferdula. ‘It takes time to create a goddess—though I must say you have quite a remarkable start.’
Kiya was stunned. A goddess? She was a beggar, a nobody. A boy. Was the priest in his right mind?
‘Excuse me, good priest, but do you mean that the King wants to break bread with me?’
Imhoter lifted an eyebrow. ‘He wishes to break bread with Hathor, Goddess of Love and Abundance, Mother of the Flood. Do you understand?’
Kiya flushed. So she was to be an imposter once again. She felt dizzy. She could hide amongst tomb workers and disappear into the streets of Memphis. But to pretend before the Living God...? This was a ruse she could not sustain. She did not even know how to address him. She did not how to move or speak or even breathe in his royal presence.
She found Neferdula’s eyes. Do not fear, they told Kiya. I will make you into Hathor.
‘Yes, I understand.’
Kiya felt a rush of gratitude towards Neferdula, followed by a pang of longing for Tahar. What if she did not wish to be made into Hathor? What if she wished to return to a certain oasis, deep in the desert? What if what she really wanted was to strip off all her disguises and curl her body into a certain desert trader’s big embrace?
Naked. Playing the role of herself.
‘The King will arrive at sunset,’ said Imhoter, closing the door to the cabin. ‘Try to please him, Hathor. I dare say the future of Khemet is in your hands.’
‘But why? How?’
‘If you are as clever as you seem, Goddess, then you shall see. You shall see.’