‘See what your efforts have wrought, Nomarch.’ Ankhu smiled. ‘The whole of this great city celebrates your achievements on this auspicious day.’

  Piay nodded courteously, but Taita could see he took no pleasure in Ankhu’s words.

  The musicians who would accompany the dignitaries through the Memphis streets hurried to join the party. As the drummer, the three trumpeters and the two sistrum-shakers proceeded to the front of the line, they glanced curiously at Taita – the great mage’s presence clearly filling them with awe.

  After a few moments, the shemayet from the Temple of Hathor strode through the gate with her lyre, ready to lead the procession. Hathor was the great goddess, Mother of Ra and exemplar of femininity and beauty. Taita thought approvingly that this servant of hers was a worthy ambassador. The shemayet dazzled in an amber dress with an ochre sash, her eyes framed in the same honey shade and her delicate oval features emphasised by a black shoulder-length wig.

  ‘A beauty to make the gods jealous,’ Taita murmured to Piay.

  But as Taita had expected, the nomarch only grunted in reply. ‘Begin the procession!’ he ordered.

  The drummer began to pound the hide of his instrument. As the thumping beat rang out beyond the palace walls and across the city, the shemayet plucked a winding tune from her lyre and, in time to the drum, the procession stepped out of the palace grounds and into the broad street that led to the Temple of Hathor.

  The residents of the city rushed from their homes at the sound of the drum, chanting Hathor’s name. Those who lined the avenue raised their cups high as the procession passed, slopping beer over one another and out into the street. Every eye was drawn to the shemayet’s beauty, or so it seemed to Taita.

  ‘Nomarch! Nomarch! Nomarch!’ they cried as they spotted Piay.

  Many must have been drinking before the sun had risen, Taita decided, noting their glazed eyes and stumbling gait with an amused smile. And why not? It had been many years since the citizens of Memphis had been free to praise the great goddess properly. Today, they would celebrate life, and the Mother of Ra. And they would honour Piay.

  ‘Nomarch! Nomarch! Nomarch!’

  The cheers of the crowd echoed off the tall white buildings that lined the ancient streets, but when Taita glanced at Piay, he saw only resentment in his eyes. ‘May the face of the nomarch be alight with joy, to reflect the exultant spirits of those he governs,’ Taita advised. ‘Ankhu was right to observe that it is because of you that these streets ring with the sound of celebration. Do not give them reason to question your sincerity. That was a mistake your predecessor made, as I understand it.’

  Piay sniffed. ‘Zahur made many mistakes here.’

  ‘Nomarch! Nomarch! Nomarch!’ The cheering intensified and the throng thickened as the procession neared the Temple of Hathor.

  ‘Myssa did not die because you obeyed my instruction to come to Memphis, Piay.’

  Piay pursed his lips. ‘Perhaps not. But if I had not done so, she would not have, either.’ He scanned the joyous faces of the drunken revellers as they passed. ‘They have reason to celebrate today only because of her sacrifice.’

  ‘Do not hold this city accountable for her death.’

  ‘If not Memphis, then who?’ Piay turned and glared at his master.

  Taita was silent as they approached the Temple of Hathor, a massive flat-roofed building that stood at the centre of an enormous walled square. Six soaring stone columns held up the temple’s portico, each carved with the likeness of the sheaves of the barley from which the holy beer was brewed, and topped with the face of the goddess.

  The square was already full by the time they arrived, and Taita could hardly hear his own voice over the thunderous reception they received as they marched down the aisle that parted the raucous, euphoric crowd. Even though he had walked in many processions, on more feast days than he could recall, Taita had never seen an outpouring of joy to match this one, and he felt his heart lift.

  In their long white robes, the priests hovered in the deep shade under the portico. They were framed by an opening in the marble façade behind them: the door that led to the sanctum where the great goddess heard the whispered prayers of her supplicants.

  As soon as he saw the procession turn into the square, the chief priest stepped forward and thumped his staff on the ground three times.

  The priests of Hathor stepped aside in reverence as, from the depths of the temple, a magnificent golden bier studded with precious jewels appeared. In an instant the jubilant cacophony of the celebration abated, for no one would dare to risk offending the gods. As one, the multitude went quiet.

  The priest swung one arm into the air and announced in a resounding voice that thundered out over the crowd: ‘She comes! Mistress of the Sky, Mistress of the Stars, Mother of Ra!’

  The hush that had settled on the crowd became tense with anticipation, like the eerie calm before the onset of a storm. Across the square, not a single person moved. All eyes were fixed on the temple doorway.

  As the bier moved out into the sunlight, Piay saw that a statue of Hathor reclined upon it, her lustrous black hair cascading around her features, a sun disc headdress set between curling cow horns. In her right hand she carried the staff of power, a reminder that she was equal to the greatest of the male gods. In her left hand she held the ankh, the symbol of eternal life.

  At the sight of the mother goddess, every man, woman and child bowed their heads, and a thousand whispered prayers filled the air.

  ‘Hail the goddess,’ the chief priest boomed, ‘who crosses the boundary between the realm of the gods and the world of men to help the soul make its way to the afterlife.’

  ‘Hail Hathor, the Lady of Drunkenness!’ the crowd responded, the reply rippling across the square, followed by a jubilant cheer. Cups were raised and the beer tossed high, so that an amber rain fell across the crowd.

  ‘On this occasion, let each of us remember the day when all men were saved by beer!’ the chief priest announced, then stepped aside and gestured to the door of the temple.

  Taita smiled as the players who would perform the story of the birth of Hathor stepped out from inside the temple. At the head of the small group was a man dressed as Ra, wearing a silk robe dyed yellow, with a golden sun disc mounted behind his head. Four other players darted out to dance in front of him, tumbling and rolling and pinching one another under the watchful gaze of the goddess.

  Ah, those weak and feckless men, Taita thought with amusement as he watched, channelling the sentiment that he suspected the gods must have felt every time they were compelled to save mankind from itself.

  ‘I have grown weary of the cruelty of men and the petty games they play,’ Ra rumbled, scowling. ‘They do not value this world that has been given to them as a wondrous gift. They must be punished!’

  ‘Let me, Lord Ra!’ a female voice behind him cried. She wore the head of a lioness and a crimson dress.

  ‘Destroy them, Sekhmet!’ Ra commanded.

  The goddess stepped out and fell upon the group of men. With enthusiasm, she pretended to rip them apart – limbs made from parchment-bound reeds flew from the entrance to the temple and scattered around her victims. Sekhmet ducked down, the lion mask moving as if she was lapping at the blood she had spilled.

  Ra nodded, pleased with the destruction that had been wrought, but as he did so, two men and two women stepped forward and gripped his arms.

  Taita felt his spirits lift further when he saw that even Piay was smiling at the unfolding performance. He leaned in and whispered approvingly: ‘I would have thought the players here could never match the quality of those in Thebes.’

  Piay nodded, similarly impressed.

  ‘My Lord, this punishment goes too far!’ one of the women pleaded. On her head was a crown topped with a cow’s uterus. ‘If you wish to teach mankind a lesson, you should stop the destruction before there is no one left to learn it.’

  ‘You are right, Tenenet. But Sekhmet cannot be stopped.’

  ‘Let me help, Lord Ra.’

  The woman dressed as Tenenet turned and picked up a large bowl. Though Taita couldn’t see the contents, he knew, as all there knew, that it was beer.

  Tenenet set the bowl down amongst the scattered papyrus limbs, sunlight reflecting off the amber liquid inside. The woman flourished her arms above her head as if casting a spell, then threw her hands down towards the bowl. Those audience members close enough to see gasped as the liquid clouded and turned bright red.

  ‘See here, Sekhmet,’ Tenenet cried. ‘More blood for you to drink!’

  The lioness-headed goddess bounded over and pretended to lap up the contents of the bowl. After a few mouthfuls, she rolled her head drunkenly and then slipped to her side as she fell asleep.

  The shemayet strode forward, plucking at her lyre, as the other players whirled around the prone woman. After a moment, the sleeping goddess jerked awake, stretched, and removed her lioness head as she stood. Someone handed her a new headdress – the sun disc and cow horns, like the one worn by the statue on the bier.

  ‘See,’ the chief priest intoned, ‘Hathor is born. Mankind is saved from destruction by beer.’

  The crowd erupted in cheers.

  ‘Do it now,’ Taita urged Piay. ‘Make your announcement while the players and the priests still hold the crowd’s attention.’

  Piay moved forward until he stood beside the chief priest and looked out on the crowd from the top of the steps.

  ‘Before you begin your celebrations in earnest,’ the priest boomed, ‘I give you your nomarch, to whom we owe so much this day!’

  ‘Nomarch! Nomarch! Nomarch!’ the crowd roared, chanting its approval for the leader before them.

  ‘This Feast of Drunkenness is an auspicious day for Memphis.’ Piay’s voice thundered out resolutely. ‘The dark times are passing into memory. We stand on the threshold of a new beginning, an age of glory and joy and freedom from want, as the two kingdoms of Egypt are finally reunited.’

  A thousand rapt faces stared up at Piay. Taita watched, pleased with how he was conducting himself. For all his resentment and self-pity, Piay played the part of Nomarch of Memphis well.

  ‘Pharaoh has sent word through his Lord High Chancellor that Memphis is to be restored to the glory of ages past, that our historic city shall rise once more to the honoured position it held before the Hyksos came.’ Piay paused to gaze out across the faces in front of him. ‘Look around and you will see that already Pharaoh’s decree is coming to pass. The trade routes are open, the warehouses are full, and the treasures and priceless artifacts of our forebears are being returned. Even as I stand here before you, a caravan containing the sacred gold taken from the Temple of Ptah, a fortune greater in size than any yet returned, is making its way here from the desert wastes where the Hyksos buried it when they fled. The gods are smiling upon Memphis once again. This is a blessing beyond imagining!’

  As Piay finished his speech, the crowd responded to the nomarch’s words with a deafening roar of approval.

  ‘Well?’ Piay asked with raised eyebrows, returning to Taita’s side.

  ‘Your silver tongue has done just as I hoped.’

  Piay felt a warm wave of satisfaction wash over him. Suddenly it was as if he were a young boy again, receiving praise for his endeavours in Taita’s classroom.

  ‘Now,’ Piay said confidently, ‘we have to close the jaws of our trap.’

  • • •

  A

  s the day drew on, the beer flowed and the streets clogged with men and women, laughing and singing with joy. The stupefied slumped in doorways or lay in the shade beside their homes, grinning like fools as they watched the children chase the dogs, and the dogs chase the children.

  In the palace gardens, Taita watched as Piay stood at the base of Myssa’s monument.

  ‘She barely knew me at the end . . .’ Piay’s voice was thick with emotion as he gazed at the limestone memorial. ‘Akkan fed her the dream petals while she was his captive, and his potion changed her, somehow. She couldn’t, or wouldn’t, remember our love.’

  Taita’s brow wrinkled. ‘The petals of the blue lotus can be deceptive. They can afford great vision and communion with the gods, but administered by the wrong hands, they can just as easily blind and condemn their user to a distorted reality, separated from the world they once knew.’

  Piay’s shoulders sank and his gaze grew misty and distant. ‘I failed her. In coming to Memphis. In allowing myself to be deceived by Akkan. In permitting her capture by the Hyksos . . .’ He held out his palms, tears streaking down his face. ‘Her blood is on my hands.’

  Taita felt the weight of Piay’s anguish in his words and knew that any response must be delicate. Either his words would resonate and solidify into a staircase that Piay could climb in time, to escape the quagmire of his grief, or they would drive him further into it, and he would be lost.

  Turning away from Piay, Taita looked at Myssa’s monument. ‘From where Myssa sits now, she sees you clearly once more. Of that, I have no doubt. The blue lotus no longer clouds her mind. All that remains is love, which now transcends the mortal realm. Hold fast to that, and you will never be without her again.’

  Piay looked at Taita with surprise. ‘I didn’t think you could understand,’ he confessed. ‘But perhaps you do.’

  Taita smiled ruefully. ‘I was not always the man you have known. I was blessed to know the joys of a woman’s body, before I was gelded. And there was a time still after that when I loved very deeply, as you have. I could not love her in the way I wanted to, but, nevertheless, I too suffered great loss when she was taken from me. She told me, as she died, that she’d had only two great loves, and that I was one of them.’ His own eyes glistened with tears as he remembered how his mistress had closed her eyes, the sound of her last breath. ‘I carry her with me, on every quest the gods send me on.’

  ‘Lostris.’

  Taita nodded.

  • • •

  A

  s he limped through the quiet streets, Hannu kept his head down, but he had little cause for concern – the wretches who drifted past him seemed lost to their own worries. Many of them were from foreign lands – the olive-skinned people from the edge of the Great Green, and those who wore black hats like mushrooms, from the distant east. They were men and women who had drifted to Avaris when it had been a city filled with opportunity, and who were now marooned in its ruin.

  A stifling desperation hung in the air, and Hannu kept his fingers on the haft of his knife.

  In the shade of the towering walls of the governor’s palace, an angry mob had gathered, roaring at the administrators inside. Hannu watched them hurl chunks of masonry at the building, but he knew it would do little good – the palace was a fortress, the white walls thick and lofty. Once it had been a great source of Hyksos pride, the vast complex squatting on the edge of Avaris a prominent testament to the barbarians’ power. Now it was little more than an ugly vestige of what had been.

  Leaving the mob behind him, Hannu hurried away through the narrow lanes, past empty warehouses and deserted workshops.

  The sun had settled on the western horizon by the time he reached a tavern by the wall, which he had to assume was the one mentioned by the fisherman. The rooftops were ruddy in the dying light, and shadows pooled in the alleys. The day was almost gone.

  The tavern lay on the far side of a deserted courtyard, a long low building of clay bricks sweating the odour of stale beer into the twilight.

  Hannu’s nostrils flared as he stepped into the smoky interior. A dried sod of dung and straw smouldered in the hearth, and he counted twelve patrons sipping beer. Half of them sat together in pairs, while the remainder sat alone, gazing blankly ahead with the unfocused stares of those who wished for neither company nor conversation. One man leaned protectively over a bowl of wildfowl and onion stew, the juices dribbling down his chin as he sucked the bones hungrily.

  Hannu bought a cup of beer and settled at a corner table in the shadows, just beyond the lick of the lamplight. From this vantage point he could watch the comings and goings unnoticed. He sipped his beer and opened his ears to the low rustle of conversation, watching as customers drifted in and out.

  As the evening progressed, Hannu began to notice that the tavern was steadily growing more crowded, and in a curious way. Most of the new arrivals ordered neither food nor beer, but simply stood idly around the edges of the room, as if waiting for some event.

  Finally, a tall figure ducked inside, and immediately Hannu knew that he had come to the right place. The new arrival was dressed in an elegant black robe with a starkly contrasting white sash.

  Hannu watched the tall man carefully. He carried himself with the bearing of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed, but while he might have intimidated others, Hannu had taken orders from many men, and he knew immediately that this was no general. His eyes were bright, though hooded, and his features refined. Hannu surmised that he was either a priest or a scribe, perhaps a carrier of the book of ritual – or at least, he had been. What he was now, Hannu had yet to find out.

  It quickly became apparent that the man in the sash was not alone. Three other men, all broad-shouldered and bare-chested, followed him into the tavern, forming a screen between their master and the men who seemed to be awaiting him.

  As Hannu watched, the man in the sash took a seat at the table next to the fire. The innkeeper avoided eye contact with his new guest, clearly familiar enough with what was to happen next to know to leave him alone.

  Hannu narrowed his eyes as a lean, twitchy man – one of those who’d ordered nothing to eat or drink – scurried towards the man in the sash. The three guards quickly blocked his path, leaning in and interrogating the man, though Hannu couldn’t make out what was being said.

  Eventually, the muscled guards moved aside to allow the man to approach their master. As he stepped into the firelight, he bowed his head in deference. Then, without looking up, he began to speak quietly. After a few minutes, clearly satisfied with what he had heard, the man in the sash dipped his hand into a leather pouch that he had positioned on the table in front of him and pulled out what looked like some sort of talisman. The successful initiate’s hand quickly closed around it.