Amun’s Message, Pt. 2
Synopsis: Mekhayt, the Oracle of Isis, has agreed to assist a young nobleman in marrying Pharaoh’s daughter. The catch? She gets to come to the palace and meet Pharaoh, an honor forbidden to commoners.
Some of this is historically accurate. Other things have been changed for plot purposes. The gods and magic were real.
They entered a pillared courtyard, the column caps shaped like blooming lotuses, where Nakht’s blue and red litter waited. The brilliant, burning light of Ra hurt Mekayht’s eyes. Sweat, a thing all denizens of the Two Lands knew, immediately beaded on her forehead.
Nakht helped her in, his bearers asking no questions, before squeezing into the chair himself. The heat became intense with another body pressed against her. At least the litter had a canopy. Nakht didn’t drop its curtains, allowing a breeze.
“To my father’s estate,” he instructed the bearers.
Mekhayt couldn’t stop herself from watching the busy city life around her as their litter wove its way through. The stench of Pi-Ramesses almost overwhelmed her incense accustomed nose. They passed a temple to Set, God of War, that comforting odor coming over her once more before returning to the feces, garbage and sweat of the unpurified populace. Being a bound priestess of Isis wasn’t such a bad thing.
The bearers swung down a side-street, before arriving at the gated entrance to a manor. A guard called out a warning, and one of Nakht’s servants replied. The wooden doors opened, and allowed them into the clean, flower-scented gardens. They were set down under a shaded overhang. Servants appeared, holding cooling ostrich fans and offering cucumber water.
A shaven-headed man approached, and Nakht said to him, “Ramose, this is Mekhayt, my Sister. Please give her all she may need or want. I’m running to the palace, and will return shortly.”
Instructions given, Nakht returned to his litter.
Ramose cleared his throat, bringing her attention to him. Nakht had referred to her as ‘Sister’, an honorific for any woman. The steward’s eyes flicked from detail to detail, resting on Mekhayt’s shell necklace. “Is there anything I may do for the Lady?”
“I’m not a noble.”
“I noticed. But I’ve been instructed to attend to your every need.” He tipped his head. The kohl about his eyes glistened. “What can I do for you?”
She breathed in the soft scent of lilies and jasmine on the air. “A shrine and some incense to set before it. For prayers.”
Ramose led her to a cool, dark room, containing a shrine to Amun. The god was gilded with gold, his tall feathered crown exquisitely detailed, an ankh in one hand, a Was staff in the other. Not who Mekhayt wished to talk to.
Ramose brought her a small chest filled with black balls of frankincense, along with a censor.
Instead of leaving, the steward went to the back of the room, his eyes on her.
She said, “Can’t you tell from my necklace that I’m a sorceress? If you don’t leave immediately, I shall curse you.”
Ramose practically sprinted in his haste to escape. Satisfied, Mekhayt turned to her task.
She placed an incense ball in the bronze hand of the long censor, lit it from the flame of the room’s only lamp, and then blew it out. Fragrant smoke floated up.
She eased herself down in front of the god. Her shells rattled as she moved back and forth, humming a soft tune of devotion, willing Amun to her presence. She waited for a sign from the statue. How would this venture of hers progress? Surely this one digression would not make her heart heavier than Ma’at’s feather?
No motion came from the god. She closed her eyes and danced harder, her shells clinking to please the god’s ears. She sang so her voice reached into every shadowed corner of the room. When she opened her eyes, she again saw no change.
With a breath of annoyance, she gave up. Mekhayt had never thought much of Amun, King of the Gods. He possessed no time for little people such as her.
She set the sensor at the god’s feet, the sweet smoke billowing directly up to Amun’s golden nostrils. Mekhayt pushed herself to her feet, her knees cracking. Her heart thumped from the exercise. She straightened her skirt and turned to the door, to find that fool steward.
A metallic clink came from behind. The censor had tipped over, and the incense rolled toward her feet. The burning ball bounced off her sandal. She hissed in pain. A bad omen. Her eyes moved to Amun. He held his ankh out to her, granting her life. There could be no better sign.
She walked to the statue, to peer at the god’s face. His faint smile had transformed to a grin, an unbecoming look for a serious god. Such a confusing message would probably make any being, divine or mortal, laugh. However, before her eyes could fully read the god’s face, loud voices came from behind, distracting her.
The door burst open, making her jump. Nakht, followed by a young woman, came in.
“Priestess!” he said, “May I introduce you to the Princess Nedjemmut?”
Mekhayt stared stupidly at the beautiful, delicate creature in front of her. She dropped as fast as her arthritic knees would allow, her nose on the ground. “Princess, I am honored beyond words.”
“Please stand, Oracle. Nakht tells me your name is Mekhayt?” Nedjemmut’s voice possessed a pleasant, husky sound, not girlish as she expected.
Nakht helped her up again. Mekhayt dusted her knees, huffing from exertion. She placed a hand to her chest. Her heart beat too fast. “Yes, Princess. It is. You have something you wish me to do?”
“Indeed. I need you to make my father lose a game of senet!” Nedjemmut smiled, showing her perfect white teeth. Exorbitantly expensive spells had encouraged them to grow that way. Mekhayt held her lips tightly over her own age-darkened teeth.
The princess swept in close, and gave Mekhayt a tight embrace. “Nakht has already told me everything. We thank you for your help. I’ve brought along three of my best, and close-lipped, maids. They will make you readied to attend the Great One’s feast tonight.”
Nedjemmut leaned back, keeping her hands on Mekhayt’s shoulders. Before letting go, she squeezed until her delicate fingers dug in. “You will succeed. I have every confidence.”
Mekhayt nodded her agreement, uncertain how else to respond.
“I must return to the palace,” Nedjemmut loosened her grip. “I’m not supposed to be here. I will meet you at the feast.” The princess led Mekhayt out of the room to where three female servants waited, and then disappeared, preventing any more questions.
Mekhayt looked at Nakht. “Feast?”
“Pharaoh celebrates the twentieth anniversary of his victory at Kadesh tonight, entertaining with food and dances. Afterward, he and I will play senet.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Feasts are nothing unusual.”
A royal feast. Her there, witnessing. A sense of unreality came over her as the servants escorted her to a bathing room.
Nedjemmut’s women gently scrubbed Mekhayt down and washed her hair. Once finished rinsing, the women bound her hair into a tight bun. The servants slapped away her hands when she attempted to tug at it, one of them telling her, “No, it needs to stay this way. To fit the wig.”
When they guided her into a dressing room, she gasped at the glory of the long black tresses on a display rest. The tight braids would reach past her breasts when worn.
They painted her chest and nipples first, a sensation she almost couldn’t stand. She sucked in air when they slipped a dress so finely woven you could see through it over her head, then blew out again when the wig was fitted on.
Her sense of foreboding grew stronger when they placed exquisite jewelry in her ears, and on her fingers and arms. To falsify her status was to break Pharaoh’s law, to break Pharaoh’s law was to defy ma’at.
Hapi, God of the Nile, in a delicate painting on the wall, shook his head at Mekhayt’s daring. Willfully Mekhayt held her head up, not hiding her transgression from the god’s accusing eyes.
A heavy blue and red collar was placed over her shells. She refused their removal, they had to remain on for her safety. But, by Apep, did the wearing of both hurt her neck. No matter, she would suffer for beauty.
Finished, the servants brought a gleaming copper mirror for Mekhayt. Hathor had been molded into the handle, and the gentle cow goddess’s eyes glared at her as Mekhayt examined herself. It was hard to admire the heavy kohl, her blue lapis lazuli dust coated eyelids, and the golden ankh earrings, with those divine eyes staring accusingly up. Mekhayt handed the mirror back.
One of the servants left. When she returned, she said, “If you’ll accompany me, Lord Nakht is eager to begin the trip across the river to the palace.”
With a nod, Mekhayt stood and followed the servants out the door, to where Nakht waited. He had bathed and repainted himself, and wore a fresh kilt, shot through with gold thread and starched to a triangle shape before him. A short man’s wig covered his hair, and his skin exuded perfume so strong it overwhelmed the nose.
He examined her. “No one will know you aren’t what my eyes say you are — a noble lady.” He gave her hand a squeeze. Mekhayt’s treacherous heart fluttered as he smiled. “Your grace and strength will fool all. Even me!”
Mekhayt understood why Nedjemmut wanted to leave the palace for this man. She would give up her power, and about twenty-five years, to marry him herself.
Nakht led them through the house, back to the courtyard. He talked incessantly, which Mekhayt couldn’t decide was endearing or irritating. The history of his family apparently went back to the rising of the first mound of earth itself. She felt relief when they walked outside, a view of the river sweeping before her.
Several water-craft were tied to the mansion’s private stone and wood dock. The crew waited before a small luxury barque, constructed of invaluable hardwood, the Eye of Horus emblazoned in silver on the side.
“I’ve never seen such an expensive thing as this!” Mekhayt said.
Nakht laughed, and held her hand as they boarded the craft. “Then you should see my father’s other one. He took it on business.”
The brilliant gold etched oars extended toward the water. The time-keeper clapped and sang a gentle beat and the oars dipped down. She scarcely felt the boat’s movement, the oarsmen were so smooth.
Not even Nakht spoke as the glory of the river and the city of Pi-Ramesses spread before them. Boats of every size and shape floated by, from gold-trimmed barques to simple fishermen’s craft. Water fowl, hippopotami, and crocodile went by. They passed great estate after great estate, each with its own dock dipping into the river. Square temple pylons rose from among the buildings, some of which belonged to Isis, her home.
Too soon, they turned up a wide canal, entering into the sacred precincts of Pharaoh’s palace. Servants dressed in the white and blue livery of Pharaoh helped tie off. The oars were retracted, a wide plank slid out, and they disembarked.
A shaven-head man, with a white ribbon of rank tied around his forehead, approached. He bowed, which Nakht deeply returned. Mekhayt observed this new man dressed in the attire of a steward.
He raised his painted palms in welcome. “Greetings, Lord Nakht, son of Urihiya, Mayor of Pi-Ramesses, Counter of Amun’s Cattle, Royal Messenger of the Hills…”
Mekhayt ceased listening as the man droned on. His first question would be concerning her. She needed him to forget he should care, and murmured a spell — “Assist me, great mother Isis, protect me as you protect your beloved son, Horus. Place upon this man forgetfulness!”
The steward stopped speaking and stood still, his eyes gone unfocused.
Nakht waved enthusiastically toward Mekhayt. “This is my Sister, Mekhayt. She is visiting from Thebes. I felt it would be wrong to leave her when she could be here, at the feast. Mekhayt, this is Paheri, Steward of the Lord of the Two Lands.”
“Your noble father didn’t mention an extra guest.” Paheri’s words were soft and slurred.
“I’m not sitting with my father tonight, he won’t be coming.”
After a few moments, the longest of Mekhayt’s life, Paheri said, “Very well. Welcome. Enjoy the feast. Nakht, Pharaoh wishes to see you after dinner, and asked me to remind you.”
Mekhayt let out a sigh. Nakht guided them both away, his eyes wide. “Did you do that?”
She nodded.
“Incredible.” He took her elbow. “Walk beside me. A noble lady walks neither ahead of a man, nor behind.”
Where this ridiculous idea to help these young people and go to the palace came from, Mekhayt didn’t know, but it was certainly poorly made. Stress sat on her like a stubborn donkey as Nakht led her on. She wished for nothing more than to return to her temple, chant the evening prayers to her goddess, curl up on her pallet in her cell of forty years, and go to sleep. Unfortunately, she could only walk further ahead, deeper into doom.
Scents of lotus, lily, and jasmine, burning oil and wicks rose to greet her as they entered a large gate. Guards stood on either side of the gilded wood doors. The helmeted men didn’t bother with greeting either her or Nakht. She eyed the sharp spears in their hands, the long daggers in their belts. She silently prayed to Isis, and kept her magic close.
Gold and silver glittered everywhere — on the walls themselves, furnishings, and around the necks, wrists and upper arms of the many nobles in attendance. No wall had been left unpainted, even the ceilings were covered with stars, interspersed with rug-like patterns, as if they boated on the Nile. Isis and Nephthys, the vulture goddess Nekhbet, Amun, Set, Ptah, Horus, all the gods of Egypt witnessed her walk past.
Alabaster lamps, so thinly carved that light from the burning wick inside flickered through the white stone, lit the hallways. Ra dipped toward the horizon, the light’s rosy glow coming in through doors and windows.
Nedjemmut appeared from a garden door, dressed like a goddess in the flesh, her skin dusted with gold, her wig woven with hair dyed lapis lazuli blue. Her gown was red, cut below her breasts, and so tight she could take only the tiniest of steps.
Mekhayt witnessed the desire and longing in both Nakht’s and Nedjemmut’s eyes as they stared at each other.
Nakht bowed and said, “Aren’t the gardens lovely today, Princess?”
“The gardens are always lovely in the palace, Lord Nakht.” Nedjemmut reached out a hand, placing it on Nakht’s arm, a smirk on her lips. “Can’t a dashing young nobleman come up with anything more interesting to discuss than this? If not, you shall surely bore me to death.”
Feigning hurt, he took Nedjemmut’s hand in his own. “Exalted lady of my eye, I would rather die than ever kill you with boredom. Allow me to try again?”
Isis forbid. The lovebirds did a poor job of pretending that nothing went on between them.
Nedjemmut leaned farther in, and pressed herself against Nakht. Another noble, passing by, raised an eyebrow.
“Stop.” Mekhayt forced a hand between them. “What is your goal here? To be caught mere hours before your chance to be publicly together?”
“Get your hands off us, peasant.” The expression on Nedjemmut’s face was of fury.
Mekhayt left her hand in place. “I could turn and leave, right now. Goodbye and good luck, royalty or no.”
“The guards would stop you.”
“I would tell them exactly who I am, how I came to be here, and who made a large donation to the temple to make sure I came tonight.”
“Enough, ladies.” Nakht pulled back, but kept his hands on Nedjemmut’s arms. “She’s right. Why ruin this? We’re so close, what are a few moments more?”
“Like an eternity.” She looked at Mekhayt and said, “That necklace of gold, the earrings, bracelets, the wig, gown, all of it is yours to keep. If you let me hold Nakht’s arm as we enter.” The princess smirked. “And we get to sit next to each other.”
“You flatter me, assuming I have such power.”
Nedjemmut’s crushed expression alleviated Mekhayt’s annoyance.
“Lucky for you, Princess, I do.” Mekhayt smiled at the glow on the princess’s face. “But do nothing else, understood? I beg of you.”
“Yes, of course!”
Nakht waved them on. “Come, let us take a seat.”
Mekhayt followed, whispering spells under breath, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath coming shorter. If she survived this night, her Ka would be exhausted from using so much magic.
Nothing, not even the sight of all that gold and silver, prepared her for the feast room. Many of the tables, inlaid with gold, ivory and ebony, with gilded chairs of acacia wood set about them, were already filled by nobles, whose wigs and jewelry gleamed in the dusk light.
Servants approached, and Nakht and Nedjemmut leaned down, allowing fragrant lotus flowers to be tied around their foreheads.
When a servant boy came to Mekhayt, flowers in hand, she reluctantly bent down to allow him to tie one on. She kept a hand on her necklace, holding it still, in order not to reveal the cowrie shells underneath.
Finished, the boy walked off, and Nedjemmut and Nakht moved to a table. Mekhayt sensed interested eyes. Whispers rose around them like a flood.
She wiggled her fingers and cast a spell, “Oh mistresses of the house, Isis, Ma’at, Bast, Mut, Hathor, I call upon you. Save us from harm, protect us when I, Mekhayt, call upon you. Make us hidden like geese in the thickest of marshes!”
The curious eyes turned away, the voices changed their tune. No one looked at them as they sat together at a small table, the princess wedged in between.
All eyes but one pair, that is. Mekhayt turned her own gaze in the direction of an aura so great, no one could ignore it. The guests stood and bowed in respect.
Pharaoh emerged from a double door, his highest ranked wives behind him. Nedjemmut reached out and took Mekhayt’s hand, and squeezed it in fear. Pharaoh wore the Nemes headdress, the blue and white stripes surrounding his still handsome, but aging, face. Nekhbet and Wadjet, the vulture and cobra of Upper and Lower Egypt, rested on his forehead. Their eyes glittered in hostility.
Mekhayt gasped and grabbed at her chest as her sight forcefully changed to Other. Pharaoh’s aura glowed white and blue, overwhelming all who surrounded him. Wadjet’s long body coiled about his head, and Nekhbet’s vulturine feathers swept down to touch his shoulders. They hissed in warning at her — be careful what you do here, mortal.
Behind his head, one clawed foot resting on each shoulder, stood the hawk of Horus. This bird watched her, and shifted its gaze away once he’d seen enough.
The weight of the gods themselves rested upon Pharaoh’s shoulders. Mekhayt couldn’t imagine carrying such a burden.
With a wave of his hand, Pharaoh acknowledged all, and took his seat on a raised chair beneath a canopy, two of his wives sitting beside him.
Mekhayt struggled to catch her breath as her sight returned to normal. The sense of awe proved difficult to fend off. Only when Pharaoh waved a bald-headed man over to him, his eyes in their direction, did she manage to bring herself under control. The King must be seeing through her spells.
The bald man turned his head to them, bowed to Pharaoh, and backed away.
“That is Hatiay, one of my father’s viziers. Stop him.” Nedjemmut hands squeezed together, eyes wide with worry.
To ‘stop’ someone wasn’t what Mekhayt did, but making people interested in something else posed no problem. She just needed an idea for what. “What comes next tonight?”
Nakht answered. “Music and food. Not necessarily in that order.”
“Both, then.”
Chanting a new spell, she summoned the gods. Servants came bounding through the doors, carrying golden plates heaped with food. With a word, Mekhayt changed a waiter’s direction ever so slightly, his plates coming unbalanced. All came crashing down, meat and sauce flying in all directions, but especially on the brilliant white robes of the approaching vizier Hatiay.
The entire banquet went abruptly silent. Hatiay mustered as much dignity as a food-covered man could, and said, “Pharaoh wishes for the feast to begin.”
The line of servants went to the dais first, offering tidbits to the king, then the wives. Another line of servants started moving towards the area she sat in. It took all Mekhayt’s willpower to keep from overindulging. Duck in pomegranate sauce, fig and cucumber salad, wine of fig, wine of grape, dark beer, she tasted all.
The music abruptly changed to a faster beat. Bells, many of them, approached from outside the banquet hall. Female dancers came in from all entrances, wearing nothing but belts, bracelets and anklets hung with ringing copper bells. Mekhayt counted eight young women, leaping and twirling their way to the banquet hall’s center.
The dancers dashed around the line of food bearing servants, and assembled in the center of the room. One of them, a woman of intense beauty, her tightly-braided hair tumbling down to her buttocks, stepped forward and bowed to Pharaoh. He grinned in anticipation.
A finger poked into her belly, making Mekhayt jump.
“That’s Amunet,” Nedjemmut whispered. “Father has taken a real liking to that rhythm-twisting harlot. Don’t let him decide to take her back to his room, he must play senet tonight.”
Mekhayt looked again at the dancing girl and the people on the dais. Both wives seated with Pharaoh frowned.
Nakht leered, and Nedjemmut jabbed him in the belly as she’d done to Mekhayt. With a final glare for Nakht, who smiled and rubbed where she’d poked him, Nedjemmut placed a hand on Mekhayt’s arm.
The musicians struck up a louder tune. Together the dancing girls lifted their feet, stomped and leapt, their bells chiming in unison. With a coordinated spin and twist, they stopped and leaned backwards, exposing themselves before the crowd.
This was rather more than Mekhayt expected. She whispered to Nedjemmut, “The temple never has dances like this.”
A pinch made Mekhayt suck air. “Focus, priestess. A spell to distract Father.”
Mekhayt knew the perfect spell for this situation. She’d never gotten to use it before. Eyes focused on Pharaoh, she brought her hands together, and said, “Atum, Oh ancient one, close the eyes of the one before me. Let him know not the strength of Min. Make his male-bone limp, place him like a fluttering bird into my hands.”
Magic pulsed through the banquet hall. Pharaoh’s eyes appeared glossed, his interest waning. Apparently, even a Living-God could be manipulated by the strength of her spells.
Mekhayt’s shell necklace rattled in warning. A woman at another table made the sign against isfet, the eye of Horus — her pointer and middle finger to her thumb, the other two straight out and pointing down — in Mekhayt’s direction.
Slowly lifting her hand, Mekhayt pointed at this noble woman, whose eyes widened in fear. Mekhayt opened her mouth, as if to recite a spell, but with a squeal of fright the other woman left her chair and dashed out into the garden. Her stunned husband watched, then shrugged and sipped his beer.
With a smirk, she turned toward the dais again. The queens were gone, and a different man, wearing a sorcerer’s leopard pelt, sat on Pharaoh’s right.
A chill came over her. Mekhayt guessed who this was — Beken, High Priest of Set, and a formidable magician in his own right.
“We’re caught, it’s over.” She grabbed Nedjemmut’s hand. “I knew we would have trouble.”
“What do you mean?” Nedjemmut’s grip tightened, and Nakht leaned over, his eyes wide.
The dance continued, the lead girl, Amunet, swirling and sashaying in doubled effort. Cymbals and drums beat a faster rhythm.
“I prayed to Amun when waiting in Nakht’s manor, and the god sent me a confusing message. We never should have done this tonight.”
Nedjemmut began to stand in her anger. “No! This isn’t over. I refuse to accept such a cowardly action from you.”
The dance came to a sudden end, the music ceasing, the feast stopping, as all guests came to their feet. Pharaoh stood, and raised his arms for silence.
On the floor, Amunet’s chest heaved from effort. All eyes were on Pharaoh, to hear what, or who, his entertainment for the night would be. He announced, “My Children, we will retire. Please, continue to enjoy the food, music and the dances of Amunet.”
A man’s voice said from behind them, “Noble Nakht, Princess, esteemed guest, Pharaoh invites you to his apartments. He owes Nakht a game of senet. He doesn’t want any of you to miss it, as it must be why you came tonight.”
Fright went down Mekhayt’s spine, and she tightened her hands.
Author’s notes:
Ma’at is the Goddess of Truth, Justice, and the Proper Order of Things. Ma’at is also a complicated concept, one central to understanding Ancient Egyptian thinking. The opposite to ma’at is isfet, Chaos and Evil. One of Pharaoh’s duties was to preserve ma’at, and prevent isfet.
I’ve created all spells in the story, but they are based upon real Ancient Egyptian spells and curses.
Love it? Yay! Hate it? Email me at TheOraclesSpells@gmail.com, with the subject heading ‘Curse me!’ and I’ll send you a personalized Egyptian curse! (Details, like if your male or female, will help.)
