The loneliness and the conscience of being unable to find a solution on his own gnawed at him. His life needed movement, something to distract him and perhaps provide answers he couldn’t see on his own. Hiring another human messenger was out of the question after the last one had met his end.
Without further ado, Assou heaved himself to his feet. He would gather a few small things on his own; the exact details he needed. There had to be people in the palace who didn’t see Maathorneferure as a goddess. The slaves in her room had looked frightened. Perhaps a few of them had the courage to speak. The others would wait for better days; wither in the face of their mistress; and he couldn’t blame them.
Back in the corridors of the palace, the tjati set his sights on the kitchen. It was the secret meeting place for some slaves. Apart from that, he knew about the common room where they all came to rest. A room that was barely big enough for thirty people and yet housed them close together. In addition, there was the trusted area of the messengers where some poured their hearts out, and Assou knew every one of them well enough to know what they desired. Despite their lack of tongues and knowledge of reading and writing, they had become skilful. Each of them knew how to communicate. Even if very few of them watched the strange theatre they were putting on.
Near the kitchen, Assou turned off to push his way to the royal messengers’ room. The bored men had settled down at their table and carved the playing fields for Senet into the stone slab. One of them was throwing four throwing sticks when another turned to him. Assou gave them a smile. Then he came closer and watched as the men took their fate in this game into their own hands and pushed their little stone figures across the table. Always like an S-line, anxious to reach the hieroglyphs promising them good things. One man gestured to the vizier to sit down and join in.
Assou slowly sat down on a free chair and took one figurine set up at the edge. It resembled a small funnel that had been painted blue and black. Together with others, he placed it at the beginning before turning to one messenger and signalling for someone else to start.
“I’m surprised you’re using throwing sticks. Aren’t astragals more popular?” He had to start slowly, not slam the door.
The man next to him smiled before tapping his chest and putting a hand to his heart before swaying his upper body as if cradling a child. The way these men communicated was idiosyncratic. They didn’t have a language that each of them spoke in the same way, but they knew how to communicate. All it took was a free mind to put the individual movements together into a sentence.
“A gift from your mother, I see,” Assou put together. “A beautiful memory. I assume they are passed down in your family?”
The man nodded. Throwing sticks weren’t much. They had no value and yet in some families they were passed down as a memento. Assou had received wealth and education from his parents – everything he needed to become a worthy vizier one day. But none of this had the same sparkle as the love found in something as simple as throwing sticks.
When it was the tjati’s turn to throw the sticks, three of them landed on the flat side. That was three squares he was allowed to go. The others watched his figure before nodding and starting the next round.
“ So, do you hear much from the slaves of the palace?” Keeping his eyes on the counters, Assou asked his next question. He only lingered in this absence for a moment before turning back to the man on his right. He nodded his head, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left.
“So nothing has changed. The same as always.” Assou had to smile. “I almost thought more would whisper now that Maathorneferure has become part of the palace.” It was a shot in the dark. It was entirely up to the messengers to determine whether they would share the information he needed.
His fellow player shrugged his shoulders as expected before looking at Assou and grinning wryly. Then he raised his hands and wiggled his fingers as he tried to frame his face. Assou could guess he was referring to the beauty of the Third Great Royal Queen.
“Yes, she’s pretty to look at,” he agreed. He swallowed the bitter aftertaste. “But she comes from another country and sometimes I wonder if the slaves complain about that. After all, Maathorneferure has to acclimatise and Ramesses is worried she might have trouble with that. I don’t think I need to mention her health always seems a bit threatened in that regard.”
He would probably drown in his lies. At this second, they were already up to his neck. The people he always perceived with kindness didn’t deserve to be lied to. But the truth wasn’t the answer. It wasn’t what he could offer them. So he bowed his head and pressed his lips together for a moment.
“What’s more, the deceased messenger might have scared her off,” he continued, thinking about the boy who had sought death in the middle of his duties, even though nothing had ever happened. A problem that accompanied him, considering how short-sighted he was on some days.
When the messenger placed a hand on his shoulder, Assou dared to push his thoughts away and lift his gaze to look into the worried expression of the man who signalled it was his turn next. So he threw the sticks to move forward two squares and continue to stay on the path of life with his piece. Only then did he turn his attention back to the messenger, who tapped his lips. His fingers travelled to his eyes, his ears, and folded his hands before he bowed his head. It took a moment for Assou to interpret the signs. The man at his side explained to him that the eyes and ears of the palace sometimes talked about what had happened. They prayed, and they whispered.
“Do they?” More to himself than to his seatmate, Assou ran through the options. The slave girls near Maathorneferure were the most likely candidates in his search. Of all the people in this palace, they knew the most.
“Tell me,” he ticked off the Third Great Queen without further ado, “have you spotted a new royal messenger within these walls lately? He has black hair and wears flashy jewellery. Apart from that, his name is Maged. He seems to be a messenger boy of great desire.”
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The man stared at him for a few breaths. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he actually wanted to say something despite his lack of tongue, but all he could manage was a surprised chuckle. Then he shook his head and raised his hands simultaneously to ask Assou to wait. The vizier’s attention never wavered from the man, waiting spellbound for something he couldn’t place, and remained even when the old man hesitated. His shaky hands tried to mould images to replace simple words. He produced a series of movements Assou could only slowly piece together before raising his brows.
“You think he’s an intruder of the gods?” Eventually, the tjati had to follow up. The man’s nod gave him confirmation. “And you’re sure?”
The messenger waved his hands around again. Clear movements that told him it had happened before; that this boy had set foot in the palace before.
“Do you know why he did it?”
The man shook his head, only managing a feeble explanation – that this child, in all his splendour, had simply strutted into the palace and spoken words to a slave girl.
Assou tilted his head back thoughtfully. A strange messenger who had joined forces with a slave. Words none of the royal messengers had heard and yet, perhaps, they had been passed around. If it was true, maybe Dinem knew more about it.
Despite the information he had received, he stayed until the game was over. Only then did he break away from the community and step back into the corridors of the palace. A few slaves scurried past. The groans of a few of them rang in his ears as he found them cleaning the floor with scraps of worn cloth. A few of them eyed him. Others didn’t care about his presence, and it was hard to believe that Maathorneferure hadn’t whispered to them.
It was only in the kitchen that they took their eyes off him. All that remained was a man and two women, busily tending to the food and hurrying from one corner to the next. Heat was building up in the room, eating through his clothes and driving sweat onto his forehead.
“Vizier, can we help you?” One woman noticed him on the sidelines and briefly put her work aside to bow. Assou waved her off.
“I’m just here to find out if any of you know anything about an errand boy who wears flashy jewellery and doesn’t belong to this palace.”
“An errand boy?” His counterpart tilted her head before she furrowed her brows and shook her mop of short hair. “No one here knows anything about that. But perhaps the slaves who are often seen in the corridors know more. Forgive us for not being able to help you.”
He waved again before forcing himself to smile. Those who worked in the kitchen hardly knew any other room. Yet it was also the place where most of the rumours accumulated. The fact none of them had heard anything about the messenger boy must mean every single one of them had decided to stop talking about what had happened – as if it had never occurred.
With a nod, he proved his thanks to the cooks before aiming for retreat and pushing off into the corridors, which grew more endless with every breath. It was impossible to question everyone individually. Word of his actions would creep through the entire palace and not only reach Ramesses’ ears, but wouldn’t remain hidden from Maathorneferure, either. And even if the latter posed a problem, in the end it was Ramesses he had to watch out for. The pharaoh wouldn’t accept a tjati who indulged in gossip instead of doing his job.
His gaze lowered. There had to be another alternative; something that could walk the walls of the palace unseen and not place everything on the shoulders of one person. Dumping everything on Dinem wasn’t an option. She was a slave, not an informant.
“I don’t know.” The voice of a stranger made the vizier falter, made him press his body against a wall for a moment and listen. It was wrong and yet his heart was suddenly beating so fast he couldn’t move.
“That’s ridiculous,” replied another, equally unfamiliar voice – that of a man. “First she demands fruit that can’t be found in this country and then she has a slave whipped. What’s next?”
“Who knows... She’s unpredictable.”
Assou cautiously dared to peek around the corner. The corridor stretching out in front of him was endless. But the two slaves who had settled against a wall on the floor offered a vague change.
It had to be that time of day already. For most, lunch was now beginning and once all the dishes had been served, some slaves found respite in the corridors of the palace. None of them expected to be discovered and even if they were, no one spoke about it. They were all too tired for that.
“Some days I can’t remember why our Pharaoh made this woman his wife.” With a sigh, the slave leaned forwards and rested his upper body on his knees. “She’s beautiful, no doubt about it, but she’s not a clever woman, not like Bintanath, who knows all about food and herbs, and not like Meritamen, whose wisdom supposedly puts even the pharaoh in the shade.”
“She’s stupid,” said the woman next to him, stretching her legs out and looking up at the ceiling. “Terribly stupid and incredibly clever at the same time. I don’t know how that’s supposed to work. She’s not what you’d expect from a queen... She doesn’t even have etiquette. But she knows everything we slaves know.”
“Maybe that’s normal in the country she comes from. Presumably they teach the nobles there the duties of a slave so they can watch them better and no one would think of trying anything unusual.”
“And you neglect everything else for that?”
As if in slow motion, Assou pulled his head back and pressed himself backwards against the wall. Maathorneferure wasn’t a popular queen. She wasn’t a woman who fit into the ranks of the other two; stood out and simultaneously formed a component that didn’t fit in any other place.
“It’s not like she has absolutely no idea what to do as a queen. She knows a lot about skin care and even more about recognising quality clothing,” the slave continued thoughtfully. “Her biggest problem is simply that she lacks the basics.”
“And that she gets terribly violent if anyone questions her status or pretends she’s not a goddess,” the woman at his side added with a sigh. “Some days, I think she’s trying to prove something to herself. She’s tense, and she rarely has a quiet minute.”
“She’s under stress?”
“You could say that. She’s restless, almost like we’re going to war tomorrow.”
“Maybe she’s homesick?”
“Does homesickness make you nervous?”
“Maybe.”
Snorting noticeably, the tjati rolled his eyes. Of course Maathorneferure was nervous. She had started a war with him she would lose, and no matter how confident she pretended to be, no one would help her. She might have her eyes and ears everywhere, but he had the better position. When she wasn’t in front of him, it was easier to watch her actions. At least that’s how it felt. In the end, he still didn’t know what he was planning, and that could also be a reason for her nervousness. She didn’t know either.
With a hasty shake of his head, he tried to get rid of the thoughts. Thinking about the problems with this beast brought him no answers. The only thing he wanted to keep firmly in the back of his mind was that she could be just as human and restless as everyone else. On top, she wasn’t the most popular queen and most were slow to look past her mask.
That was good for him. But it didn’t get him one step closer to the boy. No one spoke about the strange messenger, who must have caught someone’s eye in his outfit, nor did anyone broach the subject. It was almost as if he was nothing more than a figment of his imagination, although the royal messengers had claimed otherwise. And believing these men was all he could cling to.