She was the most expensive gift ever given to Ramesses II. A goddess who looked down on her people with a gentle smile; who towered over them as if her beauty wasn’t perfect enough. She was the pride of the Hittites; the face of a nation that had turned its strength into a problem of Egypt through intelligence and courage.
Assou eyed her from a distance, one grape of the buffet loosely between his slender fingers. They had dressed this strange princess in an expensive, cream-coloured linen calasiris, adorned with precious, coloured gems and pompous necklaces of gold. The colourful stones adorning her hips gleamed in the setting sun; making her appearance simple yet remarkable.
Maathorneferure was the name Ramesses had christened her when he had presented her to the people with noble words – as a gift to the living god so that he would bring them abundant prosperity.
It was a good alliance and probably the best decision to bring peace to the tense situation between the other empires. Even if it could only bring tranquillity to some of the stress-ridden sides. On the others, slaves rebelled, caught up in the belief that they didn’t have to serve Ramesses; that their destiny lay in the hands of other gods who didn’t speak through his will.
With a sigh, Assou closed his eyes and let the celebration wash over him. It had been the new royal consort’s idea to let the people share in the alliance, and it wasn’t the worst he had ever been asked to do. Besides Ramesses’ outlandish wishes, a feast for the entire country was akin to collecting taxes – it wasn’t a challenge.
Ramesses had dressed for this feast little better than he did every day for the throne. He wore a knee-length shendyt that had been patterned with plentiful colours. His naked torso gleamed in the waning heat of the land, shimmering under the rays that brushed his tanned skin. The sandals on his feet were new and the crozier in his hand looked stuck. He provided the perfect image to be carved in stone on the spot as a powerful king. And yet it was impossible not to see that he had grown old. His leathery skin, grazed by wrinkles, betrayed him.
On top, his gaze hid something that didn’t match the statues that had been built for him all over Egypt: joy graced his thin lips. A pleasure to possess a new, beautiful woman. A splendour fit for a living god. The glow of his dark eyes outshone even the ostrich-feathered chepresh, whose blue colour matched his consort’s gemstones splendidly and whose serpentine head watched over them imperiously.
Half in thought, Assou popped the grape into his mouth before turning away from his king and letting his gaze slide over the citizens. Simple men and women had set up stalls nearby to attract as many people as possible. The protection of the palace, the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, had triggered the selling fever and the bonds that were formed forged in burgeoning darkness. Others helped themselves to the food that had been brought from all over, while restrained discord divided the crowd. The richer Egyptians tried to keep a respectable distance from the poor and get close to Ramesses, from which only the guards prevented them.
“What a mess,” was the first thing that slipped Assou’s lips before he allowed his vision to waver over the goods on offer and ultimately started his retreat towards Ramesses. Straight past the guards, who met him with a friendly nod before he found a seat beside his king. A presumption that would have been punished on other days – he was only a vizier and messenger of a god, not one of their own – but on this occasion conveyed a gesture of mutual trust.
“Assou, tell me, how do the people like the gift I have given them?” Instantly Ramesses II addressed him, causing Assou to bow his head in humility. The long-cut robe on his body wrinkled.
“They are very pleased with your kindness, my Pharaoh,” the vizier replied.
Pale pride set the pharaoh’s body a little more upright so that no one but his new wife could look over him. Maathorneferure sat right next to him, the thin smile carved on her full lips as she glanced in his direction. She was visibly younger than thirty, though close to it. She possessed a charisma that undermined any grace the other two Great Royal Queens might have had. Her presence made people forget that Meritamen and Bintanath had taken seats further down the table.
Barely noticeably, Assou’s attention broke away from Maathorneferure and once again wandered over the heads of the crowd – for her sake. The tightness in his chest accompanied the hope; the hint of unease in his chest that didn’t reach his face. Part of him longed for the sight of the woman who had caught his eye a month ago beside large pots and sacks of wheat. Whenever he closed his eyes to rest, he thought he remembered her pretty face, with a smile that would have charmed any man in his right mind.
And he certainly wouldn’t have been the pharaoh’s tjati – Ramesses’ closest confidant – if he hadn’t been in his right mind.
Her slender figure had looked delicate in the simple linen, and though Maathorneferure was now considered the most beautiful woman in Egypt, this young stranger from the wheat stall had been more enchanting than anything he had ever laid eyes on before.
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Nimbly, Assou reached for another grape found among the other dishes near the pair and put it to his lips. There was no hunger, no desire. Instead, the secret spark of anticipation lurked beneath his skin, making his eyes glide restlessly over the heads of hundreds of people, begging to spot the stranger amidst the crowd.
The conversations in the background merely grazed him.
Narrowing his eyes, he watched the linen in the distance. A few women and men approached. Some with jugs in their hands, others with stone plates full of food. Supplies they didn’t need and yet carried something Assou desired.
Instantly, the vizier’s shoulders tightened before he stretched his head. There, among jars and plates and bodies swaying around, she walked. The stranger.
The dark, almost black roots of her hair turned a warm brown that reached across her shoulders to her chest like honey in the evening glow. The calasiris on her body shimmered nobly under the strands and caressed her gentle curves. She was the first woman to transform a simple scrap of cloth, without jewellery, into a garment of the rich.
Without further ado, Assou turned his gaze back to Ramesses. The plate in front of him was still half full, the wine jug was overflowing, there was no shortage of water or beer, and he appeared to be listening to a conversation between his new lover and another woman. So he took the freedom to get up. He had to seize the opportunity and get closer to her; at least learn her name before the feast ended. But the crowding of slaves away from the table was stifling, and before he could even set foot from the upscale company to the commoners, he bumped into someone.
Heat chased the hairs on the back of his neck up before, out of the corner of his eye, he watched as a slave stumbled and the jug in her hands spilled forward. She tried to keep her balance, to avoid the worst – but buckled and bumped into the table, losing her grip on the wine. Some of the liquid splashed onto the stone, onto the food, onto Assou’s clothes, and straight over to Ramesses, burning deep stains on Maathorneferure’s calasiris.
The pharaoh’s movements remained sluggish while his spouse drew in a sharp breath and measured the slave with a narrow gaze. “Is this your first time doing this?”
“No, my Queen. Please forgive me.” Voice and head lowered, the offender conveyed the image of a mauled dog and though Maathorneferure waved it off, it was Ramesses’ features that lingered uncomfortably on the woman.
“My Pharaoh,” lightly, like a breeze at the edge, Assou interjected, “forgive me. I bumped into this slave without giving her a chance to dodge. Punishing her would give us no advantage. She is but one component of the palace – and, I must note, has been serving quietly and in satisfaction for some years now.”
And only one of many that he kept seeing between the pillars.
He didn’t know much about her. Only that her name was Dinem and she had started as a young girl to perform bonded slavery in the palace. By now she was a grown woman, probably the same age as himself – without glamour in her appearance. She was presentable, but just as unremarkable as the others, who chased like shadows through the corridors.
“If you say so, I will believe you,” Ramesses finally replied before turning to his consort and gesturing to her in hushed tones that Assou couldn’t hear. The only thing that reached him was Maathorneferure’s smile – knowing, biting behind flawless lips. Then she stood up, and moved away from the table along with two enslaved girls, leaving nothing more than a silent trail of breathlessness.
Only when she disappeared behind the columns of the palace did most of them go about their usual business. Conversation filled the gaps. The meal went on. Only Dinem remained motionless in her position.
“I thank you.” Her voice lingered buzzing in Assou’s ears, while her lead-dark eyes were fixed intently on him. For a moment, he even believed there was a smile on her lips, a gratitude that was misplaced.
“Just watch your surroundings next time. Maathorneferure wasn’t pleased with what happened,” he returned. Words that were nothing but speculation and yet held an element of certainty. The Great Royal Queen had hidden bitterness that had stung him. Similar to colourless poison that every slave had to beware of when dreaming of something distant like peace.
“I will remember that, though I am sure the Queen can overlook a calasiris.” Barely noticeably, Dinem shrugged. “Your kindness is not forgotten, my Vizier.”
She bowed and gestured her gratitude with a last nod before turning away and carrying the empty jug away. Her posture, her actions, everything about her screamed of quiet rebellion, of a woman who didn’t belong in the palace and yet had been raised by everyone in it.
Snorting, Assou pushed the moment away from him before breaking away from the meal and heading for the palace as well. He couldn’t meet the eyes of the beautiful stranger without fresh clothes – not at a feast where the only distinction was between dolts and presentable men.
The uncomfortable sandals on his feet groaned as he took the few flat steps to the entrance, only to stand immediately in the pleasant semi-darkness of the palace. A few calyxes of fire lit the way, leaving sleepy loneliness lurking in the cracks of the stones. Assou followed them, answering their calls all the way to his study. The door creaked as he pushed it inwards so that the hallway could cast a dim light on the endless rolls of papyrus piled on a low table. Earth was in the air. Homely security of a place that served as his sleeping spot most of the time.
In a small chest that had been placed in his room for belongings two years ago, he found spare clothes – a lightly draped, light blue tunic, with a matching, almost white shendyt. The gifts flattered the blue and red stone jewellery at his neck and also the light fabric underneath, adorned with gold that shimmered through the tunic. He kept his brownish leather sandals on, tugged the fresh robe to fit his body and placed a black shawl around his hips – a gift from his predecessor.
Then he turned towards the exit. He had to elicit words from the stranger that would make her approachable. The feast was the perfect occasion. Her figure, her body, her friendly eyes, needed a name.