Counted With the Stars (2 page)

1
ST
D
AY
OF
A
KHET
S
EASON
OF
I
NUNDATION
1447 BC

T
he sound of my knock on the wooden chamber door echoed in the pit of my stomach. Shira opened the door, but the Hebrew girl refused to meet my eyes. Two streaks of fur, one black and one gray, fled the room—even the cats knew enough to escape.

“Is that Kiya?” My mistress's sharp voice raised the hair on the back of my neck. “It had better be.”

Tightening my grip on the water jug I carried—my only shield—I drew a deep breath as I stepped past Shira and over the threshold.

Tekurah crossed her bedroom in four swift strides to tower over me. “Where have you been? You held up this entire household all morning.”

What an exaggeration.
I abandoned the temptation to try and explain the throng of people, animals, and merchant booths clogging the city today. Pushing my way through the crowds during festival preparations had proved almost impossible,
especially carrying a jar full of water from the canal. Besides, Tekurah was never at a loss for reasons to reprimand me.

With practiced obedience I mumbled, “Forgive me, mistress.”

My show of humility did nothing to placate her. She thrust the ebony handle of a fan toward my face while accusing me of deliberate delay. I flinched.
She might actually strike me this time.

She threw her hands in the air. “Why do I have to put up with such a worthless slave?” She growled like one of her cats and then continued her tirade. I didn't bother to listen. I had heard all of this before and doubtless would again.

Jaw locked and mind numb, I waited for the end of her diatribe. Instead I focused on the intricacies of the painted mural on the wall. The lush scene depicted the glorious paradise of the afterlife, where gods and men traveled together in gilded boats on the sparkling blue waters of the eternal Nile. The vivid colors were striking, but they were nothing compared to my brother Jumo's masterful artwork.

Shira's posture snagged my attention. The Hebrew girl stood in front of the open window, wrapped in sunlight, head down and eyes closed—submissive as usual. Were her lips moving?

“And if you keep me waiting again”—Tekurah pointed the fan an inch from my nose—“I
will
hit you. Even the gods wouldn't fault me.”

Bitter retorts bubbled up inside me, threatening to burst free. Silently, I prayed to Ra, Isis, and any other god who would listen, for the strength to keep my mouth shut. Sweat trickled in rivulets down my spine.

Tekurah drew a long breath through her nose, black eyes flashing. With another growl, she hurled the ebony fan toward the enormous bed in the center of the room, but it tangled in the sheer linen canopy and clattered to the floor. She stared at
it, blinking, and then exhaled through gritted teeth. Hands on hips, she turned and stalked to her bathing chamber.

As Shira retrieved the fan, I breathed quiet thanks to the gods for such a brief scolding today. My sliding grip on the heavy earthen jug would not have held much longer.

Tekurah's bathing room was tiled floor to ceiling in whitewashed stone and decorated with lush palms and splendid scenes from the Nile—hippos, crocodiles, and ibises. My skin prickled at the chill in the room. I placed the jug on the floor next to the long stone bathing bench in the center of the room and flexed my relieved fingers. Shira added a few drops of rose oil from an alabaster bottle to the water as I uncovered the drain that emptied into the gardens. A little blue-headed agama lizard startled me when I moved the stone, and then scurried back out to the safety of the courtyard.
If only I could follow.

Every Egyptian woman labored to appear youthful—Tekurah more than most. The many face creams, balms, and ointments she insisted upon complicated an already arduous process. We spent hours tending her body, fetching potions, purchasing magic cures, and delivering offerings to Hathor, the goddess of beauty.

After Shira and I undressed her, Tekurah perched on the bathing slab, lips pursed and pointed chin high. Shira scrubbed our mistress's head with natron soda paste. Then together we sponged her body with rose-scented water and massaged sweet balms into her skin, head to toe. At least I would enjoy soft hands for a few hours. This dry season sucked the moisture from my skin. I savored the heady aroma of the imported oils. The exotic spices, pungent balsam, and sweet myrrh reminded me of Salima.

A full cycle of seasons had passed since Salima had lugged cumbersome pitchers from the river for my own baths and applied perfumed oils to my body. Now I served a mistress of my
own, fetching water and bowing to her every demand. Coveting her luxuries made my labors all the more torturous.

Shira brought in Tekurah's new gown, the delicate weave almost translucent. I ached for the sumptuous glide of fine cloth over my skin. My own abrasive, unflattering tunic provoked my vanity.

I struggled to pull the dress over Tekurah's head, but she jerked away. “Let Shira do it. She is worth three of you.”

Slipping her dark braid over her shoulder, Shira reddened and reached up to adjust the mangled neckline before tying a beaded belt around Tekurah's narrow waist, adding some curve to her otherwise willowy body.

Tekurah spoke the truth. Shira's skills exceeded mine. It had surprised me, when I'd first entered servitude, that a Hebrew girl held such a trusted position as body-servant to the mistress. It did not take long to see why, though. She was nimble, efficient, and hardworking. Never speaking out of turn, she served Tekurah with utter, inexplicable politeness.

I worked to emulate her in all our tasks, but sixteen years of soft living had rendered me all but useless as a servant. My strength had grown over the last year, my once-pampered muscles now sinewy, but Tekurah still insisted Shira redo almost everything I attempted.

“Mistress, which jewelry today?” Shira's voice barely broke a whisper.

“The usekh gifted by Pharaoh.” Tekurah glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.

Shira bowed, eyes downcast. “I will fetch it from the treasury while Kiya attends to your wig.” This was one task I performed with minimal clumsiness.

Tekurah sank onto a low stool by a mahogany vanity, her narrow face reflected in the polished silver mirror. “Make it quick. Don't forget bangles and earrings.”

Shira padded out of the room, head down.

“The new wig.” Tekurah snapped her fingers at me. “Now.”

The large closet overflowed with chests, baskets of gowns, countless pairs of sandals, and wooden stands laden with all styles and varieties of wigs. For all the seeming lack of affection between Tekurah and Shefu, he certainly allotted her a generous share of clothing, jewels, and accessories. The Queen herself might covet such a vast assortment.

A new rosewood wig chest was tucked behind a basket. I carried it to the vanity and opened the lid, choking back a sneeze. Spiced to mask the odor of wool and human hair, the box reeked of cinnamon with such potency my eyes watered.

An exquisite hairpiece lay inside, interlaced with gold and red faience beads and braided with the elaborate plaits made popular by the First Wife of Pharaoh. I centered the wig on Tekurah's bald head. Bodies, candles, and lamps would elevate the temperature of the hall during the banquet, and the weight and heat of such an intricate headdress was staggering. Tekurah would thank the gods for her shaved head tonight.

The one mercy in my downfall was release from wearing wigs. Allowing my hair to grow freely, I escaped the burden and irritation caused by the uncomfortable fashion. I had always abhorred shaving my head, but Salima usually convinced me to at least trim it short during the blaze of the hottest months. My straight black hair brushed past my shoulders now, and I rejoiced to simply pull it back with a leather tie each morning.

By the time I adjusted the wig to Tekurah's satisfaction, Shira had returned with the jewels. Fashioned from beads of pure gold, multicolored glass, and brilliant blue lapis lazuli, the usekh collar was indeed extraordinary. A large gold amulet embossed with etchings of ibises in full flight sat suspended in the center. The neckpiece extended just past the edges of her wide shoulders. Enhanced by Tekurah's height and long neck,
the collar did not overpower her as it would most other women. It galled me to admit such a thing, but Pharaoh himself would take pride in the impressive display of his gift.

Shira applied kohl to our mistress's eyes—the art still eluded me. After a few failed attempts and dangerous near misses, Tekurah forbade me to even approach her cosmetics chest. The newest trend—green malachite on the upper lids and gray galena below—accented and widened her black eyes. I loathed the almond-ash-and-water concoction I was allotted to beautify and protect my own eyes. However, after a year, I could finally apply it without stabbing myself in the eye each morning.

Tekurah did not turn, but her gaze pierced me from the distorted reflection of the silver mirror. “You will not embarrass me tonight. Clumsiness will not be tolerated.”

My skin flashed cold.

The Festival of the New Year, birth day of Ra, would be the first celebration I attended as a servant, instead of one being served. Standing behind Tekurah's chair and at her mercy, my humiliation would be on full display for all the guests—many of whom I was well acquainted with.

Tekurah's cruel mouth curved into a smile.

E
very surface in the main hall bloomed with vibrant blossoms in anticipation of the lavish banquet tonight. I wilted at the reminder that a year ago I had attended this annual celebration as a guest, enjoying the splendor of Shefu's hospitality. Now the pungent jumble of fragrances overpowered my senses, evoking queasiness instead of awe.

Tekurah had commanded that we help prepare, so Shira approached another slave to ask for direction. The tall Egyptian girl was dressed like me in a roughly woven garment, but instead of bare feet, she wore sandals with fine leather bindings. She threw a dark glance at me and then jerked her chin toward the baskets in the corner.

“Decorate tables.” She dismissed us with a turn of her back and continued wrapping a garland of roses and jasmine around one of the painted cedar columns.

Shira rummaged through the baskets overflowing with lilies, henna blooms, and other exotic flowers. She selected a few blue lotus blossoms and arranged them in the center of a table with smaller flowers encircling them. She then tucked two alabaster oil lamps into the centerpiece, where they would flicker and
sparkle amongst the vibrant color of the flowers. I marveled at her ability to choose flowers with complementing scents. Their careful placement would cast lovely shadows on the faces of the ladies seated around the tables.

I handed her another lotus. “Why are you a handmaid?”

“Excuse me?” Surprise flashed across her face. I rarely spoke to her.

“You should manage an entire household. Where did you learn these skills?”

Her curious expression transformed into shock as she looked over my shoulder. She dropped her eyes and bowed low. “Master.”

I spun, scattering my armful of flowers across the floor as I collided with Master Shefu. My cheeks flamed.

“A word please, Kiya.” He eyed the mess on the floor. “Shira will tend the flowers.”

“Yes, master.” I bowed and followed him into the empty corridor. Already dressed for the banquet, he wore a pleated white kilt and belted tunic, paired with simple gold cuffs and a short, tightly braided but unadorned wig. Shefu lavished his wife with finery but wore little jewelry himself.

“Tekurah and I will not attend the processional today. We must prepare for this evening. The twins are pouting.” A tinge of a smile colored his voice. “I would like you to take them down to the parade route so they can have a little bit of excitement. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course, master.” I dipped my head, not daring to look into his face.

For a long moment he stood silent. Then he put his hand under my chin, lifting my face to meet his eyes. “I wish things were different, Kiya. You know that. Don't you?”

My heart pounded a confused rhythm. Shefu's gentle question and familiar manner baffled me, but his deep brown eyes
held nothing but kindness. I tried to conjure an answer, but no words formed. He sighed and released my chin, his shoulders seeming to droop. “Sefora and Liat are waiting for you in their quarters.”

I backed away to collect the children, my mind hazy and flooded with questions.

Sefora and Liat were full of nine-year-old boundless energy. Thankfully, they did not echo their mother's disdain for me. Cheering and clapping greeted me when I entered the room.

“Kiya, can we go now? Please?” Sefora pulled on my hand, her kohl-rimmed eyes gleaming with excitement. “I don't want to miss the dancers and acrobats.”

“Or the sweeties.” Liat grinned and licked his lips.

Against my better judgment, anticipation swelled in my chest as we left the house and walked through the villa gate—a faint echo of my own eagerness as a child on festival days. Glad for the preoccupation, I pressed away the dread of tonight.

The city of Iunu bustled with activity. Servants scurried here and there, baskets on heads, bundles in hand. A baker with crates stacked three high on his head wound his way through the city, drawing a procession of children tantalized by the aroma of fresh bread.

I grasped Sefora and Liat's hands. “Stay close. I do not want to get separated in all the confusion.”

Liat eyed the baker's parade with longing but trudged along next to me.

Shefu's magnificent home stood at the heart of the city, nearly adjacent to the Temple of the Sun. The Temple gleamed like a polished white diamond in the late-morning glow. Banners of red and purple draped from every freshly painted column and marked the processional route. Priests in brilliant white tunics,
leopard-skin robes, and flashing gold jewelry streamed through the pylons and up and down the entry ramp. Merchants snaked through the mob with baskets of flower garlands, bouquets, sweet breads, and fruits. Their rhythmic invitations to buy goods harmonized with the laughter and chatter of the crowd.

My mother plied wares here, among the other merchants and tradesmen. Jumo's exquisite artwork drew attention to her stall and piqued interest in the rest of the goods. I'd searched for her earlier this morning as I returned from the canal with Tekurah's bathwater, but my quest was fruitless. Too much confusion and chaos reigned in the city on festival days. My delay yielded only the tongue-lashing from Tekurah.

The Festival of the New Year drew unparalleled crowds. As soon as Sopdet, the brightest star in the heavens, rose from her grave below the horizon, we knew Inundation would soon be upon us. People from all over the region streamed into Iunu, anxious for the celebration.

All classes of people mixed together in the melee. Powerful priests with flowing robes, wealthy merchants, pampered wives, and even common household slaves pressed in on one another—intoxicated by the arousing sights, sounds, and smells of this festival day. The children and I made our way through the crowd to catch a glimpse of the procession.

Sefora hopped around on tiptoe. “I can't see!”

Relieved Sefora had asked first, I lifted her onto my hip to watch the dancers, just as my nursemaid had done for me as a child. Although tall for her age, her willowy body was as light as a reed. Liat's love for sweets made lifting him a bit more complicated. For now, he directed his attention to the treats being passed into the crowd by the priests' attendants.

The dancers, clad in little more than beaded linen girdles tied about their hips, preceded the barge. Most were Syrians or Kushites, enslaved by conquests of the great Pharaoh. Their dark
bodies gyrated to the wild pulse of the timbrels and sistrums played by temple musicians.

Ra's golden barge sparkled with jewels: brilliant blue lapis lazuli, scarlet carnelian, dark green malachite, and deepest obsidian. At the center stood the god himself. Once again the wonder of beholding the beautiful statue struck me. Seated on a golden throne, his human-shaped body and falcon head had been polished to gleaming, and his onyx eyes glittered like black fire.

Fifty priests bore the barge through the flower-strewn streets, their heads, brows, and faces shaved clean in the ancient tradition and pristine linen kilts shining in the sun. A troupe of acrobats followed, flipping, flying, and performing mystifying feats of contortion.

Cloying incense tainted the air. The pungent odor wafted from the robes of the priests and the rich fabric adorning the barge. Spying a lotus blossom on the ground, I put Sefora down and snatched up the flower, desperate to camouflage the smell. I buried my nose in its petals, but even so, a headache throbbed in my temples. I always did my best to steer clear of the Sun Temple during times of sacrifice. The sickly sweet odor poured out of the entrance during the daily offerings, and the stench permeated the courtyard day and night. Sometimes, when the breeze carried the stink through the windows of the villa, my head would pound and my eyes would swim for hours.

When the priests and their burden had passed, Sefora tugged at my hand. “Can we go down to the canal? I want to see the decorated boats.”

“All right.” I would take full advantage of my semi-freedom today. “But stay back from the water. There are too many people down there. Let's go, Liat.”

I looked around when the boy did not answer. “Sefora, where is your brother?”

She shrugged and pushed out her bottom lip.

My heart galloped like a team of Pharaoh's stallions. I had lost Tekurah's son! Until now I had escaped being beaten by her, but this very well could be the day I experienced a cane against my back.

I grabbed Sefora's hand, dragging her with me against the crush of the crowd. I would
not
lose a second child today.

Every noisy beat of my heart drummed new fears into my mind. Why had I let go of Liat's hand? Why did I pick up that flower? How long had he been missing? Would he go back to the villa? Did Tekurah already know?

I pushed harder against the mob and received many angry glances and a few curses in response. The baker. Might Liat have gone to find him?

Nearly empty of customers, the market lay ahead, a sea of colorful linen-covered stalls. Most of the revelers had followed the procession down to the canal to watch the launch of Ra's boat into the Nile. Perhaps Liat had followed the priests passing out treats to the crowd.

I stopped, torn. Should I go back the other way?

“There he is!” Sefora pointed across the market.

Relief coursed through me. Liat was perched on a stool in the shade of a merchant's stall.

Still not releasing Sefora's hand, I hurried across the market. Before I even reached the boy, I yelled, “Where have you been?”

Liat offered only a lopsided grin and a shrug.

A dark-haired man behind the booth turned on his stool. He wore a simple sleeveless brown tunic, not a kilt like most other male slaves. He must be foreign. No Egyptian would let his beard grow in such a barbarous way.

His eyes narrowed as I approached. “Is this your child?”

Musical instruments littered the table in front of him. He held a large, hollowed-out cut of wood between his knees: the
beginnings of a drum, perhaps. Tiny flecks of wood from the project he was sanding dusted his disheveled hair.

Something about the way he spoke—accusing and with a heavy accent—aggravated me. My response was equally terse as I gripped the boy to my side, my heart contracting with gratitude that he was safe. “No. But he is with me.”

Liat held up a lyre. “Look, Kiya! Eben let me play this. Even taught me some notes. Want to see?”

“No, we must go.” I took the lyre from him, ready to place it back on the table, when a memory washed over me from the last morning before my father sold me. This instrument, carved with intricate markings, was similar to the one I had nearly purchased before Yuny found me and summoned me back to the villa.

Although that lyre had been carved with roses, this one was decorated with swallows, their wings lifted in swift flight against the backdrop of the sun, as if they were declaring its arrival. My finger traced their progress up the smooth rosewood.

“Do you play?” The instrument maker, Eben, had stopped working to look at me.

I blinked, startled by the mixture of curiosity and disdain in the man's question, as well as the intensity of the green-gray eyes that scrutinized me.

“No.” I slid my thumb across the tight gut strings, but not hard enough to elicit music from their tension. I had always wanted to learn to play the lyre. Its haunting, sweet tone reminded me of lullabies sung by my mother long ago. Now I would never have the chance to do so; every minute of my life was dictated by Tekurah.

Unlike the swallows, whose quick split-tailed flight scorned captivity, my cage was securely latched. Perhaps, like my ancestors, my soul might one day ascend on unfettered wings, becoming one with the imperishable stars, as the legends promised.

Battling the desire to strum the lyre and enjoy a moment of pleasure from its melodic vibration, I moved to place the instrument back on the table while avoiding the weight of Eben's gaze.

A large Egyptian, wiping his beefy hands on a soiled cloth, emerged from the shop behind the stall. I recognized him as the vendor I had spoken with last year regarding the rose lyre.

“Ah. I see you have chosen a beautiful instrument. There is no craftsman more skilled.” He clapped Eben on the shoulder. “I would not trade Eben for all the artisans in Pharaoh's workshop.”

Eben shifted in his seat and returned to sanding the drum with long, swift strokes. Had he also created the rose lyre that had caught my eye last year? I did not remember seeing him at that time, but then again, I had barely regarded Salima with more than a passing glance when I was her mistress.

A rush of longing for her quiet presence by my side seized me. Salima had been the only steadfast companion in my life not driven by greed. The look in her dark eyes as she bade me farewell that day had told me she'd considered me more than a mistress. She had loved me, in spite of my selfishness.

“Will you be purchasing today?” The shop owner's thick brows shot skyward in anticipation of a sale. “Perhaps for the young master?”