Controlling his excitement, knowing that hope followed by disappointment was a destroyer here, he worked on for the rest of that afternoon with a diligence which surprised the mason, who put it down to the beating Surere had taken from the guard. The mason speeded up his own work; this was the last obelisk he would have to cut here, he thanked the gods. As soon as it was released from its rocky bed, his indenture would be finished, and he would make the long journey north to work in the limestone quarries of Tura, where no prisoner labour was employed. The mason disliked working with convicts. Their presence, and the smell of their despair, depressed him, made him feel like one of them.
Later, in the compound, on the narrow strip of hard land between the quarry and the River, Surere squatted a little apart from his fellow inmates, stooped over the usual evening meal of shemshemet, the glutinous cabbage stew which was their staple diet. There was not much social contact between the prisoners: the authorities had seen to it that few former officials of Akhenaten’s court were placed together in the same gangs, and the two Surere shared a tent with at night, along with a dozen ordinary petty criminals serving short sentences for picking pockets or minor fraud, were quiet men, turned inwards, unable to forget what they had been, or face what they were now. Therefore no one minded or noticed that Surere sat apart with his chipped earthenware bowl, spooning the stew into his mouth with his fingers.
Night fell, and here and there a torch – papyrus bundles dipped in bitumen – was lit. Each cast a little pool of light, and stark shadows within it, before giving up to the gigantic darkness. Here, not even cicadas broke the silence, and the only noise, now comforting, now mocking, was the restless murmur of the River.
Against the torchlight, Surere could see the silhouettes of the strong cedar derricks, with their palm-ropes and cradles. Near them, still on the log rollers which had transported it from its birthplace in the quarry to the quay, lay a large mottled obelisk, now just a dark shape, the flickering light making its outline shadowy and threatening. Scooping up the last of his food, he scanned the shoreline for the brawny figure of Khaemhet. There were few people about, picking their way along the shore on some late business or standing in small groups from which the sound of muted conversation came faintly to him. The friendly stonemason was not among them, and Surere reminded himself sternly that he must not let hope get the better of him. Nevertheless, he continued to look until the torches burned low, and there was no one left on the quay except the night guards.
He walked down to the River to wash his eating bowl, and then himself. This was allowed and even approved of by the camp authorities. Security in the compound was relaxed. The quarry and the camp lay on the east bank, and there was nowhere to escape to. Away from the River lay desert. On the opposite bank, if one succeeded in the almost impossible task of swimming the distance, more desert, and the Kharga oasis ten days’ march across it. To the south and north, equal difficulties lay. The only way out was by getting on to a barge bound for one of the capital cities, and making an escape from there.
Surere squatted by the dark water. From somewhere out of sight but not far away a girl squealed, her voice quickly muffled. The voice sounded too clear, too innocent to belong to one of the gruff Syrian whores who were kept in a palm-thatched shack, its walls decorated with imaginative pictures of girls strapping their legs around jackasses and baboons, for the benefit of the civilian workers in the camp. Surere thought of Amenenopet again, briefly. What could have happened to him? Sadly, he acknowledged that in his memory the boy’s features were becoming blurred. Once, he would never have believed that possible; the thought would have been unbearable. Now, all it elicited was a dry smile. Sentimentality was another road to death.
He stood up, easing his back again, the pain from the beating resolving itself into a dull ache. The moon had risen and its light on the black water made it seem thick, like oil. He started up the slope that led back to the compound and his tent. Halfway up it, he heard the unseen girl cry out again.
The sound made him pause, trying to decide if it had masked another, barely perceived, but which might have been a footfall. He quickened his pace and reached the edge of the compound without seeing anyone or hearing anything more, but before he left the cover of the tall rushes that grew along its River side, a man stepped softly on to the path in front of him.
‘Khaemhet.’
The mason looked at him shyly.
‘Were you following me?’
‘I saw you down by the River. I was going to talk to you tonight but I wanted to be sure to see you alone.’
‘There was a girl down there somewhere.’
‘One of Kheruef’s girls,’ said Khaemhet, mentioning the name of the brothel-keeper. ‘A new arrival. She came up with a couple of others on the barge this afternoon. Kheruef said he was going to try them out.’ Khaemhet took a step closer, then hesitated. ‘I didn’t want to risk them disturbing us.’
Surere looked at him coolly, smelling the seshen with which he had perfumed himself. Khaemhet could not hold his gaze, but looked down at his square, mason’s hands, folding and unfolding his fingers.
‘Have you news for me?’ asked Surere, hardly daring to put the question for fear of a negative answer.
‘Yes,’ replied Khaemhet.
‘And what is it?’
Now the mason’s broad young face broke into a smile. Perfect teeth, thought Surere, glad that his own, through hard brushing with the beaten ends of twigs, had survived his imprisonment.
‘You can come with me on the barge as part of the hauling crew. The overseer gave permission this afternoon.’
Surere felt such a surge of the god’s power through him that he thought he would leave the ground. He made himself breathe slowly and evenly, but he could see that his excitement had communicated itself to Khaemhet, who came closer still – cautiously, even respectfully; but closer, his eyes full of longing. It would be impossible to deny him now.
‘Thank you.’
‘You have yourself to thank as much as me,’ said Khaemhet. ‘The overseer thinks you are a model prisoner. It may be that one day you may be pardoned by Nebkheprure Tutankhamun, important as you were in the court of the Great Criminal.’
Surere thought the possibility remote. The boy-king, though wilful, was controlled by two men far more powerful than he was: Horemheb, commander of the army, and of the land in all but name; and the old politician Ay, who had kept his grip on power despite having been Akhenaten’s father-in-law.
‘When do we leave?’ he asked the mason.
‘We load the obelisk before dawn. At dusk we leave.’
‘And our destination?’ Surere’s throat felt dry. He could sense a shadow of impatience in Khaemhet at all these questions. The excitement tingled in the air between them. Surere cast his eyes briefly and discreetly down to Khaemhet’s kilt to see its cloth, half in shadow, raised by a strong erection.
‘The Southern Capital.’ Khaemhet took one more step. ‘Come. There is a quiet place in the reeds. I have brought good wine.’
‘I have forgotten what it tastes like.’
‘I have spice-bread and apples too.’
‘Real apples? From the north?’
Khaemhet smiled. ‘I know what you were used to once.’
Apples were an unheard-of luxury. Khaemhet himself had probably never tasted them, and Surere could not help feeling touched by this mark of respect; but he needed one more question answered before he showed his gratitude.
‘When will we be there?’
‘In four days. The barge is slow. Now, come.’ Surere’s wrist was seized by a strong, burning hand, and his vanity regretted his broken fingernails and rough skin.
‘I am surprised that you can like me…as I am,’ he murmured.