“I see the problem,” Arthur offered. “But what will you do about it?”
“In two days the Temple of Amun is sending a delegation to Aten City to discuss matters with Pharaoh-to see how this present difficulty may be resolved. You are welcome to come along.”
Anen glanced at Benedict, who was now nodding on his cushion. “It seems as if we have exhausted our young traveller with our talk.” He raised a hand, and one of the servants stepped up and knelt beside him. The priest spoke a few words, and the servant moved to the side of the sleeping youth and gave him a gentle nudge.
Benedict came awake with a start. “Oh!” He flushed. “Sorry, Father.”
“No matter,” said Arthur. “You are tired.” He nodded and spoke a command to the servant. “Itara here will take you to our lodgings. I will follow shortly.”
Benedict rose, and with a respectful bow to his host said, “Thank you for the wonderful dinner. I enjoyed it very much.” He then wished his two elders good night and followed the servant from the room.
“You must be very proud of him,” Anen observed when Arthur had translated his son’s thank-you. “He has grown into a fine young man since I last saw him.”
“Indeed he has,” Arthur said. “I am very fortunate.”
“It is good for a man to have a son to carry his name into the world and continue the work he has begun.”
“That, my friend, is my fervent hope-that my son should succeed me one day.”
“We must hope that day is long in coming.” Anen rose, and instantly a servant stepped forward. The priest waved him away. To Arthur, he said, “Come, let us walk around the pool a little before we go to our beds.”
Anen led his guest out into a private garden. The balmy air was sweet with the fragrance of jasmine and hibiscus. They strolled the garden lit by the lambent glow of candle-lit lanterns set along the paths around the sacred pool, which seemed radiant with the reflected light of a ripening moon and a bright spray of stars.
The garden, with its scented air and glowing pool, the blue, starfilled sky, and even the presence of Anen himself put Arthur in mind of that fate-filled night years before when, ravaged by fever, his dear, lovely wife, Xian-Li, succumbed to disease and died. The presence of his visitor must have brought the event to mind for Anen too, because after the two had walked awhile in silence, he asked, “Do you ever think about what happened?”
Arthur smiled. “Every time I look at Xian-Li.” They walked a little farther, and he added, “I think I mentioned Benedict’s troubled birth?”
“I seem to recall something about it, yes,” replied Anen. “You took him to Etruria to be born-because the physicians in your country had not the skill to effect his birth.” He thought for a moment and added, “In this Etruria, the High Priest is also king. Not so?”
“That is so,” confirmed Arthur. “One day you will be High Priest. Think where you would be if you lived in Etruria.”
Anen laughed gently. “I would not want to be king-too many wars, too much fighting all the time. It is not good for the soul.”
“I agree. Yet somehow Turms has been able to thrive, and his people with him.”
“Have you ever returned to the Spirit Well?”
“The Well of Souls?” Arthur nodded. “Two or three times. There is a mystery there I have yet to penetrate.”
“The secret of its life-giving spring?” wondered the priest. “Do not be forgetting-you have promised to show me this marvel one day.”
“I have not forgotten,” Arthur assured him. “One day I will solve the mystery-but until then, I think it best it remain a secret known to a trusted few-as few as possible.”
“I understand.”
Two days later the delegation of priests departed for the Holy City of Aten, some distance north of the High Temple at Niwet-Amun. They travelled by barge-five of them: two for the priests and three smaller boats for the servants and attendants. While those around him tended to their business-the priests to their discussions and the servants to their chores-Benedict sat perched on the wide, low rail with his legs dangling over the side of the barge. For hours he watched the panoply of life unfold along the greatest river in the world. The slow progression of the boats was mesmerising; the river world seemed to glide effortlessly by, revealing wonders around every bend: tiny islands filled with snow-white birds; basking crocodiles the colour of jade; buffalos being washed by brown-skinned boys; lazy, grey hippos waggling their ears and yawning; towering palms with golden branches laden with shiny black dates… and on and on without end.
Owing to the sluggish summer current, it took three days for the wide, flat boats to reach the pharaoh’s new city. The servants and minions disembarked first to prepare the landing place; they were followed by the priests in order of rank. The High Priest, a wizened old man named Ptahmose, who to Benedict’s eyes appeared as wrinkled and dried up as a walking mummy, came last, assisted by Anen, his second-in-command.
Dressed in simple kilts of starched white linen and the broad, multi-leaved collars of gold that were a symbol of their office, they walked up the avenue lined by their servants, some of whom held banners while others carried trumpets; still others bore cloth-covered baskets on their heads. As the delegation approached the low, whitewashed walls of the city, the trumpeters began to sound loud, rousing blasts on their instruments, heralding the arrival of their masters.
Arthur and Benedict, as guests of Anen, walked directly behind. Workers in the fields outside the city walls paused to watch the procession as it passed. At the gates they halted and waited while the guards hurried to push open the huge cedar trunks that formed the entrance; bound in iron and painted red, each of the two enormous doors took five men, straining at the rings, to open.
Once the way was clear, the parade resumed its stately progress. The stone-paved streets of the new city were wide and straight, the buildings low. The inhabitants on the streets paused to watch the spectacle; others came out of their dwellings to see what was happening. The streets were soon lined with curious onlookers.
As the priests made their way deeper into the new city, it became obvious that construction was still at an early stage: most of the structures, while roughed out in mud brick and plaster, had yet to be finished in stone. Only the temples-of which there were several of varying sizes-were complete; even the royal family’s residence waited to receive its gleaming white facade.
Nevertheless, work seemed to be hastening on. Builders swarmed the various construction sites-hundreds of them, organised in gangs, each with an overseer. The squat, swarthy labourers were all stripped to the waist, oozing sweat as they chiselled or plastered or carried bricks to and fro, with a cloth headdress the only concession to the pitiless sun. The appearance of the workers was so unlike that of the taller, more graceful Egyptians, Benedict guessed that these must be the Habiru that Anen had mentioned.
That they were skilled masons and artisans was clearly seen in the reliefs and statues and paintings that appeared at regular intervals along the streets of the royal city. Everywhere Benedict looked, there was an image of Pharaoh: Akhenaten with his wife, the beautiful Nefertiri; Akhenaten with his children; Akhenaten receiving the life-giving rays of the sun; Akhenaten mediating his god’s justice to the people of Egypt. Some of the statues appeared grotesque and misshapen-Akhenaten with big, blubbery lips, a round pot belly, and spindly bowed legs-absurd caricatures of the strictly codified official portraits.