Casting the Gods Adrift by Geraldine McCaughrean Read Free Book Online

by slaves wading thigh-deep and slapping the water.
    But the pharaoh did not disembark. The royal family did not hunt, never went hunting.
    â€˜What kind of man does not hunt?’ sneered my father, and not for the first time. ‘Look, son, can you see? He’s half woman, that one, with his fat rump and his big—’
    â€˜
Be quiet, Father
!’ I hissed. ‘If he doesn’t look like you and me, it’s because he’s half god.’
    Harkhuf rose unwisely to his feet and came at me down the boat. I shouted for him to sit down. The skiff rocked wildly. He struck his head sharply against the beetling wooden hull of the royal barge, and sat down abruptly, stunned into silence. He looked up just as a handful of pomegranate seeds landed on his shoulder, apparently out of the sky.
    The commotion had drawn attention to us. The pharaoh was leaning over the side,now, holding half a pomegranate; he hailed us genially. ‘Harkhuf? Is it you? What brings you here?’
    Father did not answer. Someone had to. Someone had to say something. I stood up. ‘O King, we are ashamed to admit it!’ I stammered. Father shot me a look of such hatred that I thought he might throw me to the crocodiles before the day was over. ‘I told my father how Ibrim plays now for the great queen, the beautiful one. He wanted to hear for himself. Hear Ibrim playing in the pharaoh’s presence, I mean. It was pride, O Lord King. Pride made us forget our manners and interrupt the peace of your afternoon!’
    â€˜Harkhuf, my old friend!’ laughed the King. ‘You had only to say! Come aboard, and we shall have music. Your son is indeed a credit to his father – both your sons!’
    I thought my father might refuse, or blurt out something rash and insulting and fling himself into the river. I leaned forward, until my face was right in front of his. ‘Get aboard, or I shall tell the pharaoh what you did last night.’
    Bewildered and undermined, Harkhuf allowed himself to be helped aboard, once again over the bulwarks of the cedarwood barge. His eyes, blood-shot from the brightness of the journey downstream, flickered to and fro along the deck. He looked hunted, penned in, guilty, but the pharaoh mistook it for simple embarrassment.
    At the sound of our voices, Ibrim sat bolt upright on the cushions in the prow of the boat, trying to make sense of what was happening, what we were doing there. Pharaoh Akhenaten sat down on his own silken cushion, put his arm around Nefernefruaten-Nefertiti. The six little princesses – among them my beautiful Ankh – sat behind, in descending order of size, the cones of perfumed wax melting into their hair and down their bare necks, shoulders, throats. That sweet scent mixed with my fear for their lives made my head spin. I spread my hands on the hot deck to steady myself as Akhenaten called for Ibrim to begin playing.
    I don’t know what he played – whether happy or sad, a love lament or a dance. Myeyes and mind were on the Nile-blue pottery cat standing on the deck beside the queen’s cushion. If I hurled myself towards it, I knew the bodyguard (although he stood at a discreet distance and looked half asleep) would snuff out my life as easily as snuffing out a candle.
    The huntsmen had moved off deep into the rushes. The reedbeds were noisy again with their own droning music. But Ibrim’s playing rose above it. He was happy. His music spoke happiness. And his happiness conveyed itself to the face of the great queen who, beautiful and serene as the Sphinx, watched him with cat-like concentration.
    I looked sidelong at Father, and saw that he too had seen the faience cat. His eyes were fixed on it. His face was scarlet with the oppressive heat, and little beads of sweat were bursting through his wrinkled skin. Perhaps he was beginning to realise the enormity of what he had done.
    â€˜That was sweetly played, as ever,’ said the