The City of Refuge: Book 1 of The Memphis Cycle Read Free Page B

the crowd, winked at the child, and motioned his driver to continue toward the Governor's residence as cheers rang behind him.
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    The woman's unbound hair floated about her shoulders in a swaying cloud as she whirled in the center of the banqueting hall to the sound of a flute and the beat of a drum. She was young, barely sixteen. Her lithe body needed no music to set her audience's blood pounding.
    Watching her, Khonsu thought of the wife he had lost, and turned away from the pain of memory. He had hoped she might send word when she learned that her daughter had nearly died with the wasting fever, but there had been nothing throughout the long months of the child's illness.
    He drew a shaken breath and stared down at his folded hands. Was it possible to close out the past as completely as one closed a wooden door? Perhaps so, for Sithathor. But not for Khonsu, and not, during her illness, for their daughter. The girl was recovering well, though she was still heartbreakingly frail, but she would not speak of her mother.
    Desperate for some sort of distraction, he looked up toward the high table. Lord Nebamun, seated between the Governor and his chamberlain, was watching the dancer, his hand closed about the Eye-of-Horus amulet he wore upon a golden chain.
    His Grace had met their Governor and conveyed the greetings of the cult of Ptah. He had finished by unclasping a magnificent armlet from his upper right arm and presenting it to the Governor in full view of the city. The citizens of Khemnu, already disposed to like him for his exchange with the child, had cheered until they were hoarse.
    Khemnu had spared no effort to make the setting of the feast magnificent. The pillars of the banqueting hall were garlanded with blue and pink lotus blooms. The air seemed to shimmer with their perfume. More blooms floated in wide, flat bowls of water. Serving tables were heaped with roasted meats, beef, lamb, antelope, and goose, all brown and dripping with savory juices. Great platters mounded with perseas and persimmons, pomegranates and dates and sweet, succulent figs were set throughout the room. Tall clay jars of wine and of water, cooled by the breezes that were channeled into the room, stood in the doorway as servants dipped pitchers into them, drawing them out filled and dripping.
    “Commander Khonsu?”
    Khonsu turned away from the head table to see Lord Nebamun's driver standing beside him. He had noticed this young man earlier: engaging in a staring match with an older man seated nearby. The two had obviously been in the throes of a serious quarrel. Now, seeing the man waiting for him, he lifted his eyebrows.
    “Commander Khonsu?” the man said again. “His Grace asks the favor of a word with you when you are free.”
    Khonsu set down his portion of meat, wiped his fingers on the towel beside him, rose, and followed the man past the glaring older man and up to the Second Prophet's table. He went to his knees and lowered his head.
    Nebamun returned the salute with a nod. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Commander,” he said as he poured a cup of wine. “But I hadn't meant to force you away from your dinner. No matter,” he said, nodding toward the platters of food set before him. “You can share mine. Come, sit down and drink some of this excellent wine.”
    Khonsu bowed and rose.
    “And in the future,” Nebamun said, offering the cup, “you would please me much better if you would refrain from kneeling before me. I am neither Pharaoh nor the High Priest.”
    Khonsu bowed again, hiding his surprise. He took the cup from the Second Prophet's hands and sat beside him.
    He sipped the wine, aware that he was the object of a measuring but tolerant appraisal. He met Nebamun's eyes, and smiled. “I thank Your Grace,” he said. “It is good wine. And I will gladly obey your command.”
    He accepted a portion of roast goose from Nebamun, and waited. Khonsu was surprised to see that Lord Nebamun's smile was