City of the Dead by T. L. Higley Page B

Khufu, who shrugs. “Then give us Ebo,” he says. “At least he is not a white-haired grouch.”
    And so we set out for the hunt, but more for the pleasure of being young and doing as we wish. Ebo trails us, driving the donkey that bears our picnic lunch and our bows and spears.
    We skirt the marshland, where the sand is firmer, keeping the swamps to our right. Tamit soon gives up on her donkey and, with much laughter and tossing of hair, climbs up on the front of Ahmose’s animal and tucks herself against my brother’s chest. Ahmose grins at Tamit, at Khufu, at me, and at Tamit’s obstinate donkey, now left to be driven behind us by Ebo.
    Amunet works to keep her donkey close to Khufu’s, and it is not long before the two have taken the lead. We amble along with the leisure of youth. Tamit and Ahmose carry on a private conversation ahead of us, leaving Merit and me to walk quietly side by side, with Mentu our chaperone. The summer-green papyrus seems to wave at us as we pass, and the pale yellow sun rises in the desert-blue sky. It is as if Egypt’s master artists have painted us all in blissful harmony upon a temple wall. It is the kind of day, I muse, when a man feels that life will never be better.
    In many ways, I am correct.
    Khufu chooses the spot where we alight, as we all knew he would. Even now, when he is but a prince of Egypt, we circle around Khufu like moons around the earth.
    He has chosen a plain that inclines sharply upward from the marsh, where the ground is dry but the water near. It is only a short walk to the shelter where the boats are kept, should we decide to venture out onto the water for more serious hunting.
    Tamit throws herself down onto the grass, pulling Ahmose with her. Khufu and Amunet dismount but talk with heads close together.
    Behind us, Ebo will be preparing our midday meal. Merit and Mentu and I find a flat spot on the grass and talk of the weather, of the multitude of geese this year, of anything but our hearts, which are in turmoil over the gap between what is and what must be. We all know that Merit will one day be Khufu’s wife. Yet out here, away from the watchful eyes of our parents, Khufu pays no attention to Merit. And I am glad of it.
    Mentu pulls a flute from his donkey’s pack and begins to play. The rest of us circle around him and clap, until Khufu begins a dance that has us all laughing within moments. Two of the donkeys snort behind us, and we laugh harder.
    Ebo is spreading cloths on the grass, and setting out jugs of beer and platters of warm pomegranates. Khufu grabs a cloth, the rest of us still clapping a beat to Mentu’s flute, and wraps it around his head in a point.
    “Look, I am Pharaoh Khufu!” he calls, twirling, with one hand on his makeshift crown. “Wearer of the White Crown of Upper Egypt!” He stops and points a finger at Ahmose. “You there, bow down!” Ahmose obliges, laughing, and Khufu turns to me. “You, Hemiunu! Fetch me some beer!” Merit smiles at me and shakes herhead. I grab a jug of beer from the ground and think for a moment of tossing its contents on my cousin but instead simply hand it to him with a flourish.
    “Beloved of Horus,” I say, “Drinker of Much Beer!”
    Khufu barks a laugh, grabs the jug with one hand, Amunet with the other, and kisses the girl soundly on the mouth. She pulls away, giggling and covering her lips with her hand.
    We fall to the ground where our meal is spread and dig into the food as though we have not eaten in weeks. Merit sits beside me, her arm almost touching my own. Sometimes, when she reaches for more meat or a juicy pomegranate, she brushes against me, sending needles of heat scorching through my veins. We both pretend that it has not happened, though the air between us is heavy with the unspoken.
    I wear a pouch tied round my waist, and Merit asks me several times what it contains. But I refuse to tell her of the amulet I have brought as a gift to her. Not yet.
    The afternoon rolls over