Our teachers certainly believed in the old proverb ‘A boy’s ear is upon his back; he hears when he has been beaten’. We’d sit cross-legged in the schoolroom or out in the courtyard, our writing palettes on our laps whilst the instructor would walk up and down ever ready to rap fingers or backs with his sharp ferrule. During the heat of the day we’d rest and continue our schooling as the weather grew cooler, followed by games, skittles, tug-of-war or jumping the goose. Whatever we did was fierce and cruel. I soon hardened myself. The seasons passed. Sometimes, Aunt Isithia came to visit me. She seemed to have aged; she was smaller, more wizened, and tried to flatter me with ointments and unguents from the storerooms. My present to her on the great festivals was always the same, a wooden carving of a monkey with a fly on its shoulder. I always informed her that I was very happy, that I was most fortunate to be in the Kap. I told her nothing about what happened there. None of my unit were friends, the only close relationship was that between Horemheb and Rameses. For the rest it was petty cruelty. I remember my first beating when Maya dared me to write this poem.
I was beaten because the hieroglyph for ‘embrace’ was the same as for a woman’s vagina. The sharp-eyed priest thought I was mocking him. I always retaliated. Maya loved his sandals and I received another beating for creeping out of bed at night and smearing them with oil.
Naturally, as the time passed, our interest in girls grew, though no one could boast of any experience, except Panhesy. He claimed he had read certain treatises and, ever clever, fashioned wooden puppets with movable arms and heads. Male and female, he made them act in close embrace which provoked smirks from Maya and sniggers of laughter from the rest. Weni discovered this and punished us, not for the toy, but for ‘stealing out of barracks’ as he termed it in the dead of night, lighting a fire in the grounds (a dangerous act), and taking strong beer to drink. He put us all on ‘battle rations’, a hideous punishment for young boys who woke like starving jackals and only lived to eat. Filling our stomachs was the only time we were silent as we bent over our reed baskets of chicken cooked in olive oil and onion sauce, garnished with chick peas and cumin. Now we had to starve. Horemheb decided to retaliate and tried to steal the bread of another unit. When Weni discovered that, we all received six strokes of the cane. He informed us that even ‘battle rations’ were suspended; we would now be given only dry bread and water for a week.
We were getting older, more cunning and sly, less reluctant to accept Weni’s authority. Pentju was skilled at stoking our anger. We forgot that he had fashioned the puppets or that Rameses had actually stolen the bread. Weni the overseer at the House of Instruction became our mortal enemy. Now Horemheb had been given a Danga dwarf, a gift from some relative in the Delta. In theory Weni should have objected but, being an old soldier, he was superstitious and slightly wary of the dwarf: a thickset little man who reached no higher than my shoulder, his head and face almost hidden by straggling black hair, moustache and beard. The Danga couldn’t sleep in the dormitory but had to fend for himself outside, whilst during lessons and games he crouched like a dog in the shadow of the wall. Horemheb always doted on the dwarf: the only person to whom he showed compassion, saving food and drink whilst also imposing an arbitrary levy on our rations. Horemheb held a ‘council’ as he called it, the dwarf squatting next to him. The oil lamps had been extinguished, the moon had fully risen and the rest of the dormitory were asleep as we sat in the far corner listening to the faint sounds from the rest of the palace.
‘I am hungry,’ Horemheb moaned, ‘and so is the dwarf.’
‘We are all hungry,’ Huy whispered.
‘It’s Weni’s fault,’ Pentju accused hoarsely.
‘But where can we get some food?’ Meryre demanded.
The Danga dwarf muttered, a guttural whisper. Horemheb cocked his head. The dwarf repeated what he had said. Horemheb smiled and patted his stomach.
‘I’m starving,’ he repeated. ‘And what I’d do for a piece of roast goose!’
At the time I didn’t know what he meant but two days later I found out. Weni had a goose called ‘Semou’, sacred to Amun: a noisy aggressive bird always dropping dung and pecking the nearest piece of soft flesh. I never discovered the full story but the goose disappeared and, from the smug smile on Horemheb’s and Rameses’ faces, I gathered they were the culprits. The dwarf also, a miniature grotesque with his flowing beard and sunken features, looked remarkably happy. Weni was furious and naturally suspected the Horus unit.
By now we had been joined by Sobeck, the son of a powerful merchant prince of Thebes who imported incense from Punt and cedar from Lebanon. ‘Sobeck the Sexual’ I called him; even as a youth he was always hungry for girls. He’d managed to weave his way into Horemheb’s affection and I suspected he was part of the coup against the goose. Nevertheless, we were all to blame. At midday, in the baking heat of the sun, Weni decided to hold court. Crown Prince Tuthmosis, as leader of the Kap, was present, dressed in a short tunic and holding an embroidered fan which bore the insignia of the Kap. He would act as Weni’s official witness. We were all stripped naked, the dwarf included. Weni rigorously inspected us, sniffing at our mouths and hands for any sign of grease or cooking but the ‘criminals’ as Weni called them were cunning; they had washed themselves thoroughly, though they had forgotten about the dwarf’s tousled hair and beard. Weni fell on him like a hungry vulture. He sniffed the little man’s hair and beard and slapped him harshly across the face.
‘Criminal! Thief! Murderer!’ Weni bellowed.
He dragged the dwarf from the line, pushing him forward for Tuthmosis to inspect. The Crown Prince confirmed his judgement: the dwarf smelled of goose.
‘Give us the names of your accomplices,’ Weni demanded.
The dwarf, trembling with fear, shook his head and made matters worse by urinating over Weni’s feet. The overseer grabbed him by the hair and dragged him across to a bench. He was forced to lie face down. Weni grasped a rod. Horemheb made to protest but Tuthmosis pushed him back in line. Weni turned threateningly. The dwarf’s wrists and ankles were seized by Weni’s assistants. The rod came back.
‘Master?’ I stepped forward.
Weni paused and turned. ‘Yes, Mahu? Are you the culprit?’
This was the one time I could tell the truth.
‘No, Master.’
‘Then why are you speaking?’
I went down on my knees and knelt in the dust.
‘Master, the dwarf is innocent.’
‘What!’
‘I gave him the goose grease.’
Weni forgot the dwarf and, striding over, dragged me to my feet.
‘I did not eat the goose,’ I stammered. ‘Nor did the dwarf. As you know, my Aunt Isithia distils potions and unguents. She gave me a pot of goose grease.’ I caressed my sidelock, the mark of my youth as well as membership of the Kap. ‘It is good for the hair.’ I gestured at the dwarf. ‘I gave some to him.’
Weni stared narrow-eyed. ‘And where is this goose grease?’
‘In a pot in my chest.’
Weni gestured with his head and one of his assistants hurried away to discover the truth. Aware of the others standing next to me, I closed my eyes. The dwarf was moaning. Tuthmosis was sucking on his lips as if to control his smirk. I just prayed that the pot of goose fat would be found, and whispered a prayer against ill luck: ‘Perish you who come in from the dark. You who creep in with your nose reversed and your face turned back.’