Pyramids

There was a commotion outside the hall. Clearly there was a prisoner outside who was less than confident in the king’s justice, and the king didn’t blame him. He wasn’t at all happy about it, either.

It turned out to be a dark-haired girl, struggling in the arms of two guards and giving them the kind of blows with fist and heel that a man would blush to give. She wasn’t wearing the right kind of costume for the job, either. It would be barely adequate for lying around peeling grapes in.

She saw Teppic and, to his secret delight, flashed him a glance of pure hatred. After an afternoon of being treated like a mentally-deficient statue it was a pleasure to find someone prepared to take an interest in him.

He didn’t know what she had done, but judging by the thumps she was landing on the guards, it was a pretty good bet that she had done it to the very limits of her ability.

Dios bent down to the level of the mask’s ear holes.

‘Her name is Ptraci,’ he said. ‘A handmaiden of your father. She has refused to take the potion.’

‘What potion?’ said Teppic.

‘It is customary for a dead king to take servants with him into the Netherworld, sire.’

Teppic nodded gloomily. It was a jealously-guarded privilege, the only way a penniless servant could ensure immortality. He remembered grandfather’s funeral, and the discreet clamour of the old man’s personal servants. It had made father depressed for days.

‘Yes, but it’s not compulsory,’ he said.

‘Yes, sire. It is not compulsory.’

‘Father had plenty of servants.’

‘I gather she was his favourite, sire.’

‘What exactly has she done wrong, then?’

Dios sighed, as one might if one were explaining things to an extremely backward child.

‘She has refused to take the potion, sire.’

‘Sorry. I thought you said it wasn’t compulsory, Dios.’

‘Yes, sire. It is not, sire. It is entirely voluntary. It is an act of free will. And she has refused it, sire.’

‘Ah. One of those situations,’ said Teppic. Djelibeybi was built on those sort of situations. Trying to understand them could drive you mad. If one of his ancestors had decreed that night was day, people would go around groping in the light.

He leaned forward.

‘Step forward, young lady,’ he said.

She looked at Dios.

‘His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII—’

‘Do we have to go all through that every time?’

‘Yes, sire — Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, bids you declare your guilt!’

The girl shook herself out of the guards’ grip and faced Teppic, trembling with terror.

‘He told me he didn’t want to be buried in a pyramid,’ she said. ‘He said the idea of those millions of tons of rock on top of him gave him nightmares. I don’t want to die yet!’

‘You refuse to gladly take the poison?’ said Dios.

‘Yes!’

‘But, child,’ said Dios, ‘then the king will have you put to death anyway. Surely it is better to go honourably, to a worthy life in the Netherworld?’

‘I don’t want to be a servant in the Netherworld!’

There was a groan of horror from the assembled priests. Dios nodded.

‘Then the Eater of Souls will take you,’ he said. ‘Sire, we look to your judgement.’

Teppic realized he was staring at the girl. There was something hauntingly familiar about her which he couldn’t quite put his finger on. ‘Let her go,’ he said.

‘His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, has spoken! Tomorrow at dawn you will be cast to the crocodiles of the river. Great is the wisdom of the king!’

Ptraci turned and glared at Teppic. He said nothing. He did not dare, for fear of what it might become.

She went away quietly, which was worse than sobbing or shouting.

‘That is the last case, sire,’ said Dios.

‘I will retire to my quarters,’ said Teppic coldly. ‘I have much to think about.’

‘Therefore I will have dinner sent in,’ said the priest. ‘It will be roast chicken.’

‘I hate chicken.’

Dios smiled. ‘No, sire. On Wednesdays the king always enjoys chicken, sire.’

The pyramids flared. The light they cast on the landscape was curiously subdued, grainy, almost grey, but over the capstone of each tomb a zigzag flame crackled towards the sky.

A faint click of metal and stone sprang Ptraci from a fitful doze into extreme wakefulness. She stood up very carefully and crept towards the window.

Unlike proper cell windows, which should be large and airy and requiring only the removal of a few inconvenient iron bars to ensure the escape of any captives, this window was a slit six inches wide. Seven thousand years had taught the kings along the Djel that cells should be designed to keep prisoners in. The only way they could get out through this slit was in bits.