Chapter 3: The Linen Tally

Ahmose looked up from his task. Squatting beside the road, keeping the tally of cloth being delivered to the warehouse, he had a fine view of all that passed.

This morning was no exception. Four of the priestesses from the Isis Temple had graced the street.

They were a welcome distraction on a day that promised little more than the usual round of drivers with their carts loaded with cloth. The beauty of the priestesses was enhanced by the scent of incense as they had passed him on their way to perform the day’s rituals. The white linen of their dresses clinging close to their bodies suggested to Ahmose more than it revealed and he was happy with every suggestion that was made.

Perhaps Ahmose had stared at the priestesses for longer than was right. His imagination had conjured ideas of behaviour that might be expected of courtesans and it was hardly his fault if their bodies looked lithe and supple and capable in every way of achieving some gymnastic positions as part of the sexual act. Certainly they were a more attractive proposition than the girls from the farms nearby or the overweight women working on the weaving looms in the property opposite.

Perhaps the thoughts he had were not appropriate to be directed at the priestesses of the temple. But, he told himself, Isis was the mother of Min, the god of fertility, so it was surely only right that her temple servants should bring forth the priapic response that was the signifier of fertility. And he was a young man. Such thoughts were common for a man like him. How could it be otherwise?

Had the girls noticed his appreciation? He didn’t know. Nothing had been said. Now, though, another vision was coming towards him, a slender girl, her skin dark and her features those of the women of the far south. He knew her as Nofret, daughter of Ity, the Nomarch’s scribe. She was accompanied by two fan bearers, each as beautiful as herself. The fans they carried seemed almost as tall as palm trees that lined the river bank.

As she drew alongside where he sat, she stopped and turned towards him. “You are Ahmose, son of Khamose, overseer of the linen?”

He looked up, startled by her forthright confrontation. He knew she was daughter of the Chief Scribe of the Nome. Her father Ity was respected, a learned man, but she was no high-born woman. She was not entitled to behave in this way. Even so he felt compelled to respond, “I am.”

“And you looked upon the daughters of the goddess with the longing of a man?”

Ahmose laughed. “What of it? They may be priestesses of the temple but they are still women. Should a man not look upon a woman now?”

“If they are servants of the goddess, a man should only with the reverence he owes the goddess,” Nofret declaimed. “Come with me!”

“I cannot leave my tally-board. Much,” the expression he bestowed on Nofret was no less lusting and disrespectful than the one he had given the priestesses, “as I might like to.” He smirked at one of Nofret’s fan bearers, “Or as much as she might like me to.”

Nofret seemed to ignore his insolence. She shook her head and reached out with a languid gesture, her hand inches from his face. “Come with me. Isis orders it. We shall see if your phallus will stand comparison to that of Min. I can tell you that my flail is as potent as his.” The sun glinted on the gold ring that adorned the first finger of her hand, somehow managing to blind him to anything else in his surroundings. In that moment he knew he had to follow Nofret.

Ahmose stood up, abandoned his tally-board and walked in the dust that was kicked up by Nofret and her attendants as they turned back towards the temple. His eyes were glued on the trailing hem of Nofret’s robe with all the devotion that a house pet might give to its owner. Neither Nofret nor her servants cast a look back at Ahmose. They were certain that he was following in their wake. Behind them the cries of the warehouse owner, who had realised that his tallyman had abandoned his post, were ignored.