Jennifer Colgan: The Concubine’s Tale

Grant cocked an eyebrow. “Consider it a business meeting. I have a lot of questions about the piece if I plan to bid on it at auction.”

“I’ll get my coat.” He certainly knew how to work her, didn’t he?

Grant’s gaze roamed up from Cait’s Dolce & Gabbanas to the hem of her skirt as she slid into the high-backed booth in the darkest corner of Del Monaco’s. A single tea-light flickering in a cobalt hurricane glass gave just enough light for him to maneuver in next to her without stepping on her feet.

The waiter greeted him by name, took their drink order, and politely disappeared.

“You come here often.” The lilt in her voice told him she was testing the waters, trying to find out more about him than just his dining preferences.

“It’s one of my favorite places. I get tired of cooking for one.”

“You cook?” Her sculpted brows rose in amused surprise. “I’m impressed.”

The waiter returned with their drinks and took their dinner order. When he’d gone again, Grant settled forward so his head was close to hers.

“I’m competent in the kitchen. I excel in other areas.” He watched her swallow that statement with a demure sip of her pink martini. “How about you?”

“Can I cook? Or where do I excel?” One hand toyed with the top button of her blouse, purposely drawing his attention to the V of soft skin beneath the dark silk.

“Yes.” He licked his lips in anticipation of the answer.

“I make an award-winning coq au vin.”

“One of my favorites.” The look she gave him was skeptical but playful. He laughed. “I’m serious. I love it.”

She ran one finger around the frosted rim of her glass, and her expression sobered. “What else do you love?”

“I’d love to hear more about Nayari. What do you suppose the life of a concubine was like in 1200 BC?”

“Well, there’s not much in the scroll about her day-to-day life, but the details of the particular incident that the scroll describes are quite vivid, thanks to the interpretation of Layton ’s translators. They may have indulged their creativity a bit, though.”

Grant leaned in a little closer, his curiosity piqued. “I can’t wait to hear it. Start from the beginning.”

“Is Ammonptah displeased with me?” Nayari wrung her hands and paced the confines of the small salon at the back of her master’s house. Around her, servants gathered her few belongings and packed them into woven baskets.

Ammonptah’s head wife, Baakah, supervised the work, her painted lips set in a satisfied line.

“Not displeased. He has merely asked that you travel to Coptos to meet him.” Baakah’s explanation rang false, but Nayari dared not question her. “You will reside at the temple there until Ammonptah arrives.”

The temple? Nayari had never lived in a temple. Why would Ammonptah send her there? “Will I be coming back?” she asked when the servants began carrying the baskets from the room.

Baakah nodded absently. When the servants left, she took Nayari’s slender hands in her own and squeezed them. The jewels on her wrinkled fingers dug into Nayari’s flesh, but her dark eyes held sympathy for once. “Be well,” she said.

The servants escorted Nayari out of the salon and through the house, which would no longer be her home. Just beyond the low stone wall that skirted the courtyard, a small caravan waited. A stern-faced warrior stepped forward and bowed to Baakah, then to Nayari. He put his hand on hers and drew her toward the wheeled cart into which the servants were piling her belongings.

She looked up into dark eyes ringed with kohl, and something tightened in her belly. She placed her hand on her stomach, beneath the woven belt that girdled her long, flowing dress. The emptiness there began to fill with fear and a strange form of excitement when the warrior’s gaze met hers.

“Who are you?” she dared to ask. She’d never seen a man so tall and broad-shouldered. His skin, a shade darker than her own honey tone, glistened with fragrant oil. Bronzed bands circled his upper arms as if to keep his muscles imprisoned and controlled. A collar of beaten gold hung across his upper chest.

“I serve Ammonptah. That’s all you need to know.”

Nayari glanced back at the house. Baakah hurried across the courtyard and went inside, shutting the door behind her. No one remained outside to see her off. Even the servants who had packed her baskets were gone.

With a heavy heart and a hot ache in the back of her throat, Nayari climbed into the cart. The oxen tethered to its front shuffled their feet and made noises of bovine complaint when the warrior urged them to motion. Nayari drew the shawl from around her shoulders and covered her head against the glare of the afternoon sun. She huddled there, swaying with the movement of the cart, staring at the warrior’s broad back and narrow waist and trying to keep herself from crying.

“Let me guess, Baakah didn’t like Nayari and arranged to have her removed as competition for Ammonptah’s affections?” Grant asked when Cait paused for breath. She’d been transported by her narrative, and the bustling restaurant had seemed to fade away. Grant’s question brought her back to reality.

“You know a lot of Egyptian history. I’m impressed. I’ve spent a lot of time reading the journals that came with the scroll. Layton paid a lot of money to his researchers to get the details right. He must have had them working on it for years.”

“It’s unusual to find a story about the life of a concubine. I know back then the Egyptians were meticulous record keepers, but it’s more common to find a ledger of household accounts than a diary.”

Cait nodded. “ Layton believed this story was written as both a warning and a confession of sorts. It seems as though someone wanted future generations to know what happened to Nayari, so she wouldn’t be forgotten.”

“I bet the warrior never forgot her.”

Cait looked up and thanked the waiter who had returned with appetizer salads and a basket of fragrant rolls. Her insides trembled at the thought of the young Nayari being cast from her home by the man who owned her. “As Ammonptah’s head wife, Baakah had quite a bit of leverage in the household and enjoyed a coveted place in society. If she didn’t like Nayari, she could have arranged for the girl to fall out of favor with her husband, but this was more complicated. It was Ammonptah who chose Nayari to be moved to the temple in Coptos.”

“That was the temple dedicated to Min, correct?” Grant’s eyes flashed, and Cait wondered what else he knew about the ancient Egyptian god of male fertility and sexual prowess.

“That’s right. Ammonptah became a disciple of Min later in his life, apparently around the time he decided to maneuver himself into Seti II’s throne. It would have been unusual for a non-religious figure to live at a temple, but apparently Ammonptah had enough influence to be granted a special favor.”

“Nayari was a sacrifice?”

Cait shook her head and took another sip of her drink. “No. Min preferred wheat or lettuce as an offering, and some speculate on the sensual rites and dances that were held to honor him and invoke his blessing on a man’s…performance.”

Dark eyes locked on hers, and she felt a flutter in her chest. She imagined the distant beat of drums and naked worshippers writhing together on the temple floor. Maybe a practical demonstration would be in order-later.

What was she thinking? Had those few sips of martini already gone to her head? Breaking one rule was enough. She didn’t dare try breaking them all in one night, especially with Grant Pierson. She never would have imagined enjoying dinner with the man, but here, away from the gallery, he seemed different. The arrogant businessman had become charming and attentive. Was it only due to his interest in the scroll?