The sun beat down upon Set Maat, ending the relief of the night. Wind whistled through the valley, carrying the sand of the desert into the village, where it gathered in every nook and cranny. The cliff faces seemed to dance in the rising heat, taking on a semblance of life in the valley of the dead.
Isetnofret smiled as she wished her father farewell, but once he vanished into the morning bustle of artisans and laborers, she sighed.
Today, he would finish his painting in the tomb of an overseer. It was a project that was no challenge to his skill, but a necessity if he wished to have the means to complete the preparations for his own journey into the afterlife. By now, he should have been able to pick and choose only those jobs that indulged his passion for painting and increased his status, but such was not to be.
Though he didn't blame her, Isetnofret certainly blamed herself. Her wealthy husband had passed from sickness after two years of marriage. Because she had not borne him a child before his passing, his family had cast her aside, forcing her to return to her father's household. She also felt responsible for the early death of her mother, who had never truly recovered from childbirth. The cost of preparing her body had further set back her father's plans.
Her mother rested in a small, temporary, but lovingly decorated tomb, awaiting the day when her final resting place would be complete. Once, Isetnofret had thought she would give her parents a grand burial that would ensure their place in the afterlife, and now she was a burden instead.
Though she was a nearly unrivaled beauty, the wind whispered with rumors that she was cursed and barren. No man sought her hand, though many still sought her body. She had rebuffed them all. Though she ached for pleasure, she would give herself to no man who would not relieve her father of the burden she had become.
Her heart heavy — as always — she made her way into the rising heat and the stream of laborers who ogled her with unabashed lust, on her way to her toil, baking bread.
It was near to the time of high sun when the women of the bakery glanced at each other, wondering at the nervous posture of their overseer. He had stepped outside to speak to someone, and returned looking as though he had discovered a scorpion in his sandal.
Whispers traveled, as whispers do, and Isetnofret learned the reason for the odd behavior of the overseer. The youngest son of Pharaoh had come to the valley. The news left her with a mixture of fear and awe, as it did all in Set Maat. Little was known of Dedumose beyond his name, and that his mother was a woman Pharaoh had bedded once on a hunting trip.
When the child was old enough to travel, his mother had journeyed up the Nile to present him to Pharaoh. Despite his mother's prior, humble status, she had been granted a place amongst Pharaoh's concubines, when he saw the child. Dedumose was an acknowledged heir of Pharaoh, and thus he had power.
None knew how he would wield that power over them.
When Isetnofret left the bakery, she took a moment to marvel at the young heir's tents, set up far from the dwellings of the common people. They were elaborately decorated, and trimmed with glimmering gold. Servants scurried amongst the tents, attending to the wants and needs of the man who took shelter within their shade.
She turned away, as the opulence reminded her of her husband. Though the marriage had been a practical means to advance her status, and that of her parents, she had grown fond of her husband in the end. She thought that perhaps she had even loved him. Surely she had mourned for more than her possible fate when he was laid to rest in the tomb her father had painted.
She returned to their small home, in order to prepare for her father's comfort upon his return from the dark tomb in the valley.
Father and daughter both started some hours later, as the sun dipped toward the horizon in preparation to pass through the underworld. A loud, brazen knock sounded on their humble door. Her father shooed her away, and went to answer it.
Isetnofret peeked out from behind the reed mat covering the doorway of her room, and had to hold back a gasp when she saw the soldiers at the door. One of them announced "Dedumose, son of Pharaoh..."
The rest of the lengthy introduction was lost on her as she stood frozen. The fear and awe she had felt earlier filled her to overflowing.
The soldiers stepped aside, and her father bent his knees to abase himself before one of royal blood.
"Rise," Dedumose said as he stepped forward. "I seek your skill."
Again, Isetnofret had to hold back a gasp. Pharaoh's son was clad in nothing more than a thin kilt of fine linen, trimmed with gold. If any doubt that he was born of the gods had dwelled within her, one sight of his magnificent body would have carried it away as if a feather upon the wind. Yet another emotion joined those roiling within her — intense arousal. He was the most beautiful, perfect man she had ever seen.
"How may I serve you, my lord?" her father asked.
Dedumose answered, "My mother beheld your work in the tomb of her father when she was young. She said it was the most pleasing to the gods that was ever offered in their favor. I seek such favor when I stand before them, and would have your work within my own tomb."
Her father responded, "I would be honored to serve you so, my lord."
Isetnofret knew her father well, and could hear the excitement in his voice. It was entirely possible that the son of Pharaoh might expect the work to be done for free. Still, the value of painting the tomb of a member of the royal family was priceless. It would allow her father to attract wealthier patrons, which would in turn attract even more. Surely the gods would reward him in this world and the next for serving the blood of Pharaoh as well.
Dedumose lifted a hand and beckoned someone who waited behind him. A servant approached bearing a vessel. Isetnofret's father gasped upon looking into the vessel, and she barely held back her own. The ground glass was normally reserved for the blue in only the most important paintings within the burial chamber. The color symbolized creation and rebirth. What was within the pot would be sufficient for every painting in a large tomb, even used liberally.
The young heir said, "It would please me for you to use this for the blue in your paintings."
"With this, my work will have life of its own, my lord. To paint with this is a blessing," Isetnofret's father said, and gave a bow.
Dedumose smiled. "You will have servants to aid you, meat, bread, and beer made by those who serve me. I would see to your comfort that you may devote your energy to the work."
"When may I begin?" he asked. His enthusiasm had grown to such a point that any could hear it in his voice.
The son of Pharaoh chuckled. "It will be some time before the tomb is ready for painting. I would have you oversee the plastering, to ensure you have a suitable surface upon which to paint."
"That will serve you well, my lord. If I may, my lord, I would like to sketch your likeness, that you may approve of my rendering before the true work begins."
Dedumose nodded. "This is the reason I sought you out. My mother said you captured her father's likeness, yet cast him in the most perfect light. That is what I wish. I am prepared to sit for such a rendering at this time."
"Oh. Oh, of course, my lord. Daughter, fetch me papyrus, ink, and pen."
Isetnofret's heart skipped a beat. Fear and anxiety swelled within her, but she mastered them to step out of her room and respond as appropriate. "If it pleases my lord, I will do so at once."
The young heir's eyes widened, and his lips curled into a smile. "It would please me greatly. Join us as your father works. How are you called, beautiful one?"
Warmth flooded her cheeks — and wetness gathered elsewhere — as she answered, "Isetnofret, my lord."
"The beautiful Isis," Dedumose said. "It suits you. Please, bring what your father requires and join us."
