Fellow writers!
Today I leave you with my exercise of @theinkwell's 25th call.
History is full of advice thousands of years old. Today I pause to illustrate the consequences of advice given by a mother to her son.
The screaming mummy
I was the first son of Tiyi. When I was born there were great celebrations, my spirit could end up as part of the great body of Osiris.
My body touched only the softness of the finest fabrics, I was fed with the most delicate foods. I grew up looking at the beautiful bodies of the slave girls in transparent robes, receiving from them drinks, flowers and perfumes.
I never knew the harshness of the world, protected by the gaze of my mother, Second Royal Wife, in the delicacy of my father's harem. The plot began there, amidst the whispers of the wives, women scorned by my father's predilection for Isis, on the day when the inauguration of the temple honouring his passion for her was celebrated.
As the rich food was consumed, the ox meats, the geese, the exotic fruits; as the copious drinks were consumed in cups of gold, silver and alabaster, as the vizier revered my father, as he wished him the grace of Amun to fill his heart, as my father's beautiful wives played subtle instruments and danced the enervating dances for him, the plot to assassinate him began.
I was his beloved son, he always called me to his side. Twenty-two years had passed since he raised me up and announced that I was in his line of succession. Now my mother lets me know that I have been displaced by the sons of Isis.
My mother has looked me in the eye and asked.
"Do you want to be the Pharaoh?" I did not answer her. I read in her eyes that this question had already been answered among the palace trappings.
I was just a boy. The officials of the kingdom, the priests, the wives, the concubines had already decided. I was just a boy who wanted to go up to heaven to live eternal life, to meet my ancestors.
It was my mother who gave me the advice. It was my mother who explained to me how to get to his bed and slit his throat. After that I would be crowned, I would have a harem, I could build a temple for my mother. I would be the representative of Osiris and when I died I would climb the stars to meet him.
Everything went according to plan. My mother was washing the blood from my hands when a battalion of men entered the harem. We knew instantly that the plot had been discovered. I never saw my mother or any other royal wife or concubine again.
An official took me by the arm and dragged me through long corridors. I just stared at him in horror, I was sentenced to a horrific death. I was stripped of my linen and dressed in the vilest manner, covered with an impure goatskin. I would not be entitled to a dignified mummification, my organs would rot in me. I could not ascend to heaven and would never obtain eternal rest.
The name my father gave me was erased from the history of my people, that was my first death, from now on I would simply be Pentaur, a parricide. Bound hand and foot, covered with curses I have been cast into this sarcophagus where I screamed to extinction. I will suffer eternally.
Alone, I contemplate the succession of time. Three thousand two hundred years have passed.
