SCROLL OF SAQQARA.
by PAULINE GEDGE.
CHARACTER LIST.
KHAEMWASET'S IMMEDIATE FAMILY Khaemwaset: Prince. Fourth son (third surviving son) of the pharaoh Ramses the Second, semi-priest of Ptah, priest of On, magician and doctor. Thirty-seven years old.
Nubnofret: Princess. Khaemwaset's wife. Thirty-five years old.
Hori: Prince Khaemwaset's second son. Priest of Ptah. Nineteen years old.
Sheritra: Prince Khaemwaset's daughter. Fifteen years old. Her name means "Little Sun."
KHAEMWASET'S LARGER FAMILY.
Ramses the Second: Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt. Khaemwaset's father. Sixty-four years old.
Astnofert: Ramses' Royal Wife and Queen. Khaemwaset is her second son. Fifty-nine years old.
Ramses: Crown Prince and Heir Apparent. Astnofert's first son and Khaemwaset's older brother. Forty-three years old.
Si-Montu: Prince. Khaemwaset's older brother. Forty-two years old. Disqualified as prince in line for the throne because he married Ben-Anath, daughter of a Syrian ship's captain. Head of his father's vineyard at Memphis.
Merenptah: Another of Astnofert's sons. Khaemwaset's younger brother. Thirty-one years old.
Bint-Anath: Queen, together with her mother, Astnofert. Khaemwaset's younger sister. Thirty-six years old.
Meryet-Amun: Daughter of Ramses the Second's first wife. Nefertari. A lesser Queen. Twenty-five years old.
FRIENDS.
Sisenet: A noble of Koptos living in Memphis. Forty-five years old.
Tbubui: A noblewoman of Koptos. Thirty-five years old.
Harmin: Her son. Eighteen years old.
SERVANTS.
Amek: Captain of Khaemwaset's bodyguard.
Ib: Khaemwaset's steward.
Kasa: Khaemwaset's body servant.
Penbuy: Khaemwaset's scribe.
Ptah-Seankh: Penbuy's son and his successor as Khaemwaset's scribe.
Sunero: Khaemwaset's agent at Ninsu in the Fayum.
Wennufer: High Priest at Abydos and Khaemwaset's friend.
Antef: Hori's male servant and confidant.
Wernuro: Nubnofret's female servant.
Bakmut: Sheritra's female servant and companion.
Ashahebsed: Ramses the Second's cupbearer and old friend.
Amunmose: Chief Keeper of the Door of Ramses the Second's Harem in Memphis.
GLOSSARY OF EGYPTIAN GODS.
Amun-or Amu-Ra. Centre of worship at Thebes in Upper Egypt. Known as "King of the gods." All pharaohs from the 18th dynasty on were believed to be descended from him.
Apis-a sacred bull, worshipped both as a symbol of the sun and the essence of Ptah.
Atum-pre-dynastic sun god of On.
Bast-cat goddess representing the beneficient, nurturing aspect of the sun.
Horus-falcon god. Son of Osiris. Each pharaoh incorporated his name in his title.
Hu-the Tongue of Ptah who spoke everything into being. He was the motive force behind creation.
Isis-wife of Osiris. When Osiris was slain by Set she gathered up the pieces of his body and reconstituted him by magic.
Ma'at-the concept of correct justice, truth and order. Symbolized by a goddess wearing a feather.
Mut-wife of Amun. Vulture goddess associated with royal women.
Nut-goddess of the sky.
Osiris-ancient fertility god worshipped universally in Egypt, particularly by the common people. King of the land of the dead.
Ptah-creator of the world.
Ra-god of the sun in its strength.
Set-god of storms and turbulence. Slayer of Osiris. At certain times in Egyptian history he became the personification of evil. During the reign of Ramses the Second, Set achieved great prominence.
Shu-god of the air, dividing the earth from the sky.
Thoth-god of medicine, magic and mathematics. Patron of scribes and inventor of writing. Measurer of time.
1.
Hail all ye gods of the Temple of the Soul, who weigh heaven and earth in the scales, who give funerary offerings.
THE COOL AIR THE COOL AIR was a welcome shock. Khaemwaset stepped gingerly into the tomb, aware as always that his was the first foot to be placed in the grey sand of the floor since the mourners, themselves long dead, had backed up the stairs before the sweepers and turned in relief to the blazing sun and a hot desert wind many centuries before. In this case, Khaemwaset mused as he carefully trod the narrow passage, the sealing was done over fifteen hentis ago. A thousand years. I am the first living being to breathe this air in a thousand years. "Ib!" he called sharply. "Bring the torches. What are you dreaming about up there?" His steward spoke a soft apology. There was a flurry of small stones which bumped sharply against Khaemwaset's bare and dusty ankles, and Ib slithered to stand respectfully beside him while slaves moved past with obvious reluctance, carrying the smoking flames. was a welcome shock. Khaemwaset stepped gingerly into the tomb, aware as always that his was the first foot to be placed in the grey sand of the floor since the mourners, themselves long dead, had backed up the stairs before the sweepers and turned in relief to the blazing sun and a hot desert wind many centuries before. In this case, Khaemwaset mused as he carefully trod the narrow passage, the sealing was done over fifteen hentis ago. A thousand years. I am the first living being to breathe this air in a thousand years. "Ib!" he called sharply. "Bring the torches. What are you dreaming about up there?" His steward spoke a soft apology. There was a flurry of small stones which bumped sharply against Khaemwaset's bare and dusty ankles, and Ib slithered to stand respectfully beside him while slaves moved past with obvious reluctance, carrying the smoking flames.
"Are you all right, Father?" Hori's light tenor voice echoed against the dim walls. "Will we need to shore anything up?"
Khaemwaset cast a swift glance around and shouted back a denial. His initial enthusiasm was quickly turning to a familiar disappointment. His were not, after all, the first feet to tread the sacred floor of this ancient prince's resting place. As he came out of the short passage and straightened he saw, in the wavering torchlight, the clear and heartbreaking evidences of robbery. Boxes that had contained the dead man's earthly possessions were strewn about, empty. The jars that had held precious oils and wines of the best vintage of the day were missing, their only vestiges a few pieces of brittle sealing wax and one broken stopper. Furniture lay tumbled almost at Khaemwaset's feet-a stool of plain design, a carved wooden chair whose legs were strangled ducks, their sightless eyes and flaccid necks holding up a curved seat and a backrest where Hu, the Tongue of Ptah, knelt and smiled, two low dining tables from which the delicate inlay had been stripped, and a bed that had been shoved against one plastered wall in two jagged halves. Only the six shawabtis, motionless and sinister, remained untouched in their niches around the walls. As tall as men, fashioned of black-painted wood, they still waited for the spell that would bring them to life to serve their masters in the next world. All the work had been simple, clean and pleasing in line, elegant yet strong. Khaemwaset thought of his own house, stuffed with the glittering ornate crudeness he so despised but his wife admired as the latest fashion in furniture, and sighed.
"Penbuy," he said to his scribe, now hovering discreetly at his elbow, palette and pencase in hand, "you may begin to record what is on the walls. Please be as accurate as possible and remember not to fill in any missing hieroglyphs with your own guesses. Where is the slave with the mirrors?" It is always like driving recalcitrant cattle, he thought as he turned to study the massive granite sarcophagus whose lid was askew. The slaves fear the tombs and even my servants, though they dare not grumble, load themselves with amulets and mutter prayers from the time the seals are broken until the moment when the placatory food offering is left. Well, they need not worry today, his thoughts ran on as he bent to read the inscriptions on the coffin while a slave held a torch. Each third of this day is lucky, for them at any rate. A lucky day for me would be the finding of an untouched tomb crammed with scrolls. He smiled to himself and rose. "Ib, bring down the carpenters and have the furniture repaired and set in the correct places. Have the jars of fresh oil and perfume brought in also. There is nothing of interest here, so we should be on our way home by sunset." His steward bowed, waiting for the prince to precede him along the suffocating passage and back up the short flight of stairs. Khaemwaset emerged, blinking, beside the pile of rubble his diggers had thrown up in their efforts to uncover the tomb door, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the blinding whiteness of the noonday sun. The sky was a dazzling blue, meeting the pure yellow of an undisturbed and endless desert on his left which shimmered as he gazed.
To his right the plain of Saqqara held the naked pillars, crumbled walls and tumbled masonry of a city of the dead, ruined far back in the depths of time and now possessed of a lonely and solemn beauty, the fine-worked stones all a pale beige, their sharp edges and long, running lines reminding Khaemwaset of some strange inorganic desert growth, as stark and comfortless as the sand itself. The stubbed, terraced pyramid of Pharaoh Unas dominated the desolation. Khaemwaset had inspected it some years before. He would have liked to restore it, to smooth its stepped sides into one pleasing whole, to dress its symmetrical face with white limestone, but the project would have taken too much time, too many slaves and conscripted peasant farmers, and a great deal of gold spent to provide bread, beer and vegetables to the workers. Still, even eroded as it was, it had a mighty presence. Khaemwaset, during his minute investigation of the Great Pharaoh's monument, had been unable to find any name carved upon its surfaces, so he had provided Unas with renewed power and life by the hands of his own master craftsmen and had, of course, added the inscription "His Majesty has ordered it to be proclaimed that the chief of the masters of the artists, the Setem-priest Khaemwaset, has inscribed the name of the King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Unas, since it was not found on the face of the pyramid, because the Setem-priest Prince Khaemwaset much loved to restore the monuments of the kings of Upper and Lower Egypt." His Majesty, Khaemwaset reflected as he began to sweat in the heat and his canopy bearer came hurrying to shade him, had not objected to his fourth son's odd obsession, provided full credit was given to himself, Ramses the Second, User-Ma'at-Ra, Setep-en-Ra, in the matter of permissions and gracious credit to himself, the One Who Caused All to Be. Gratefully Khaemwaset felt the shadow of the canopy settle around him, and together he and his servant walked to the red tents and carpets where the bodyguards were rising to reverence him and his chair was being set in the shade. Beer and a fresh salad were waiting. He collapsed under the tasselled eaves of his tent, took a long drink of the dark, satisfying beer, and watched his son Hori disappear into the dark hole in the ground from which he himself had just come. Presently Hori reappeared and began to supervise the line of servants already carrying tools in their brown arms and clay jars on their shoulders.
Khaemwaset knew without looking that the eyes of his clustered entourage were also on Hori. He was without a doubt the most beautiful member of the family. He was tall and very straight, with an easy graceful walk and an upright carriage that somehow managed to avoid being either arrogant or aloof. His large, black-lashed eyes were of a translucent quality, so that enthusiasm, humour or any other strong emotion made them glitter. Delicate brown skin was stretched over high cheekbones, and under those compelling eyes were often violet hollows of seeming vulnerability. Hori's face in repose was youthful, contemplative, but when he smiled it broke into deep grooves of sheer pleasure, lifting him from his nineteen years and making his age suddenly indefinable. His hands were large and capable but also artlessly attractive. He loved mechanical things, and as a child had driven his tutors and nurses to distraction with his questions and his unfortunate habit of taking apart whatever contrivance was to hand. Khaemwaset knew how lucky he was that Hori had also taken to the study of ancient tombs and monuments and, to a lesser degree, the deciphering of inscriptions in stone or in the precious scrolls his father collected. He was the perfect assistant, eager to learn, able to organize, always willing to relieve Khaemwaset himself of many of the burdens on their explorations.
But it was not these things that caused the eyes of everyone in his presence to dwell on the young man. Hori was blissfully unaware that he exuded a strong sexual magnetism to which no one was immune. Khaemwaset had observed its effects time and again with a wry, quiet appreciation tinged with regret. Poor Sheritra, he thought for the thousandth time as he finished the beer and inhaled the intoxicating, wet coolness of the salad. Oh my poor, ungainly little daughter, always trailing about in your brother's shadow, always overlooked. How can you love him so much, so unreservedly, without jealousy or pain? The answer, also familiar, came immediately. Because the gods have set in you a pure and generous heart, as they have given Hori the unselfconsciousness that saves him from the excessive self-love of meaner men who are perhaps as beautiful.
The servants were coming out of the tomb mouth for another load. Hori once more plunged into darkness. Overhead, two hawks hung without movement in the scentless, fiery air. Khaemwaset began to doze.
Several hours later he woke on the pallet in his tent, rose to stand while his body servant Kasa poured water over him and patted him dry, and went out to see the results of his servants' labours. The mound of earth, sand and rubble beside the tomb entrance had shrunk, and men were still at work shovelling the remainder into place. Hori was squatting in the shade of a rock with Antef, his servant and friend, talking desultorily, their voices clear but unintelligible. Ib and Kasa were consulting together over the scroll that contained the lists of gifts to be placed around the dead prince, and Penbuy, seeing his master push the tent flap aside, came hurrying, a sheaf of papyrus under his arm. More beer and a plate of honey cakes appeared, but Khaemwaset gestured them aside.
"Go and tell Ib that I am ready to make the food offering for the ka of this prince as soon as I have taken a last look inside," he said. With Penbuy pacing respectfully at his sandalled heels, he made his way back to the now small entrance under a softly bronzing sky. Red light was beginning to send streamers across the sand and the desert was rose-pink beside him, couching deepening shadows.
At his coming the workmen drew back and bowed. Khaemwaset ignored them. "You come also, for any last-moment comments I may wish to make," he said over his shoulder to his scribe, and he squeezed through the half-closed door and padded along the passage.
The last light of the sun followed him, casting long tongues of coloured flame of a quality so dense that Khaemwaset felt he might pick them up and caress them. They did not, however, penetrate to the coffin itself, deep in the cramped little room, and Penbuy came to a halt where his palette would still be illuminated. Khaemwaset crossed the almost palpable line that divided the fingers of sunset from the eternal gloom of stillness and stood looking about. The slaves had done their work well. The stool, the chair and tables and bed had regained their pristine form and been returned to the position they had occupied for generations. New jars neatly lined the walls. The shawabtis had been washed. The floor had been cleared of the litter the unknown thieves had left, and had been swept.
Khaemwaset nodded and moved to the coffin, inserting one finger into the gap left by the twisted lid. He fancied that the air striking it was colder than that in the rest of the tomb, and withdrew his finger hastily, his rings scraping on the hard granite. Are you watching me? he thought. Are your ancient eyes vainly trying to pierce the thick darkness above you, to find me? He ran his hand slowly over the thin film of dust that had collected through the eons, sifting invisibly and softly from the ceiling to lie thus undisturbed until now. None of his servants would wash a coffin, and this time he had forgotten to do so himself. What will it be like, his thoughts ran on, to be dried, shrivelled skin, to be bandaged bones lying immobile in the dark, watched by the sightless eyes of my own shawabtis listening to nothing, seeing nothing?
For a long time Khaemwaset stood, trying to absorb the atmosphere of mingled pathos and otherness, the unattainability of a past that always taunted and whispered to him of simpler grander ages, while the last rays of sunlight went from red to sullen scarlet and began to thin. He did not really know what it was that he sought in his wanderings among the mute debris of the past. Perhaps it was the meaning of the breath in his body, the beating of his heart, a meaning that might transcend the revelations of the gods, though he loved and revered them. Certainly it was a need to slake the thirst without a name that had possessed him from his childhood and that, when he was younger, had brought tears conjured from some mysterious source within him that spoke of loneliness and displacement. But of course I am not lonely, I am not unhappy, he told himself while Penbuy coughed politely but warningly behind him and the tomb's shadows began to snake towards him with the message to be gone. I love my family, my Pharaoh, my beautiful and blessed Egypt. I am rich, successful, fulfilled in life. It is not that ... it never has been that ... He turned abruptly before a wave of depression could overwhelm him.
"Very well, Penbuy. Let the tomb be sealed," he said sharply. "I do not like the smell of this air, do you?" Penbuy shook his head and scuttled up the passage, with Khaemwaset following more slowly. The whole undertaking had left a sour taste in his mouth, a feeling of futility. It is all dead knowledge that I acquire from the scrolls and tomb paintings, he thought as he emerged, walked past the bowing slaves, and heard the crunch of their shovels in the earth once more. Old prayers, old spells, forgotten details to round out my history of Egypt's nobility, but nothing that might give me the secret of life, the power over everything. Where is the Scroll of Thoth? What dark, dusty niche hides that treasure?
The sun had gone. In the mild, velvety sky a few stars had begun to prick and the chatter and laughter of his entourage quickened under the sudden flourish of fresh torches. Khaemwaset all at once wished to leave. Signalling to Ib he strode into his tent. An oil lamp now flickered by the cot, casting a friendly yellow glow, and he could smell fresh perfume. Ib padded forward and bowed. "Tell Hori to robe now," Khaemwaset said, "and bring me my sem-priest's garb. The acolytes can charge the censers and be ready. Are the food offerings blessed?"
"Yes," Ib replied. "Prince Hori has been performing the prayers. Does your Highness wish to wash again before dressing?" Khaemwaset shook his head, suddenly weary.
"No. Send an acolyte and I will do the ritual cleansing. That will be enough."
He waited in silence. Kasa appeared, the voluminous black-and-yellow-striped sem-priest's garb held reverently across his outstretched arms, and stood with eyes downcast as an acolyte presented the Prince with a silver ewer full of scented water and helped him to undress. Khaemwaset solemnly began the ritual washing, murmuring the appropriate prayers to which the boy responded, and the sweet-acrid wisps of incense smoke began to curl between the tent flaps.
At last Khaemwaset was ready. The acolyte bowed, picked up the ewer and withdrew, and Khaemwaset held out his arms while Kasa slipped the long robe over his head. Both men went outside. There Hori waited in his role as a priest of Ptah, holding the long censer cup from which grey plumes floated, and the food offerings for the ka of the prince whose tomb they had politely disturbed lay upon golden dishes.
The little procession formed and moved with stately grace to the now invisible tomb entrance. The slaves were on their faces. Khaemwaset stepped forward, taking the censer from his son, and began the prayers for the preservation of the dead and the enjoining of the ka not to punish those who had today dared to look upon a sacred resting place. It was now fully dark. Khaemwaset watched his own beringed, long fingers glitter in the torchlight as they dignified the time-honoured words with gestures of respect and appeasement He had performed the same ceremony a hundred times over, and not once had the dead expressed offence at his probings. Indeed he believed that his careful restorations and food offerings had resulted in blessing upon himself and those he cared for from the kas of princely beings long dead and quite forgotten.
The ceremony was soon over. The closing words fell flat in the warm darkness. At last Khaemwaset knelt beside Hori to be disrobed, and rose while Kasa wound his white kilt around his still well-muscled waist and laid his favourite lapis-and-jasper pectoral across his chest. His eyes were gritty with fatigue. Are you coming home?" he asked Hori when Kasa had left to summon the litter bearers.
Hori shook his head. "Not unless you want me to help Penbuy file our finds today, Father," he replied. "The night is so sweet that Antef and I are going fishing."
"Take a bodyguard," Khaemwaset admonished automatically, and Hori smiled and turned away.
It was a long walk to the city of Memphis from the high plateau of Saqqara, down through the stately palm groves and across the drainage canal now little more than a smooth ribbon of darker darkness that momentarily reflected the lights of the Prince's escort. Khaemwaset, swaying in his cushioned litter with its tasselled curtains turned back so that he might look out upon the soft night, reflected, as he so often did, on the peculiar character of this, his favourite city. Memphis was one of the oldest places of continuous habitation in Egypt, and the holiest. Here the god Ptah, creator of the universe, had been worshipped for two thousand years. Here a long succession of kings had spent their sacrosanct lives, so that an aura of grace and dignity imbued every street.
The ancient core of the city could still be seen, the White Wall of Menes that had once enclosed the entire population but was now merely a tiny oasis of calm where rich and poor from all over the country came to stare and comment.
Sightseeing was a national pastime, the thing to do if one could afford it. Khaemwaset smiled a little sardonically to himself as his bearers entered the palm plantations and the sky was blotted out by a forest of stiff, feathery fronds that rustled pleasingly in the dimness. History had become fashionable-not the history over which he himself pored with such single-minded determination, but the stories of the conquests and personalities, miracles and tragedies of the kings of old. Guides thronged the market-places of Memphis eager to fleece country noblemen and wealthy merchants alike in exchange for titillating stories of a spurious past lit up with juicy, if highly doubtful, palace scandals of one hundred, one thousand years ago. Men took up chunks of stone and hacked their names and often their comments into the White Wall, the outer court of the temple of Ptah, even the gates of the temples of the kings in the old Ankh-tawy district Khaemwaset had begun to employ burly Hurrians to patrol the monuments of the city. He had ordered offenders to be lightly beaten if caught, and his father, the august Ramses, had not objected. Probably because he does not care over-much, Khaemwaset surmised as the palms became fewer and the black night sky once more soared above him. He is too busy raising his own monoliths to posterity and expropriating the work of his ancestors to his own glory where it is most convenient.
Dear Father, Khaemwaset thought with an inward chuckle. Ruthless, arrogant and deceitful, yet full of lordly generosity when it suits you. You have been more than generous with me. I wonder how many complaints you have received from the noble foreign defacers of our marvels? Three-quarters of the populace of Memphis are foreigners enamoured of our strong economy and our supreme hierarchy. I wish you did not love them quite so much. He felt the bare feet of his bearers move on to something hard, and presently the night began to lighten with the orange glow of the city. They were behind the quietness of the Ankh-tawy district, where the temples hulked in a shrouded gloom relieved only occasionally by the tiny dot of a torch held for a priest going to or from his nightly duties. Beyond the rearing, dusky pylons and soaring pillars was the district of Ptah, dominated by the god's mighty House, and beyond that was the Fine District of Pharaoh, with its two canals running to the Nile, its palace, often neglected, often rebuilt by successive pharaohs from time immemorial, and at present resplendently restored and added to by Ramses. Its tumultuous docks and warehouses were interspersed with the hovels of the very poor.
The White Wall citadel was to Khaemwaset's right, and he caught a glimpse of its tall, now grey presence before the bearers emerged from its shadows into the district Northof-the-Walls, where he and many other nobles had their estates. This was a full city away from the noise and stench of the South district where the foreigners-Canaanites, Hurrians, Keftiu, Khatti and other barbarians-worshipped at the shrines of Baal and Astarte and conducted their loud and rude businesses with Egypt.
Khaemwaset often visited the foreign noblemen on their own estates that mirrored the gracious, peaceful enclaves of the North-of-the-Walls. His father entrusted him with much of the affairs of the government, particularly here in Memphis where Khaemwaset had elected to live. In his capacity as the most revered physician in the country he was often consulted by the Semites, but he did not like them. To him they were polluted streams invading the limpid, clean flow of his country's society, carrying the corruption of strange gods to diminish the reverence due to Egypt's faithful and powerful deities, the poison of exotic cultures, debased morals, cheap business dealings. Baal and Astarte were fashionable at Court, and Semitic names abounded, even in pure Egyptian homes of every strata. Intermarriage was common. Pharaoh's dearest and most trusted friend was a Semite, a silent, spare man named Ashahebsed. Khaemwaset, a courtier born and bred, was well used to disguising his true feelings and did so with ease. He had had many dealings with this man, who now preferred to be known as Ramses-Ashahebsed, and had done no more than mildly insult him by refusing to use the prenomen "Ramses" except on written documents.
The temple of Neith was dropping slowly behind him and his bearers slowed, obviously tired. The torchlight was brighter now, for the inhabitants of North-of-the-Walls could afford to employ light-carriers to patrol the streets. Khaemwaset rearranged his cushions, listening to the challenges of the night-watch and his foot soldiers' response. Occasionally his herald, Ramose, would call a warning and Khaemwaset would watch the passersby go down in the dusty street to touch their foreheads to the earth until his litter had gone. But the people were few. They were at home, eating or preparing for evening visiting with friends, and the night life of the city had not yet begun.
Presently Khaemwaset heard the voice of his own porter and his gate creaked open. Bodyguards saluted from their stations outside the high, mud-brick wall as he went through, and the gate clanged shut behind him. "Put me down here," he called. "I will walk now." Obediently the litter was lowered and he alighted, beckoning to Ramose and his soldiers. He set off along the path that skirted the rear garden and intersected other paths-one into the shrubbery and towards the fish pools, now invisible but for dark smudges to the left, one to the kitchens, granaries and workhuts of his servants, and one to the small but pleasantly appointed house where Khaemwaset's concubines lived. There were not many of them and he did not often visit their domain or summon any of them to his couch. His wife Nubnofret ran their lives as she ran her family household, with rigid efficiency, and Khaemwaset left it all alone.
The path now ran under the shadow of his house wall and round the corner to the front, pausing to detour under the white entrance pillars with their bright red-and-bluepainted birds that trailed palm fronds and river weed from their sharp bills. It ran on across Khaemwaset's carefully nurtured lawns and between the sycamore trees to the white watersteps and the calm, swiftly flowing river. At the junction Khaemwaset paused, sniffing the air, his eyes turning towards the Nile. It was the end of Akhet. The river was still full, a rolling brown and blue torrent of fecundity, but it had returned to its banks after the annual flood and the peasants had begun to fling seeds onto the saturated ground. The feathery palms that lined the drainage canals, the acacia thorns and sycamores, all glistened with the sheen of new, pale-green leaves, and in Khaemwaset's gardens the vivid clusters of flowers had begun to bloom with an abandon that assaulted the eyes and filled the nostrils with delight. Khaemwaset could not see them but their scent was all around him.
He watched the early light of the new moon glint fretfully on the river, now silver slivers, now darkness, as the night breeze stirred the choked growth on the banks and lifted the tree branches. The watersteps were a deserted invitation, and he envied Hori who must surely even now be reclining in the bottom of his skiff, Antef beside him, their fishing lines tied to the boat while they watched the stars and gossiped. His fountain tinkled like music in the darkness, and the monkeys sighed and snuffled in their favourite spot under the stone basin, which still held the warmth of the day's heat. "I would like to drift on the river tonight," Khaemwaset remarked to his patient retinue, "but I suppose I must see what has been going on in my absence." Privately he thought that an hour on the river would not do him any good. He was inexplicably tired. His lungs hurt from inhaling the old air and dust of the tomb, and his hips ached A massage and a good sleep on his own couch would help. "Ramose," he said to his herald. "Tell my wife that I have returned and I am in my own quarters. If Penbuy's litter has come back, I will look over any letters from the Delta that may have been delivered in my absence. Tell Ib I want food immediately, and Kasa can wait until I have finished with Penbuy before giving me a massage. Amek?" The captain of his bodyguard approached and bowed. "I will not be going out tonight. You can stand these soldiers down." Without waiting for a reply, he walked in under his pretty pillars.
His reception hall, where guests were greeted and entertained, was spacious and cool, the floor tiled in plain black and white, the walls plastered and painted with scenes of himself and his family fowling in the marshes, fishing, or relaxing in the garden under their sunshades. The colours he had insisted be used when the house was built were the traditional whites, blacks, yellows, blues and reds of antiquity, and the few pieces of furniture set about for his guests were equally simple in design, made from Lebanon cedar inlaid with gold, ivory and lapis.
He had managed to override his wife's protestations here. She had not wanted to give their guests the impression that the mighty Prince and sem-priest Khaemwaset, son of Pharaoh and virtual unofficial ruler of Egypt, had poor taste, but after a violent argument she had for once been defeated.
"I am a royal son of Egypt," Khaemwaset had finally and uncharacteristically shouted at her, "and Egypt led the world in all matters of fashion, government and diplomacy for uncounted hentis! My servants are pure Egyptian, and my family is guarded by Egyptian troops, not foreign mercenaries! My home is an Egyptian sanctuary, not a Semitic brothel!"