12.
Let us praise Thoth, the exact plummet of the balance, from whom evil flees, who accepts him who avoids evil.
THREE DAYS AFTER THREE DAYS AFTER his first visit to Sheritra at Tbubui's house, Khaemwaset knew he must share his decision with Nubnofret or die of guilt. He had woken with the now familiar lurch of apprehension in his chest at what had become his first thought of the day, and as he ate the bread and fruit Kasa had set beside him, he critically considered the gradual weakening of his will. He did not fully understand his hesitancy, or the feeling that he was somehow doing something reprehensible in marrying Tbubui. his first visit to Sheritra at Tbubui's house, Khaemwaset knew he must share his decision with Nubnofret or die of guilt. He had woken with the now familiar lurch of apprehension in his chest at what had become his first thought of the day, and as he ate the bread and fruit Kasa had set beside him, he critically considered the gradual weakening of his will. He did not fully understand his hesitancy, or the feeling that he was somehow doing something reprehensible in marrying Tbubui.
The food was consumed and he was bathed and dressed before he stopped to consider what he was doing, and he only came to himself as Kasa settled him on the stool before his cosmetic table and pried the seal from a new jar of kohl. The polite snap of the wax brought Khaemwaset to his senses. This is not acceptable, he told himself angrily, watching Kasa dip a brush into the jet-black powder and lean towards his face. He closed his eyes and felt the damp brush sweep pleasingly across his eyelids. "Kasa," he said aloud quickly, before the cloud of misgiving could solidify into yet another day of cowardly procrastination, "I want you to go across to the concubines' house and tell the Keeper of the Door to open and prepare the largest suite for another occupant. I am going to marry again."
The brush trembled on his temples and then resumed its slow tracking. Kasa straightened and dabbled the tool in the bowl of water on the table. He did not look at his master. "This is good news," he said formally. "I offer you wishes of long life, health and prosperity, Highness. Please do not speak. I must now paint your mouth."
Khaemwaset was silent until the henna, cool and moist, was drying on his lips, then he said, "Have my architect in my office this evening. I intend to design an additional suite of rooms for Second Wife Tbubui, to be added to the house."
"Very good, Highness. And is this news now universal?"
Khaemwaset chuckled at his body servant's extreme tact. "Yes," he answered, and sat without another word until Kasa picked up the gold-and-lapis pectoral and the gold bracelets lying on the couch and carefully completed the Prince's dressing. "If I am needed I will be in the Princess's rooms," he told the man, and walked out. The die had been cast. Now he absolutely must tell Nubnofret.
Amek and Ib left their posts outside the door and swung in behind him as he made his way through the wide passages of his domain. The morning sweeping and cleaning was almost finished and Khaemwaset moved through dancing dust motes shimmering in the frequent patches of sunlight and the deep prostrations of his house servants.
Bidding his escort wait, he greeted Wernuro at his wife's door, was announced, and stepped within. Nubnofret turned to him with a smile. She was wearing a full yellow sheath embroidered in gold thread that left her ample arms and statuesque neck bare. Her long hair had been braided with gold-shot ribbon, and a gold circlet, surmounted by an image of the vulture goddess Mut, cut across her brown forehead. She was still barefoot. Khaemwaset had time to think with a pang how truly voluptuous she was with the tendrils of damp hair curling out of the thick braid to lie against her painted cheeks and the outline of her large breasts showing tantalizingly through the thin, gauzy linen.
"So you rose early also, dear brother," she commented happily as she held up her face for his kiss. "What do you have planned for the day? I hope it includes an hour or two of dalliance with me!" She has changed since Sheritra left, he pondered, his lips brushing her scented skin. She is less heavily serious, less consumed with the correct running of the house. Sheritra reminds her of her failures, perhaps, or of the years that pass so much more quickly for a woman than for a man. Poor Nubnofret.
"I want to talk to you privately," he said. "Come out onto the terrace."
She nodded and followed him across her room to where three steps led between pillars to the draught-cooled, roofed cloister. Another couple of steps would have taken them out into the full glare of a morning already stale with heat. Thick shrubbery shielded the entrance from the rear garden. Khaemwaset indicated a chair but she shook her head. Mut's obsidian eye glowered balefully at Khaemwaset as she did so.
"I have been sitting for an hour getting my hair and face done," she explained. "What is it, Khaemwaset? Am I now to know what has been troubling you?"
He sighed inwardly. "I do not know how to put this gently," he said, "so I will not try. For some time now I have been increasingly attracted to another woman, Nubnofret. I viewed this involvement with annoyance, for I am a man of set habits who likes a predictable family life, but it grew in spite of my efforts to ignore it. I am now in love with her and I have decided to marry her."
Nubnofret made a soft exclamation but Khaemwaset, daring to glance at her, did not think she was expressing shock or even surprise. It sounded more like irritation. "Go on," she said evenly. She was standing perfectly still, bejewelled arms at her sides, looking at him. He still could not face her squarely.
"There is little else to say," he admitted. "She will move into the concubines' quarters until I can design and have built a proper suite for her in the house, and of course she will be only Second Wife. You will remain mistress of the household in every way."
"Naturally," she said, still in that odd, flat tone. "It is your prerogative to take as many wives as you want, Khaemwaset, and I am only surprised that you have not done so sooner." But she still did not sound surprised. She sounded completely indifferent. He had never seen her so composed. "When will the contract be drawn up?"
Now he forced himself to face her. Her eyes were huge and expressionless. "It has been drawn up already. She has signed it and so have I."
"Then you have had this on your mind and you have planned carefully for quite some time." A faint smile came and went on her pink mouth. "Can it be that you were afraid to tell me, dear brother? I am sorry to disappoint you. I have suspected such a thing for weeks. Who is this most fortunate woman? A princess surely, for Ramses would allow you a commoner for a concubine but not for a royal wife."
Khaemwaset had the uneasy feeling that she knew already. She was staring at him with what seemed like equanimity, her breath coming in slow deep movements of her breast. "Not a princess," he was forced to admit, "but definitely a noblewoman. It is Tbubui, Nubnofret. Tbubui. I have wanted her from the first!" His last words shot from him in a desperate effort to shake her aplomb, but she merely raised one feathery eyebrow.
"Tbubui. I did wonder about her, Khaemwaset. That day she almost fell into the water and panicked, you tensed to rush to her before she had even begun to topple. Well, I suppose I like her a little. We are friends on a superficial level, but she is not my social equal, and I do not intend to treat her as such, particularly now that I suspect she sought my company even as she was secretly inveigling to join this household. I regard such duplicity as a personal betrayal. You understand."
"Yes, of course."
"I am quite sure that she sealed the contract with great eagerness," Nubnofret went on. "You are, after all, no minor princeling buried in Egypt's backwaters. Now what of her son? Is he to live here also? Do you want me to give orders for a large celebration, and if so, when? What has your father had to say about the match?" Her questions were dutiful and clinical, but Khaemwaset at last sensed the terrible rage that he had mistaken for indifference, a rage so great that it had rendered her frozen.
"The contract does not become valid until Penbuy returns from Koptos with verification of her noble bloodline," he assured her hastily. "He left a few days ago and I have not yet received word that he arrived safely."
"No one told me." For a moment she looked bewildered, then she leaned forward, flushing. "No one told me! All this behind my back, Prince, as though you were ashamed, as though you were afraid of me! I am insulted! How do you regard me, Khaemwaset, if you cannot come to me about something like this? How long? How long?"
"I am sorry, Nubnofret," he confessed. "Truly sorry. I wish that I could make you understand." He spread his hands before her. "If I had taken another wife for dynastic reasons or because my father thought it necessary or even for a little variety, I would have come to you, discussed it with you. But this ..." He put his hands on her rigid shoulders. "I am consumed with wanting her, Nubnofret. I cannot rest. I concentrate on nothing. And that makes me feel like a foolish young man, like an infatuated child before you. Therefore I hesitated to suffer your amusement, your condescension."
"By the gods!" She tore herself out of his tentative grasp. "She is a nobody from the south, Khaemwaset! If you want her, take her! Toss her in with the other concubines until you become tired of her or make love to her in her own house, it does not matter! But do not, do not marry her!"
The utter contempt in her voice made Khaemwaset wince. "This is no idle craving," he broke in. "I know that I will still want her in five, ten, fifteen years, and I intend to make sure that no one else can have her. I will marry her. It is my right!"
"Your right!" she scoffed, and Khaemwaset saw that she was shaking all over. Her bracelets jangled with the tremors in her arms, and the hem of her gown was quivering. "Yes, it is your right, but not her, Khaemwaset! You have taken leave of your senses! Your father will never allow it!"
"I think he will," Khaemwaset said, trying to gentle his voice and thus calm her down. "Tbubui is a noblewoman. Her character is above reproach. Penbuy will bring me the confirmation Ramses will request."
"Well that is something, at least," she said more quietly. Her gaze met his, and now he read speculation there. She began to play with her bracelets, pushing them up her arms, and letting them fall, but her eyes never left his. "Tell me," she said. "Do you love me?"
"Oh Nubnofret!" he cried out, reaching for her, but she deftly stepped aside and his gesture died. "I love you very much. I always will."
"But not as much, it seems, as an upstart from Koptos," she murmured. "Very well. I demand to see the terms of the contract. That is my right. I must protect myself and the children. Apart from that, I shall conduct myself as befits my position as Chief Wife and Princess." She stood taller. "Have you told Hori and Sheritra?"
"Not yet, and I beg you to leave that task to me. I will do it in my own way."
Nubnofret smiled harshly. "Why?" she asked. "Are you ashamed, O my husband?"
They fell silent and stood staring at each other The heaviness between them grew, and with it Khaemwaset's anger, until finally he said, "That will be all, Nubnofret. You are dismissed."
She bowed with exaggerated reverence, stepped around him and glided back into her chamber. "The woman is not worthy of you," her voice floated back to him. "Penbuy will bring you bad news, Khaemwaset, whether you demand that I do my duty or not. Please do not come back into the house through my rooms. I have a bad head."
With a grunt of exasperation, Khaemwaset spun on his heel and turned down into the bright garden. He would see to the problem of a new physician for Pharaoh's harem. He would diligently answer the messages from the Delta. Nubnofret would get over her scorn and rage and accept Tbubui, and all would be as it should. I should feel relieved, he told himself as he left the grass and his feet found the burning paving of the path that circled the house. It is all out in the open. Hori and Sheritra will not mind. They will not be too affected. Sheritra might even be pleased, for Harmin will be as close to her as her brother. Do I want a great celebration, a city holiday for this, my second marriage after so many years? He pondered with a mixture of happiness and anxiety, a frown on his face, forcing his mind to fill with feverish thoughts so that he did not have to consider, along with Nubnofret's scorn and rage, her hurt.
A FEW DAYS AFTERWARDS Sisenet paid his visit to examine the scroll. Ib received him in the still-cool vastness of the reception hall that was cluttered with the foreign knickknacks Nubnofret had acquired. The steward set wine and pastries before him, and Khaemwaset soon sat down next to him. Sisenet paid his visit to examine the scroll. Ib received him in the still-cool vastness of the reception hall that was cluttered with the foreign knickknacks Nubnofret had acquired. The steward set wine and pastries before him, and Khaemwaset soon sat down next to him.
The time between had been strained but uneventful. Nubnofret had retired behind a rigid politeness, seeing to his needs with her usual efficiency and speaking to him mildly, but the embryo of a fragile girlishness in her was gone. Khaemwaset had seen little of Hori. That was an ordeal he still shrank from undergoing. Sheritra could be told on the next visit to Tbubui to retrieve the sealed contract, but Hori was an increasing, worrying mystery. Khaemwaset put all of them out of his mind with a supreme effort of will and sat beside Sisenet, talking lightly of the intensifying heat of summer and the level of the Nile. The man responded in kind and once the social amenities were discharged, Khaemwaset rose and led him to the office. The room enfolded them in its purposeful atmosphere of repose. Khaemwaset indicated the chair behind the desk, and bowing, Sisenet accepted it, drawing it up to the table where Khaemwaset had already spread his notes. The scroll itself lay to one side, stirring faintly in a hidden draught.
Khaemwaset sank onto a stool. He did not expect any real assistance from this spare, quiet man who was giving him a quick smile and reaching for the soft cylinder. Khaemwaset knew his own status in Egypt's academic community very well, and it came to him that he was probably going through this charade to please Tbubui. He wanted to ask if Sisenet had all he required-pens, palette, something to drink-but Sisenet's head had gone down over the gleaming surface of the desk and his immediate absorption in the task precluded interruption. Khaemwaset forced his attention back to the litter under the man's tanned, sinewy fingers. Sisenet was wearing several thick gold-and-turquoise rings of a design Nubnofret would have disdainfully labelled crude and bulky, but Khaemwaset rather liked them. He watched their tiny movements as Sisenet read.
Presently the man pulled Khaemwaset's notes towards him and glanced over them. His scrutiny seemed slightly scornful to Khaemwaset, who then acknowledged to himself that his imagination was already at work, as it always was when he had anything to do with the scroll. The level of his anxiety was rising. Find nothing, he begged Sisenet dumbly. Declare the task too great and your scholarship inadequate, so that I may be cleansed of this obsession in good conscience. Sisenet cleared his throat, a small completely polite sound, and a faint smile moved his ascetic lips. He looked up, pulling the scribe's palette forward, and took up a pen. Then he unrolled the scroll again. His handling of it was almost ritualistic, although his steady gaze remained fixed on Khaemwaset.
"This is a difficult form of very ancient Egyptian writing," he said. "I am not surprised that it has mystified you, Prince. Very few scrolls of this age have survived, but I have had the privilege of examining a couple of them in Koptos, where life has gone on unchanged from generation to generation, untouched by the fevers and fervours of the north."
Khaemwaset was not tempted to smile at the man's somewhat quaint language. He was forcibly aware that Sisenet's odd accent had intensified, become more broad. He still could not place it. He was so used to it issuing out of Tbubui's mouth that he had ceased to notice it, but he spoke to Sisenet much less frequently and now it rang in his ears, a pleasant, courtly lilt.
"Are you telling me that you are in fact able to translate that ... that thing?" Khaemwaset jabbed one impatient finger at the smooth, beige papyrus held open between Sisenet's quiet hands. Sisenet's eyebrows shot up.
"But of course, Highness," he said. "A moment, and I will write it down for you."
Unbelieving, Khaemwaset saw him lay the palette across the scroll to prevent it from rolling shut, and begin to write, his pen scratching loudly and surely across the unblemished paper Khaemwaset's temporary scribe had laid ready. He found it difficult to breathe. Fear and excitement had gripped him and he leaned forward tensely, hands locked between his knees, mesmerized by the columns of hieroglyphs taking shape under Sisenet's sleek black head. The moments slid by. How can he be so calm, so uninvolved? Khaemwaset wondered hotly. Though perhaps what he is writing has no significance. Perhaps it is a love poem, a family event recorded joyously, even a list of some kind ... But he remembered the curious and familiar cadence of the sentences, the light, dry feel of the bandaged hand from which he had severed the scroll, and his mind retreated and fell silent.
After what seemed a very long time, Sisenet straightened and laid the pen back in its slot on the palette. He passed the sheet of papyrus over the desk, wordlessly handing it to Khaemwaset, who was unable to still the tremor in his arm as he took it. The room was becoming hotter now, the fleeting coolness of early morning giving way to stifling, motionless air. The scroll no longer quivered, for the draughts had ceased. Sisenet had allowed it to roll up again, and now waited, his hands clasped on the desk beside it.
Khaemwaset had begun to sweat. He was aware of Sisenet's clear, unwavering observation as he forced his eyes to begin the reading, and he cursed himself for so betraying his agitation. At first his mind did not register what his gaze was presenting and he was forced to go back and scan the lines again, but then eye and mind suddenly harmonized and the shock of it went through Khaemwaset like a galvanizing drug.
"Oh gods, I said these words even though I did not understand them," he croaked, horror and elation coursing through him, and though he tried to hold on to the elation, the horror grew. "Gods! Gods! What have I done?"
"It was a foolish thing to do once you realized, as you must have, that the words had the cadence of a spell," Sisenet replied, "but in this case a harmless mistake. Highness, are you ill?"
Khaemwaset was aware of him half rising from behind the desk, and managed to wave him down. "No! I am not ill!"
"Surely you do not believe in this thing, Prince?" Sisenet said slowly. "I apologize, for I seem to have given you a shock. The Scroll of Thoth is a matter of myth and legend only. The story of its existence is merely an expression of man's longing to control both life and death. Only the gods have that power. This," and he flicked the scroll contemptuously with a long fingernail, "this is a game. Someone fabricated a Scroll of Thoth out of his need, his desire for ultimate power, or perhaps even out of his anguish. A dead loved one, a horror of the Judgment Hall because of a life spent doing evil." Sisenet shrugged. "Who knows? The Scroll does not exist. It has never existed, and if you consider the matter for a moment, Highness, you must admit that it simply could not exist."
Khaemwaset was struggling for control, the papyrus clutched tightly in both hands. "I am a magician," he responded, his voice still clogged with fear. "I know many spells that have mighty power. I know how other magicians have sought this Scroll for hentis beyond counting, and their searches have been conducted with the absolute certainty that such a thing exists and has the power to bend the dead and the living to its will."
"And I tell you, Prince, that although magic may control many areas of our lives because the magician may coerce the gods into doing what is requested, we cannot use it to resurrect the dead or communicate with animals and birds as the legitimate owner of the Scroll of Thoth is supposed to be able to do, no matter how fervently we desire to do so. This scroll has great value, but as an historic artifact, not as a myth come to reality. Do you not think that if the scroll had any real power the tomb would be empty?"
Khaemwaset clenched his teeth. He knew that he was white and shaking, for he was consumed with the feeling that he was in fact asleep, on his couch in a blistering afternoon, in the grip of a dreadful nightmare. All he could think of while Sisenet was talking in that maddening, not-quite-recognized accent, his face full of concern and skepticism and something else, something that might have been faint amusement, was the night he had spoken the strange words and then rushed to negate the power he had felt settle around him.
He rose. "Come," he said, and without waiting he stumbled to the doors. "Ib!" he shouted. "Order out three litters and command Hori to meet me behind the house immediately!"
His legs felt weak. Forcing them to obey him he strode through the house and out into the garden, sensing rather than hearing Sisenet gliding swiftly behind. Together they waited in silence until the litters and twelve bearers appeared, and Hori emerged, blinking and dishevelled, to join them. He greeted Sisenet amiably enough but Khaemwaset, despite his distress, recognized the marks of a night of concentrated drinking on the handsome face. Not now, he thought grimly. He flung himself onto a litter and the others followed suit.
"What is this about, Father?" Hori asked, but Khaemwaset did not reply. Curtly he instructed the bearers to hurry them to the tomb site, then he pulled the curtains closed and fell back on the pillows, trying to still the confused swirl of shrinking and haste inside him. Never had the trek through the city to Saqqara seemed so long.
He did not reopen his litter until he felt it being lowered, then he stepped out onto ground that burned through his sandals. Sisenet and Hori had already alighted and were coming towards him, eyes narrowed against the fiery afternoon sun. Khaemwaset jerked his head at them and hurried down the steps, but at the entrance, where two dozing, bored guards on either side of the doorway sprang to attention and saluted him, he paused. It required a deliberate act of courage for him to walk through, and he felt an almost physical resistance as he did so.
As always, the damp coolness was a relief, but the pleasure of the still air on his skin was transitory. Sisenet and Hori came up behind him and stood waiting, puzzled. He walked down the short passage and once more came to a halt. A shudder went through him. The bright, intricately painted wall scenes, the two statues, the ranked shawabti figures, and most of all the coffins, seethed to exude a gleeful malevolence that rushed to claim him. You stole it, the chamber shouted silently. You have sinned, you arrogant, heedless defiler and you will pay.
A hopeless anger suddenly propelled Khaemwaset forward. Striding to the coffin that held the mysterious man he leaned over the shrouded figure and drove a fist into the fragile corpse. The brittle ribcage collapsed in a shower of choking dust and tiny splinters of bone. The mummy trembled and Khaemwaset withdrew his arm.
"This man is a nobody," he said forcefully. "Completely insignificant. He was probably a household servant, a gardener, a carrier of offal for the trash heap. The scroll was attached to his hand so that a fool like me could read it all unwittingly and raise them them to life again!" He flung his dust-coated arm at the new false wall Hori's workmen had so painstakingly erected and repainted. He was in a cold sweat. "That's why the scroll was sewn to a nonentity's hand. That's why there are no lids for the coffins in the inner chamber. That's why there is a tunnel. The earring, Hori. The earring! A dead woman lost it while she was crawling out! Where are they now and what have they done?" He was becoming incoherent, and Hori turned to Sisenet. to life again!" He flung his dust-coated arm at the new false wall Hori's workmen had so painstakingly erected and repainted. He was in a cold sweat. "That's why the scroll was sewn to a nonentity's hand. That's why there are no lids for the coffins in the inner chamber. That's why there is a tunnel. The earring, Hori. The earring! A dead woman lost it while she was crawling out! Where are they now and what have they done?" He was becoming incoherent, and Hori turned to Sisenet.
"What is going on here?" he whispered. "What is Father babbling about?"
His words easily reached Khaemwaset in the enclosed space, and he laughed hysterically. "I stole it and I used it," he shouted. "Only the legitimate owner can do that with impunity. I have condemned myself!"
"He believes that the scroll the two of you found here is the fabled Scroll of Thoth," Sisenet explained hurriedly to a bewildered Hori. "It did indeed translate as two rather clumsy spells for re-animation and the understanding of the language of all living things, but such a thing cannot be." He turned to Khaemwaset. "The dead do live again," he said reasonably, "but not on this earth, Prince. There is no record of anyone coming back from the grave. The Scroll of Thoth is a grand, sad legend and you cannot believe in it literally." Khaemwaset was staring at him intensely and he moved forward. "Give it to me, Highness, and I will take it away and burn it," he offered, but Khaemwaset came to himself and violently shook his head.
"No," he barked. "I will put it back immediately today. Go home, Sisenet."
The man hesitated, opened his mouth, then closed it again and bowed himself out. Khaemwaset watched his shadow elongate in the sunshine along the wall of the tomb passage, then snap to him and disappear Hori came quickly, and put a hand on Khaemwaset's arm. "I am not sure I understand just what has been happening here," he said with concern, "but you are distraught, Father. Come home and rest, and we will bring the scroll and close the tomb."
Khaemwaset surrendered for once to the pressure of his son's comforting grip and allowed himself to be led outside. Sisenet's litter was just vanishing into the northern edge of the city. "Yes, home," Khaemwaset muttered, "but I cannot rest until I have done what must be done. Let us hurry, Hori. I do not want to be here when the shadows begin to lengthen."
They returned to the house, and while Hori waited, Khaemwaset went to his office and grabbed up the scroll, deliberately not reacting to the feel of it or allowing his mind to become entangled in the past. From Kasa he obtained a copper needle and some thread, and clutching these objects he went back to where Hori stood anxiously. "Come with me," he begged, and Hori nodded. Together they rode the swaying litters back the way they had come, Khaemwaset's impatience now a desperate, helpless thing.
At the tomb entrance Khaemwaset staggered from the litter and, with a shout for Hori, ran down the stairs and inside. The body he had mutilated lay at he had left it, its chest now gaping drily open. "Hold up the hand," Khaemwaset snapped. The young man obeyed, lifting the light, stiff arm and turning it so that Khaemwaset could work.
With needle threaded and the scroll roughly bunched against the linen bandages, Khaemwaset began to sew. The papyrus was resistant, the hand so rigid that it seemed both scroll and lifeless limb were conspiring to prevent him from accomplishing the distasteful task. It is too late, the chamber whispered with cruel satisfaction. You have sinned and you are cursed, cursed, cursed ... The needle slipped and Khaemwaset swore. Two large drops of his blood fell onto the dead finger he held crushed in his grasp, and spreading, sank into the greedy linen. One smeared against the scroll. Terror stalked him and this time he could not fight it. Panting he made the last stitch, jerked out the needle, and nodded at Hori, who pushed the arm back down into the musty-smelling coffin. "The lid," Khaemwaset said hoarsely. "Call the guards and the litter-bearers to help."
Hori seemed to have caught his father's urgency. He dashed outside and returned shortly with ten wary men. Khaemwaset pointed to the lid still leaning against the wall, and though he did not want to touch it he took his place with his servants and his son as they dragged and heaved the solid slab of granite across the floor, up onto the pedestal, and, with a final groan, onto the coffin itself. It settled with a thud and a grind.
Thoughtfully, Khaemwaset looked at the second coffin, then nodded curtly. "That one too," he said. This time he stood back and watched until the lid smashed down. A tiny piece of stone pulled free and clattered towards him to come to rest by his left sandal. He kicked it away. "Hori, have this accursed place closed immediately," he said. "I don't care if the artists have finished or not. Fill the stairway with rocks and rubble and have the largest stone you can find rolled over it. Have it done now, before night, before night, do you hear?" He was aware that his voice was rising to an uncontrollable shriek, and his servants were staring at him. He closed his mouth and, turning his back on the mystery that had terrified and enthralled him for so many months, he forced himself to go slowly outside. Hori came after him. "I will send to the Master Mason at once, Father," he said, "but I beg you to consider Sisenet's sensible words. He is right. Go home, sleep, and ponder them."
Khaemwaset looked into the unhappy, drawn face of his son, then suddenly they were embracing, arms about each other, and Hori's face was buried in Khaemwaset's neck. "I love you," Khaemwaset choked, near to tears, almost at the end of his control, and Hori's muffled voice replied, "I love you also, O my father."
The litter-bearers were sorting themselves out and bending to their loads. Khaemwaset sank with exhaustion into the haven of privacy and lay back with a sigh. He felt as though a great burden had been lifted from his heart, his body. After all, he thought, nothing has happened in all the weeks since I said the so-called spell. No one has died or been stricken with some foul disease No sudden misfortune has befallen the family. I reacted like a stupid, ignorant peasant. Sisenet was right. The thought made him smile, and before he was set down gently outside his door he had fallen into a relieved doze.
IN THE DAYS that followed, Khaemwaset became increasingly ashamed of his outburst before Sisenet and Hori. The man's arguments against the scroll being anything other than a poor fabrication had been quietly reasonable, and Khaemwaset, going over every word and unspoken nuance of that unsettling afternoon, was forced to agree with him. that followed, Khaemwaset became increasingly ashamed of his outburst before Sisenet and Hori. The man's arguments against the scroll being anything other than a poor fabrication had been quietly reasonable, and Khaemwaset, going over every word and unspoken nuance of that unsettling afternoon, was forced to agree with him.
All his life he had carried the dream of one day finding the Scroll of Thoth whose two spells would give him the total knowledge of all living things through the understanding of their language, and more, the secret, ultimate power over death he had craved. He would become a god. But now he began to recognize the fantasy for what it was. Childhood had spawned it, and his own greed and ambition had fed it. It was true that the Scroll's existence was believed by every magician who had lived in Egypt, but wherever it lay, if in fact it lay anywhere, it would be in some deep, exotic place where time and eternity met, surrounded by potent spells, watched over by Thoth himself. And if a human being had ever owned it, that person would have been a creature of more than human powers himself. Certainly it would never have been buried in a simple, shallow tomb at Saqqara.
He had reacted irrationally, he told himself as his equilibrium partially returned. He had allowed his long dream to become entangled with superstition as opposed to forthright, workable magic, and it was time to let the shadowless light of a noon reality into the darkness that had been gathering in his mind.
But first there was the matter of Tbubui's quarters. With relief he turned to the planning and construction of a new wing on the house. He and his architect drew up a pleasing suite with large, airy rooms, a private passage giving access to the rest of the house so that the woman who prized silence and privacy so much could have both, and a small terrace leading directly onto a fountained garden. Part of the existing grounds to the north of the house would have to be dug up, the flower beds turned under, the pond moved, but Khaemwaset thought it could be done with a minimum of distress to the rest of the family. Once he had approved the addition, it was simply a matter of issuing an order, and gangs of fellahin appeared and began to demolish the northern grounds.
Through it all, Nubnofret remained frigidly correct. Twice Khaemwaset went to her apartment at night to hold and reassure her, even to make love to her if she had melted just a little, but she rebuffed him with icy good manners and he was forced to retreat.
No more harsh words were said, but the tension between them grew and invaded the whole house. Cheerful servants became subdued and the routine, previously imbued with heart and life, became increasingly a matter of soulless form. Khaemwaset was aware of it but did not care. Every day the plans for Tbubui's domain grew and took coherent shape. Before long she would be there.
A report arrived from Penbuy at Koptos. He had been in the town for two days when he wrote the letter and was about to begin his investigations, but he was being hampered by a sudden illness that was slowing him down. After a few disparaging remarks to do with the sickeningly constant heat, the multitudes of giant flies and the warm, muddy water he was forced to bathe in, he finished by assuring Khaemwaset that the task would be completed soon and he was his master's honourable and most trustworthy servant. So you are, dear Penbuy, Khaemwaset thought, standing with the scroll clasped in both hands as he gazed out over the ruin of the edge of the north garden that he could see from his office. So you are. Penbuy's face swam before him, closed, intent, intelligent, sometimes a little prim, and a wave of strange homesickness swept over him. He wanted Penbuy at his elbow, exuding the faint odour of lotus water that seemed to float with him everywhere. He wanted the garden back. He wanted Sheritra back, now so poised and distant. He wanted it all back.
13.
When the messenger of death comes to take thee away, let him find thee prepared.
Alas! thou wilt have no opportunity for speech, for verily his terror will be before thee.
ONCE SHERITRA HAD ADJUSTED ONCE SHERITRA HAD ADJUSTED to the strange ways of the house, she forgot her earlier misgiv ings. She was happy, perhaps happier than she had ever been. Bakmut remained uneasy, and served her mistress with an increased vigilance Sheritra found touching, but the Princess herself grew in confidence. to the strange ways of the house, she forgot her earlier misgiv ings. She was happy, perhaps happier than she had ever been. Bakmut remained uneasy, and served her mistress with an increased vigilance Sheritra found touching, but the Princess herself grew in confidence.
She became accustomed to waking, not to the bustle of a large estate, but to the quiet Sisenet and Tbubui demanded. She would eat her breakfast on her couch in a state of tousled disorder, her thoughts slow and mellow. Away from the constant tension of her mother's nagging judgments, her body relaxed, and her mind found new and freer avenues to explore under Tbubui's tutelage.
The woman would come to her while she was standing on the bathing block, greet her affably and accompany her back to her room. At first Sheritra was self-conscious. It was one thing to have the eyes of servants on one's naked body, for servants were more like household appendages than people. It was quite another to stand, inwardly cringing, while Tbubui's knowing glance travelled her tiny breasts, stick-thin legs and bony hips. Sheritra knew she could have requested privacy, but in a perverse way she regarded Tbubui's scrutiny as the last test of their friendship. Fiercely, she watched for the slightest indication of contempt, distaste or pity in the woman's eyes or attitude, and mercifully found none.
After a couple of days Sheritra welcomed the moment when Tbubui would appear, fresh and smiling, to kiss her on the cheek and chatter while the perfumed water cascaded over Sheritra's skin. "Rub the Princess down with that oil," Tbubui would say, indicating one of the alabaster jars that lined the stone lip of the small bath house. "It has balsam in it, Sheritra, and will soften you and make you more supple. The sun is so bad for the skin." Or she would arrive holding a tiny pot of some balm or other to protect the lips. Several times she waved the servant who was washing Sheritra away, and her own hands rubbed the girl, moving briskly over her back and buttocks and sliding more gently along her inner thighs. "Forgive me, Highness, but I know several good exercises for the development of the legs and the strengthening of the spine. Let me teach them to you," she offered. "Also, if I might be permitted, I would like to change your diet. You need some weight." Sheritra was not in the least offended. Intrigued she submitted to the oil that gleamingly caressed her skin and then sank without a trace, leaving her to run her fingers over herself and feel velvet.
Her mother had often suggested such treatments but Sheritra, in rebellion, had always refused them. With Tbubui it was different, it was close companionship, it was fun, and there was no hint of superiority on the one hand or inadequacy on the other. "It is not right that she should touch a princess's flesh," Bakmut had objected a trifle sourly, but Sheritra had ignored her body servant. Tbubui had treatments for everything-a fragrant, thick wrap of herbs to thicken the hair and make it shine, a sticky mixture to strengthen the nails, a mask to preserve the face from aging.
If it were simply a matter of retreating into the indolence of physical indulgence, Sheritra might have become bored, but after the bath, Tbubui-in between advice on dress and cosmetics while she combed Sheritra's increasingly luxurious tresses or bent close to flick her eyelids with colour-would talk on any subject that came to mind. Freely the arguments would flow back and forth, but Sheritra most loved Tbubui's stories about Egypt's past, her ancient heroes, the tenor and pace of lives lived hentis ago. The mornings flew by. Very occasionally Tbubui did not come to the bath house with her knowing, expert hands, and on those occasions Sheritra, unconsciously, felt deprived of the contact.
Tbubui vanished during most afternoons and Sheritra- washed and perfumed, her hair imprisoned in gold-andenamel flower clips or waving loose under a circlet of silver, her face, scarcely recognizable to herself, exquisitely painted, her increasingly nubile body displayed in white or scarlet or yellow sheaths-would hurry to where Harmin waited for her in the garden, or in the coolness of the reception hall. Then they would talk, tease each other, play board games and exchange glances while the wine jug emptied and the breathless, stultifying hours went gliding into copper sunsets and the lengthening shadows of warm twilights.