The tide of rage rose in Khaemwaset so fast that his face was burning and his throat acrid before she was even halfway through her speech. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back to keep from shaking her. "The matter of the servants," he reminded her from between clenched teeth. She swung away and threw herself back onto the chair. The cosmetician began to braid her hair. "I do not like them," she said in a low voice. "They unnerve me, and I cannot bear the thought of them permanently in my house. The captain of her barge, the personal maid who is always with her, the ones who have escorted her and Sisenet from our house in the past-there is something menacing in their movements and their utter silence and the way they never seem to have eyes." Suddenly she tugged her head away from the girl's ministrations. "They never seem to look at you, Khaemwaset! And when they are in a room with you it is as though they are not only invisible but not there at all." She grasped the blue linen frothing over her knees and began to pull at it unconsciously. Astounded, Khaemwaset saw that she was near to tears. "Servants are always with you. You are doing something, thinking something, and you have a need, and you are aware that Ib is standing by the door and Kasa is sitting in that corner, you are aware, aware, Khaemwaset. But with Tbubui's servants you not only forget that they are there, it is as though they really aren't there. I feel the same strange not-being in Sisenet. I will not have them here, Khaemwaset! It is my prerogative to refuse Tbubui's request, and for my own peace of mind I do so. I will not have them here!" Khaemwaset. But with Tbubui's servants you not only forget that they are there, it is as though they really aren't there. I feel the same strange not-being in Sisenet. I will not have them here, Khaemwaset! It is my prerogative to refuse Tbubui's request, and for my own peace of mind I do so. I will not have them here!"
He had not realized, had not bothered to realize, how deeply his second marriage had affected her. She sounded perilously close to a total loss of self-control, and for Nubnofret, that would be a failure of the greatest kind. He hurried over to her and pulled her head into his stomach, stroking her gently. "Oh Nubnofret," he murmured. "Oh my poor sister. Tbubui's servants are indeed strange, and she has trained them to meet her somewhat peculiar needs, but they are still only servants."
She clutched at his kilt. "Promise me you will not override my decision on this!" she cried. "Promise me, Khaemwaset."
He squatted, and taking her wet face between his hands he kissed her softly, overwhelmed with concern. "I promise," he said. "Tell Tbubui that she may select whatever staff she likes from the house. Perhaps when you feel better you may change your mind, but I swear I will not force this issue on you."
She sat back and was already composing herself. "Thank you, Highness," she said formally. "I may be foolish but this is my home, and I cannot be made to feel an outcast here."
It was an odd choice of words. After a while Khaemwaset changed the subject, and he and she chatted amicably while her cosmetician went back to braiding her hair. But the knowledge that soon he would have to confront Tbubui with his support of Nubnofret was an undercurrent of unease in his mind, and before long he excused himself. Retreating to his quarters he ordered wine. He lay on his couch, morosely drinking, until the alcohol took its effect and he dropped his cup on the floor and slept.
In a brief return to his former decisive self, he told Tbubui the next day of his agreement with Nubnofret to let her ruling stand. Tbubui hardly reacted. She stared at him for a long time, mouth pursed, then began to talk about the harvest that had begun on Sisenet's estate. Khaemwaset listened with relief. Women in a household, and to a greater degree in a large harem, have their own mysterious methods for solving the problems of precedence. There would be tears and sulks. There would be subtle manipulations, deceits and tests until the stronger women emerged in the positions of power and prominence. Occasionally, in the harems of royalty, where hundreds of women from every kingdom vied for the attention of Pharaoh and more often those men set in authority over them, there would be physical violence and even murder. Khaemwaset was certainly not ignorant of these things, but his own establishment had been free of such turbulence.
A pale reflection of the chaos that could happen in harems was taking place now, he told himself as he studied Tbubui's outwardly phlegmatic behaviour. The thought reassured him, in fact he was almost flattered. Tbubui was no weakling, but neither, in her own way, was Nubnofret. They would struggle towards a compromise, perhaps even to a position of mutual respect, and he did not think he would need to intervene again. Tbubui would feel less insecure once she had taken her rightful place within the house, and Nubnofret would understand the unfortunate results of her gentle bullying on the inhabitants of the home and would bite her tongue. Khaemwaset believed that the small storm would blow over.
But an even greater one was brewing. For a week all was well. Tbubui did indeed dismiss the servants Nubnofret had designated for her and selected more from the household staff. For the sake of her pride, Khaemwaset surmised, more than for comfort. She went twice to her old home, bringing back trinkets and ornaments forgotten when she moved. She spent several hours with the craftsmen and artists, giving her orders for the new suite. But Khaemwaset was totally unprepared for the news with which she greeted him one night during the last few days of Pakhons.
He had gone to her late, buoyed by a message that had arrived telling him his harvest was complete and bountiful. He wanted to share his happiness with her, to make love to her, and expected to find her on her couch but not yet asleep. He had taken to visiting her at the same hour every few evenings. He would walk into a room flowing with the soft flickers of four night lamps, redolent with her perfume, freshly applied and mingling with whatever flowers she had ordered set about the walls. She would be reclining on the couch, loose linen draped across her body, her skin gleaming with oils and her face newly painted. But on this night she was not on the couch. She was sitting listlessly hunched on a stool against the wall, her hair in disorder, staring into a dimness relieved by only one alabaster lamp. Concerned and disappointed, Khaemwaset went straight to her.
"Tbubui!" he exclaimed, taking her cold hand in his. "What is wrong?"
She looked up and gave him a bleak smile. With alarm he saw that she was sallow, her eyes pouched, and for the first time he noticed. tiny lines inching around her mouth and fanning out across her temples. She was unpainted.
"Forgive me, Khaemwaset," she said wearily. "It is so hot and even the drinking water tastes brackish at this time of the year. I was unable to sleep this afternoon." She shrugged. "I am merely out of sorts tonight."
He kissed her tenderly. "Then we will sit quietly and talk, and play at Dogs and Jackals. Would you like that? Yes?" He sent a servant for the gaming board and led her to the couch, making her sit against the cushions he hastily rearranged. He himself sank cross-legged before her. She was silent until the girl returned, placed the board between them, and went away again. Khaemwaset had the feeling that Tbubui was debating with herself whether or not to say something. She would draw in a quick breath, glance at him, then glance away. He shook out the ivory gaining pieces. "We need more light," he said, but she shook her head, a sharp gesture, and he merely leaned over the couch and pulled the night lamp closer. Its spasmodic flickering cast fluid shadows over her face, draining it of life, and Khaemwaset thought that she looked her age, older and very tired. She had played upon almost every emotion he had, but tonight she touched one he had not known was in her domain. Pity engulfed him. She was making no attempt to set her Dogs up for the game. She was rolling one piece between her fingers, head down.
"I am full of good news tonight," he said presently. "My acres have all been safely harvested and I am a little richer than I was last year. But, Tbubui, I ..."
She cut him off, a bitter smile growing. "I too have similar news," she said huskily. "You have planted a crop of a different kind, my husband. I pray its harvest may bring you as much joy."
For a moment he stared at her, uncomprehending, then a dawning happiness welled up and he reached for her shoulders. "Tbubui! You are pregnant! And so soon!"
She shrugged away. "Perhaps not so soon," she answered wryly. "We have made much love, Khaemwaset, in the last two months. You should not be so surprised."
His hands fell into his lap. "But this is wonderful!" he insisted. "I am truly delighted. Why are you not happy also? Are you afraid? But don't you know I am the best physician in Egypt?"
Again that cynical smile played about her mouth. "No, I am not afraid. Not ... that is ..."
His pleasure began to evaporate. "I think you had better talk to me," he said gravely.
For answer she slid from the couch and brushed by him. The flame in the lamp danced madly at her passing and the shadows gyrated on the walls. Khaemwaset twisted to watch her passage.
"I am not well liked in this household," she said slowly. "No, not at all. Nubnofret has nothing but contempt for me. Hori will not speak to me. He glowers when he thinks I cannot see him, and he makes me cold with his unwavering stares. Sheritra was happy to take my advice, to accept my friendship, until I came here. Now she avoids me." She swung to face him, a ghostly figure in the room's half-light, her eyes swollen and huge, her mouth trembling. "I am alone here," she whispered. "Only your goodwill stands between me and the enmity of your family."
He was shocked. "But, Tbubui, I think you exaggerate!" he protested. "Remember how stable, how unchanged our life here has been. The adjustments your coming has required take time. You must give them time!"
She took one step towards him. Her tumbled hair seemed to blend into the darkness and her eyes held the same hue. "It is not a matter of time. I have done all I can, Khaemwaset, but behind their superficial politeness is a deep animosity. They hide it from you, of course they do, but they are like vultures, waiting for my protection to be removed so that they can glide in for the kill."
Khaemwaset opened his mouth to object hotly, but then he remembered Nubnofret's vicious words and was silent. He watched Tbubui intently, then he said, "I cannot imagine any member of my family doing you harm. You are speaking of generous, enlightened people, not desert brigands who are little better than animals."
"You do not see what I do!" she cried out in anguish. "The hateful glances behind your back, the tiny indignities, the deliberate aloofness!" She set her white hands against her belly. "For myself, I do not care. I love you and all I want to do is make you happy, Khaemwaset. But there will be a child. I am afraid for my child!" She was becoming increasingly distraught, her voice rising hysterically, her hands turning to claws against her naked abdomen. The linen had slipped to the floor and she stood before him in a panicked, unselfconscious beauty, her very wildness setting up a throb of desire in him. He tried to calm her.
"Tbubui, pregnant women can become irrational, you must know that," he said. "Think of what you are saying. You are in my household, not the harem of some unscrupulous foreign king. You are my wife. I rejoice over the coming of this child, and so will my family."
She came closer. "No, they will not," she insisted. "You are a blood prince, Khaemwaset, and your offspring belong to Egypt. All of them, including this one," she clutched her stomach, "are in line for the Horus Throne. Hori has more at stake than the son of a merchant whose second wife is pregnant. He, all of them, they would try to have my baby disinherited if something happened to you. A child of mine would be a threat to their future. Oh don't you see?"
He was beginning to see and he did not like it. Is it true? he wondered. I know that Tbubui is not popular here, but I believed that rift would be healed in time. But with this pregnancy another grievance has been added to the wounds the family is already suffering. He tried to imagine the situation if he should die, and it chilled him. Tbubui would indeed be defenceless, but would there be anything to defend herself from? All at once Nubnofret's dislike, Hori's sullenness, even Sheritra's new short-temperedness, shifted to form a new pattern in his mind. He could not argue. What Tbubui was saying seemed to be the truth. She was directly in front of him now, breathing rapidly and harshly, her cheeks wet with tears.
"Do you love me, Khaemwaset?" she asked in a strangled voice. "Do you?"
"Tbubui! More than anything!" he said.
"Then help me. Please. I am your wife and you owe me protection. To your unborn son you owe even more. Strike Hori and Sheritra from your will in favour of this new child. Do it before some terrible fate overtakes him. Remove that power from them so that I may live here in peace and look forward to bringing the fruit of our love into the world. Otherwise ..." She bent, both hands on her knees, and peered with a mad intensity into Khaemwaset's face. "Otherwise I must divorce you and leave."
He felt as though she had struck him. His chest ached and he could not get his breath. "Gods, Tbubui ..." he croaked. "You do not mean it ... there is no need for such a drastic measure ... you are not thinking ..."
She was crying. "Believe me, dear brother, I have done nothing else but think about this since I realized I was pregnant," she said. "Nubnofret will never accept me. She told me to my face that I have the heart of a whore. Hori ..."
"What?" he asked sharply. She shook her head.
"Nothing. But I urge you, I beg you, to do as I wish. You are a good man, you do not smell the evil stinking directly under your nostrils. Pharaoh will take care of Hori, and Sheritra will doubtless marry some wealthy nobleman. They will not suffer! Only my son will suffer if you delay!"
"Nubnofret, my Nubnofret, called you a whore?" he said slowly, and she nodded.
"Yes. By all the gods I swear I am telling you the truth. Change your will, Prince. If the gods are kind you will live to see our son grow to manhood and then it will not matter. But if not ..." She spread her hands. "I adore you. I always have. Do not force me to tear out my heart by leaving you."
Khaemwaset could not think. He wanted to be clearheaded, to argue with her rationally, but his mind was whirling and he was afraid, so very afraid, both that she was right and that she would carry out her threat. I cannot live without her, he thought. I cannot go back to the life I once knew. It would be desolation, loneliness, it would be death. She has changed me. From the first, she has been working in me. I am no longer Nubnofret's Khaemwaset, Hori's father, Ramses' right hand. I am Tbubui's lover, and that is all. With one sweep of his arm he pulled her down onto the couch, pushing her roughly into the mattress as he rolled on top of her. "Very well," he ground out, already half-mad with the fever of wanting her. "Very well. I will remove the right of my children by Nubnofret to inherit, and give that right to our child. But I will not tell them. They would hate you even more."
"There is no need to tell them unless they become a danger," she answered. "Thank you, Khaemwaset."
He did not reply, indeed, he had not heard her. The tide of lust had risen in him, drowning all thought, and it was a long time before he again became aware of his surroundings. By then the lamp had gone out from starvation and he could hear the jackals howling far away in the desert beyond Saqqara. The city was enveloped in the silence of deepest night.
17.
Wilt thou go away because thou art thirsty?
Take to thee my breast; what it hath overfloweth for thee.
DAWN WAS A HINT DAWN WAS A HINT of thinning in the darkness when Khaemwaset slipped out of the concu bines' house and re-entered his quarters, falling onto his couch and into his dreams almost simultaneously. He woke three hours later to the gentle strumming of his harpist and the good smell of fresh bread and ripe figs and grapes. Kasa was rolling up the shutter blinds to let in the precious early sun that would be firmly excluded in two more hours. of thinning in the darkness when Khaemwaset slipped out of the concu bines' house and re-entered his quarters, falling onto his couch and into his dreams almost simultaneously. He woke three hours later to the gentle strumming of his harpist and the good smell of fresh bread and ripe figs and grapes. Kasa was rolling up the shutter blinds to let in the precious early sun that would be firmly excluded in two more hours.
Khaemwaset ate without much appetite, his mind on Tbubui's words of the night before, but it was as though the decision had been made, the ramifications of her pleading and his objections flowing scarcely coherently in the background. She is so right, he told himself, spitting a grape pip into his palm and staring at it stupidly. I should have considered this eventuality but I buried my head in the sand of delusion. Reality has caught up with us all and it is cold, a merciless, brute thing. Something must be done immediately, today, or I will lose her. "Kasa," he called. "Have Ptah-Seankh wait upon me in my office. Have you selected my dress for this morning?"
He finished the food, waved the harpist out, and, once bathed and dressed, he said his prayers before the shrine of Thoth. They would hate me if they knew what I was about to do, he thought secretly while his tongue spoke the ancient words of beseeching and worship. Outrage, betrayal, bitterness, none of them would understand. But Tbubui is my life, my youth, my final amulet against the advancing years and the long darkness. Father is rich beyond the dreams of ordinary men. Let him pick up the pieces if I die. He owes me that much.
When he had snuffed the incense and closed the shrine he went to his office. One of his servants was already letting down the shutters against the sun's implacable strength, and he could hear gardeners at work outside. Ptah-Seankh was sitting on a stool, reading, his palette on the floor beside him. He stood and bowed as Khaemwaset approached.
"Greetings, Ptah-Seankh," Khaemwaset said. "A moment, please." Taking a small key from his belt he went into the inner room, unlocked a chest, removed a scroll and came back into the office. Passing the scroll to his scribe he took his place behind the desk. "This is my will," he explained. "I want you to read it carefully. There are three clauses in it, dealing with the disposition of my personal wealth and hereditary estates. Be careful to differentiate between my personal holdings and those assets that accrue to me because I am a prince. Hori automatically falls heir to those, and I can do nothing about that. But I want you to strike him from my personal inheritance. My daughter Sheritra also. Leave Nubnofret's gains alone ..."
Ptah-Seankh was clutching the scroll and staring at him, a dumbfounded expression on his face. "But Highness," he stammered, "what has the Prince Hori done? Have you given enough thought to what you are asking me to do?"
"Of course," Khaemwaset replied testily. "My wife Tbubui is pregnant, and that fact necessitates a change in the will. A copy of the document is filed in the Memphis House of Life. Take my seal as authorization, remove the copy and execute the same changes in it. You will make Tbubui's unborn child my sole beneficiary."
Ptah-Seankh stepped forward. "Highness, I beg you to consider well before you take this solemn initiative," he expostulated. "If you remove Sheritra from the will you leave her without means for a marriage dowry if you die before she marries. As for Prince Hori ..."
"If I want your opinion I shall ask for it," Khaemwaset snarled. "Shall I repeat your instructions?"
"Yes," Ptah-Seankh said steadily, his face pale. "I think your Highness had better say the words again."
He is hoping that the sound of them will be so ominous that I will frighten myself and change my mind, Khaemwaset thought. I do frighten myself, but I will not change them. He repeated himself, slowly and carefully, aware of the scribe's unwavering, unbelieving gaze. Then he dismissed the man. Ptah-Seankh bowed, paused as though wanting to argue again, then backed from the room. The door closed with a polite click behind him. It is done, Khaemwaset thought, laying his arms across the smooth surface of the desk and listening to the muted sounds wafting in from the garden. In the space of a few hours I have betrayed my children and degraded myself, but I have kept Tbubui. Later I will concern myself with the transgression of Ma'at, but now I will go to her and watch the anxiety smooth from her face when I tell her that she and our son are safe. Her eyes will slowly light, and she will touch my face with the tips of her fingers, and I will know that I have done the right thing, the only thing.
Yet he sat on. The gardeners' voices slowly faded, to be replaced by quarrelling birds, a servant humming as he passed by, the strident tones of Nubnofret's personal body servant, Wernuro, scolding some luckless slave. The right thing, he thought emotionlessly. The only thing. He could not move.
Ptah-Seankh stood outside the closed door to the office, the scroll clutched in his hand, trying to come to terms with what had just happened. He was aware of the guard's eyes on him in surreptitious curiosity and knew he should move, but for a moment he could not. The Prince is mad, he thought wildly. He has lost his mind. What shall I do? My first duty is to obey him in everything, but this I cannot accept. Father, what would you have done? I am an apprentice here, a learner, though a privileged one. I do not know better than my master, yet how can I do this thing? Shall I go to the Princess and confess everything? I should simply do as I am told and mind my own business. I am a newcomer to this house. I am existing on the reputation my father built. I have yet to earn my own. But he remembered the terrible thing the Prince's Second Wife had made him do, and the guilt he carried with him everywhere. Perhaps the gods have given me this opportunity to redress the wrong I have done, he thought. I may cleanse my conscience at the same time. He had no doubt that what he had been asked to do was a wrong. The Prince had a right to include whatever details he chose in his will, but these changes had a corrupt stench to them. Oh Thoth, wise guide of the true scribe's hand and mind, Ptah-Seankh prayed, still under the interested glances of the guard, tell me what to do.
He began to walk along the passage, and at the far end he encountered Antef, the Prince Hori's body servant and friend. He took it as a sign. Bowing, he inquired where the Prince might be, but Antef answered shortly that he did not know. Ptah-Seankh began to search An hour later he still had not found Hori but he met the Princess Sheritra, a bowl of milk in her hands.
"Greetings, Ptah-Seankh," she said. "I hope you are settling in well here, and Father is not driving you to distraction."
He bowed. "I am very happy to be attached to this august household, Highness," he replied. "May I inquire if you have seen your brother? I have searched for him all over the house and I must speak with him immediately."
She looked thoughtful. "If he is not in the house he must be down by the watersteps," she replied. "I know exactly where. Is it vital, Ptah-Seankh?" He nodded. "Then I will send him to you. Go and wait for him in his quarters. First, though, the house snakes need their food." She smiled and passed on, and he turned in the direction of the Prince's suite. The scroll was still held tightly in his hands.
He waited for a long time, but he was patient. The hour for the afternoon sleep came and he thought with longing of his own neat couch, but he stood dutifully in the Prince's antechamber under the steward's eye until Hori was admitted.
Hori approached Ptah-Seankh with a smile. His kilt was limp and smudged with what looked like river mud, and he was not wearing one piece of jewellery, not even an amulet. Even so, Ptah-Seankh thought that nothing could mar his extraordinary beauty.
"You need to see me?" he asked brusquely.
Ptah-Seankh bowed, eyeing the steward. "I do, Highness, but I would prefer to speak to you in private." Hori dismissed his steward with a wave, and when the doors had closed behind him offered the scribe the wine opened on the table. Ptah-Seankh refused. Hori poured himself a generous amount and folded into a chair. "The last of a great vintage," he commented, holding his cup so the light glittered off the wine. "My uncle may have been relegated to the status of the minor nobility but the grapes he tends produce the most royal wine in Egypt. What do you want, Ptah-Seankh?"
The young man came closet "Prince," he said, "I am probably jeopardizing my whole career by committing an act that your Highness may very well see as a betrayal, but I am confused and in pain and I do not know what else to do."
Hori sat straight in the chair. His translucent, glittering eyes became both wary and curious, and he blinked several times. Ptah-Seankh thought fleetingly how any woman might envy the Prince his long, black eyelashes.
"You have a conflict of loyalties," the Prince said slowly. "Be sure that you want to speak, Ptah-Seankh, before you do so. You are my father's servant, not mine."
"I am fully aware of that, Highness," Ptah-Seankh agreed. "Yet your father has set me a task I cannot fulfil in all honesty without your guidance. I love your father," he went on frankly. "He has been the benefactor of my family for many years. I do not betray his trust lightly."
Now Hori's eyes had narrowed to a heightened interest. The wine stood forgotten on the table, though his fingers caressed the stem of the cup. "Speak," he ordered.
Ptah-Seankh gulped and held up the scroll. "This is Prince Khaemwaset's will. This morning he ordered me to alter it. You and your sister the Princess Sheritra are to be removed as beneficiaries, and the lady Tbubui's unborn child is to be put in your place."
The prince's fingers were suddenly stilled. His eyes had gone as hard as agates. "Tbubui is pregnant?" he whispered. "You are sure?"
"His Highness said so," Ptah-Seankh explained, "and the changes he has commanded for his will confirm it. Oh forgive me, Prince Hori, forgive me! I could not remain silent! You have been disinherited! I do not know what to do!"
Hori fell silent. Then he unfolded himself slowly. His legs went out and crossed at the ankles. He slumped in the chair. His hand found the cup again and his fingers stroked it sensually, up and down, up and down, until Ptah-Seankh felt mesmerized by that compelling movement.
"Disinherited," he said musingly. "I should have expected as much. My father is completely besotted. He has become blind, deaf and insane." He laughed harshly, and Ptah-Seankh heard more than the pain of betrayal in the sound. "As for you, scribe," Hori went on, "if you were in my service I would dismiss you on the spot. You are unprincipled and untrustworthy."
"Highness," Ptah-Seankh began, though his throat was well-nigh closed and he did not think that he could find his voice, "if it were just a matter of my master's will I would have held my counsel and done as I was bid. But there is more." He swallowed, and found himself sinking to his knees. "I have committed a terrible sin."
Now Hori was leaning forward, genuine concern in his face. Holding out the wine, he made the scribe drink. The cup chattered against Ptah-Seankh's teeth but the violet liquid made him feel braver. "I think you had better tell me everything," the Prince advised, and Ptah-Seankh did so. It was like lancing a boil.
"The day before I was due to leave for Koptos, he said, "the lady Tbubui came to me. She dictated a letter to me for your father to read. It contained everything I was to discover about her lineage during my research, the same research my father was engaged in when he died. It was all lies, Prince! All lies! I protested, but she threatened to have me discredited and then dismissed if I did not do as she said." He at last had the courage to raise his eyes to Hori, who was regarding him intently. "My father worked for the Prince for many years," he went on. "He would have been believed, or at least his words would have been considered. But I am a new scribe, untried, unproved. I did what she wanted."
The Prince's face came closer. With a pang of fear, Ptah-Seankh saw that his lips were drawn back in a rictus of extreme emotion and his gaze was almost inhuman. "Do you mean to tell me," he said in a strangled voice, "that Tbubui dictated your research for you? That she told you what to write for my father to read when you returned from Koptos?" Ptah-Seankh nodded miserably. "You did no work in the libraries there at all? You simply waited out your time and came home?"
"Yes. I am so ashamed, Highness, but I was very afraid. I had hoped that it would not matter. Your father is very attached to the lady ..."
Hori silenced him with a savage gesture. He did not move. His face remained so close to Ptah-Seankh's that his breath brushed the other's mouth with a rhythmic, quick warmth. Gradually the animal savagery of his expression relaxed into a tight mixture of pain and speculation. "Why?" he breathed. "Why, why, why? If she is not a noblewoman with an ancient lineage, then who is she? No peasant woman or common whore or even a dancer could acquire the education and the social skills she has. What is she hiding?" Suddenly he sat back, drained his wine with one swallow, and then rose. "Come, Ptah-Seankh," he said. "We are going to my father." He snatched the scroll out of the scribe's hand.
Ptah-Seankh exploded in protest as he too came to his feet. "Highness, no! Please! I came to you in confidence, to unburden myself, to seek your advice! The Prince will banish me immediately when he knows what I have done!"
"You will have to take that chance," Hori retorted grimly. "Repeat your story to him now, and throw yourself on his mercy. I will not be silent and allow my birthright and Sheritra's dowry to be thrown away. Besides," he added, "will you not feel better telling him the truth?" He strode to the door, and with a sinking heart Ptah-Seankh followed.
Hori caught up with Khaemwaset as he was on his way to the reception hall for the noon meal, Tbubui on his arm. He greeted his son amicably, but his eyes darted to Ptah-Seankh and the scroll Hori was gripping, and his smile died. "What is it?" he snapped.
"I need to speak with you immediately, alone," Hori said. "Come out into the garden."
"Can it not wait until we have eaten?" Khaemwaset objected. "Tbubui is hungry."
"Then Tbubui can go and eat," Hori said loudly. "This will not wait." He saw the swift, worried glance that passed between the two before Khaemwaset gave her a kiss and she withdrew her arm. "Ask Nubnofret to hold the meal," he said, and she turned into the shade of the entrance pillars and was gone.
Khaemwaset pushed past Hori, who followed him, Ptah-Seankh behind, until they reached a secluded spot by the thick bushes screening the path to the watersteps. Here Khaemwaset halted and rounded on his son. "Well," he barked. "What is it?"
For answer Hori thrust the scroll under his chin. "You recognize this?' he asked, his voice quivering with rage. "Explain to me how you are able to destroy my life and Sheritra's future and still have an appetite for your food!"
Khaemwaset turned slowly to the scribe. "You are unworthy of my trust," he said coldly. "You are dismissed."
Ptah-Seankh paled. He bowed, speechless, and began to retreat, but Hori roughly grasped his arm.
"Not so fast," he said. "You may change your mind, Father, when you hear everything your scribe has to say. It is not Ptah-Seankh who is unworthy of trust, it is your precious Tbubui. Tell him, Ptah-Seankh!"
The man fell abjectly to his knees. Haltingly, with many glances up at Hori's glowering face and the Prince's first angry and then disbelieving expression, he told the story of his downfall. But by the time he had finished, the Prince was no longer impaling him with his relentless gaze. He was watching his son.
Ptah-Seankh fell silent. Khaemwaset went on staring at Hori. Then he began to clench and unclench his fists, the muscles of his forearms knotting ominously.
"That is the most cruelly imaginative story I have ever heard," he said heavily. "But I would like to hear it once more, this time in Tbubui's presence. You!" he shouted over the shrubbery to the guard always stationed on the path. "Fetch the lady Tbubui! She is in the hall eating." His attention returned to the two young men. "I knew you disliked her," he said to Hori, "but I would not have believed you capable of this kind of animosity. As for you ..." he bent, and with shocking suddenness the flat of his hand connected with Ptah-Seankh's cheek. "The story you will presently retell will be the last words you speak in this house."
"You have already judged us, haven't you, Father?" Hori whispered. He was stunned, all scorn gone. "It is impossible for you to believe us. You think that I compelled Ptah-Seankh to lie, that he and I are engaged in a conspiracy against Tbubui. You are totally in her power."