They tied up for the night by the Sweet Water Canal, which had been cut due east to join the Bitter Lakes. Already the dry tang of the desert was merely an occasional puff of evening breeze overwhelmed by the richer, heavier odours of the Delta farmland. Papyrus thickets jostled and whispered, their dark green stems and beige feathers losing colour steadily as Ra dropped to the western horizon. The delicious aroma of orchard blossoms came wafting, although the orchards themselves were not yet in sight. Verdant growth, both cultivated and wild, tangled everywhere.
All the next day they drifted through the Delta’s amazing variety of plant and bird life, stopping to eat Hori’s freshly caught inet-fish at noon and then lazily sliding on while Ra turned from white to gold to pink and red. By the time night fell once more, the Waters of Ra had become the Waters of Avaris, they had passed the temple of the cat goddess Bast at Bubastis and the river was beginning to be crowded.
They did not sleep as well that night. Craft continually passed them, and challenges rang out regularly across the quiet Nile. Khaemwaset spent an uneasy few hours in vivid and decidedly unpleasant dreams before waking at yet another screamed question and brusque answer. His head ached mildly. Calling Kasa softly so as not to wake Nubnofret, he was washed and dressed and gave the order to resume their journey before the sun was an hour into the sky.
Just before noon, the city of Pi-Ramses straggled into view on their right—first the ungainly hovels of the very poor who now inhabited the site of the original town of Avaris and who seemed to cluster around the brown pylons and steep walls of the temple of Set, and then a heap of rubble Khaemwaset knew was the remains of a Twelfth Dynasty town. Hori and Nubnofret were watching a donkey caravan labouring beside the river. Beasts, merchants and drivers alike were dusty, and sand clung to the bright blankets covering the loads. Goods from Sinai, Khaemwaset surmised, perhaps even gold from my father’s mines, on its way to effect more beautifying in Pi-Ramses.
He turned back to the ruins, now swiftly passing by, and the great canal his father had dug to surround the city was there, already congested with craft of every shape and size, their captains swearing and jockeying for place. Khaemwaset signalled a little regretfully to his wife and son and they retired behind the anonymity of the cabin curtains. There was a pause, and Khaemwaset knew that his captain was running up the imperial colours of blue and white. After a moment the din outside began to diminish and their boat began to move. The commoners were giving way to Pharaoh’s great son, and Khaemwaset sailed up the Waters of Avaris in a space of reverence. Nubnofret tutted.
“They become more vituperous and violent every time we make this trip,” she remarked. “Ramses should have the junction patrolled by the Medjay, who could organize the traffic. Hori, raise the curtain a little now. I want to see what is going on.”
Hori obeyed, and Khaemwaset gave a secret smile. Nubnofret always wanted to know what was going on.
His captain shouted, this time a crisp order to the rowers, and Amun-is-Lord began its slow tack to the right. Soon the ruins and the temple of Set drifted out of sight to be replaced by straggling thick trees sheltering city dwellers seeking shade and conversation. On the left there was no vegetation, only a haphazard, cacophonous and unlovely confusion of workshops, warehouses, granaries and storage facilities teeming with noon life. Behind them, Khaemwaset knew, were the faience glazing works for which Pi-Ramses was famous, and continuous with the canal was more of the town, this time a quieter sequence of modest, white-painted merchants’ homes and the little estates of minor noblemen engulfed in gardens and orchards. The apple trees were in full bloom, the scent enveloping the party in a heady, almost palpable mist, and pale petals rocked on the glittering surface of the water and lay in white mats against the banks.
The canal had widened into a vast pool and their craft was negotiating through a port jammed with vessels of every size and description being loaded and unloaded, while sailors gathered on the quays to gamble and small boys called to one another or dove into the churning water for the trinkets the idle would throw.
But soon the mêlée began to fade. Amun-is-Lord slowed as it approached the lake of the Residence, Pharaoh’s private domain, and the soldiers guarding its entrance challenged Khaemwaset’s men. Then they were through the narrow space left by the vigilant, armed boats and were floating past the southern wall that solidly protected Ramses’ privacy and on, under the shade of more vibrant orchards, to the gleaming, slick marble watersteps against which Pharaoh’s barge, aglitter with gold and electrum, rocked. Three other craft were tied to the white-and-blue poles. Khaemwaset’s captain let out a string of commands, and Amun-is-Lord bumped discreetly into its place.
Nubnofret let out a sigh of relief. The noise of the city was a subdued background hum, and only the lyrical songs of birds disturbed the sacred peace. “I hope there are litters waiting for us,” she remarked, rising with her customary fluid grace, gathering her linens about her and bending out of the cabin. Hori and Khaemwaset followed. Already the two other boats were tethered and Khaemwaset’s guards had spread out on the watersteps and were standing at attention. At the top of the steps a small delegation waited, and as the family walked along the ramp that had been run out, the members went to the ground in prostration. Seti, Vizier of the South, a man of elegance and dignity, bowed low, the crisply pleated ends of his calf-length white kilt brushing the hot stone “Welcome once again to the House of Ramses Great in Victories, Highness,” he smiled. He was carrying his gold papyrus-topped Staff of Office. Gold bracelets tinkled on his wrists as he rose, and his carefully manicured, strong hands were alive with the glint of gold and carnelian. Khaemwaset met his steady brown eyes and smiled back. “It is good to see you again, Seti,” he replied, while Hori and Nubnofret were receiving renewed homage from the Vizier’s entourage of scribes, heralds and runners, and behind them all the ramp was withdrawn. “I trust all is well with the King of Kings?”
Seti inclined his black-ringleted head. “Your father is well, and eager to see you. Your suite has been swept and refurbished, Prince, and I am sure that you are tired after your journey.” He gestured, and with a flurry of activity three litters moved forward. “Pharaoh has set aside tomorrow morning for discussions with you in regard to the marriage contract, and he does not require you to be present this evening at dinner, although you are of course free to eat with him if you choose. If you do not choose, and if you are not too fatigued, he begs you to evaluate the tax estimates for the coming year that have just come in, and the percentages to be distributed to Amun and Set.”
Khaemwaset nodded, secretly irritated. His father had placed the bulk of the government in his hands. Why did he not simply let him get on with it and not keep trying to subtly nudge him toward certain emphases like a child being trained to acquire self-discipline? Khaemwaset signalled, his litter was lowered, and he swung himself into the silken cushions. “Very well,” he said as his bearers lifted him. “Send me Suty, Paser the High Priest of Amun, and Piay an hour after dinner. Do not bother with a scribe. I will use Penbuy. Greet my father and tell him I will dine alone tonight.” Curtly he gave a command to Ib, waiting quietly with the rest of his servants “The noon meal as soon as possible and prepare it yourself,” he said. “Then I will rest.” Seti and the rest of the crowd stepped away. The guards ringed the three litters, and Ramose walked ahead and began to call the warning, “The Great Prince Khaemwaset of Memphis approaches. Down on your faces!”
Khaemwaset sat back, trying to quell his annoyance at his father’s manipulations, his selfish desire to be back in his office in Memphis, his impatience with everything that separated him from his slowly growing academic preoccupations. I am turning into an irascible old man, he told himself, hearing the sounds of marching feet and the sudden harsh bark of a commander from beyond the north wall of the precinct, where the huge military barracks and training ground ran down to the Lake of the Residence. There was a time when the demands of the palace and temple were i
mportant to me, when I gladly put my duty to my father before all else, but now they are irksome and I wish only to be allowed to labour over my legacy to Egypt, my crypt for the holy Apis bulls and my larger duty of restoration, without interference from that wily old man. Why? He moved restlessly, seeing but not seeing the idle groups of white-clad courtiers in their transparent linens go down before his progress like wind-shaken boughs of blossom, dappled in shade from the clustering trees before Pharaoh’s mighty House. There was no answer to his private question, and it only served to intensify his nervous mood. The words “getting old” revolved sardonically in his mind.
They had come to a halt. Nubnofret was peering in at him. “Khaemwaset, are you asleep already?” she asked, and he blinked into her handsome, exquisitely painted face, aware all at once of the cleavage between her heavy, yellow-draped breasts as she bent towards him. Grunting, he stepped out of the litter, Nubnofret beside him, Hori behind, and they began to ascend the wide steps that took them almost at once into the cool, pleasing gloom cast by the palm-headed columns, soaring to be lost high above.
Ramses’ palace, as complex and bewildering as a city in itself, had been built by his father Seti the First, and enlarged by the son into its present state of breathtaking opulence. Its façade, under the awesome pillars, was of turquoise tiles close-set with lapis to form a gleaming network of dark and light blue. Its floors and walls were glazed tiles set with intricate designs of the Delta’s myriad plant and animal life, or were dazzling white plaster splashed with bright colours. The doors, requiring two men to open and close them, sent a lingering aroma of expensive Lebanon cedar throughout the hundreds of rooms, and were chased and inlaid with electrum and silver or plated with beaten gold.
Flowers were everywhere—strewn underfoot, clustered around the walls, garlanding pillars and people alike in an eternal spring. A man could become lost in its gleaming vastness for days, and Ramses was careful to provide slaves whose job was simply to guide and direct visitors and guests through the endless halls. Its libraries—the House of Life, where maps, official weights and measures, sky charts and dream keys were stored, and where all scientific work was done, and the House of Books, holding all archives—were famous throughout the world and always thronged with scholars of every nationality. Its feasts, its musicians and dancers, were equally notorious for the sheer exotic abundance of the food, the expertise of the music makers, and the beauty and grace of the dancers.
At its heart sat Ramses King of Kings, Son of Amun, Son of Set, wealthy beyond the dreams of most of his subjects, omnipotent and aloof, the Living God of the only country in the world that really mattered. Khaemwaset, striding behind the echoing voice of Ramose still calling his warning, was impelled once again into a grudging admiration for the House. He knew his way around it very well, having been raised here, and no longer regarded it as the magical miracle he had when a child, for he knew the pyramiding weight of minute organization that kept its flowers fresh, its food abundant and its servants always on hand, but its concept never failed to win his wonder.
Ramose had at last halted before two looming silver doors flanked by seated gods almost as high as the cross-beam. Amun with his feathers gazed serenely back along the polished corridor, while on the left a granite Set glowered down on the party, his long wolfish nose aggressively raised. Khaemwaset gestured and the doors swung inward onto a wide, pillar-forested floor of turquoise pieces that cast a soft blue glow over the interior. The family walked into it and the doors were reverently closed.
Nubnofret moved at once. “I shall freshen myself and then pay my respects to the Empress and the Chief Royal Wife,” she told Khaemwaset. “You will know where I am if you need me. I do hope they have not scented my water with that strong attar they used last time. I cannot stand the smell and I did tell them, but doubtless they have forgotten …” She planted a kiss on Khaemwaset’s neck, still talking, and disappeared into her own rooms with her retinue. Kasa and Ib, already present, waited.
“What will you do?” Khaemwaset asked Hori. The young man smiled, his face breaking into the creases that quickened the hearts of every woman in the court, and his translucent kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed.
“I shall go to the stables and look over the horses,” he answered his father, “and then Antef and I will see who we can find to share a few cups of wine with. Can I go to dinner with Grandfather tonight?”
“Of course. Just make sure that if you get drunk there are at least two of my soldiers to escort you back to your apartments. I will see you later, Hori.”
He watched for a moment as his son swung back through the hall, his strong brown legs and white kilt tinged with the steady glow of the turquoise floor, then turned to Ib. “Is the food ready?” The man nodded. “Then let us go within and I will eat briefly before I sleep.” His doors were flung wide and he passed into the place that had been his second home for more years than he cared to remember.
First there was a small and functional room given over to business and working receptions. It had once been a place of entertainment when he was much younger and definitely more frivolous, but now it exuded the stern atmosphere of labour and was scrupulously tidy. Beyond it were his sleeping quarters with a huge, lion-footed couch, golden censers standing before the shrine of Amun, an ivory-topped table and ebony-inlaid chairs. The aroma of steaming food mingled pleasantly with an undercurrent of fresh beeswax.
Khaemwaset liked the room but for the fact that voices echoed faintly, so that he felt he might be sleeping in a temple. But the whole of Pi-Ramses is a temple, he thought as he sank to the floor on a cushion and Ib drew a tiny table close to him. A temple to my father’s godhead, a burst of sustained praise for his military exploits, his infallibility. The bread was still warm from Pharaoh’s mighty kitchens. “It has all been tasted,” Ib commented. Khaemwaset set to with a will. Later he lowered himself onto the yielding mattress of his couch, pulled the smooth sheet to his chin and fell asleep without reflection.
Four hours later, freshly washed and clad in the long robe of a vizier, he was welcoming the kingdom’s Chief Treasurer, the High Priest of Amun and the chief of all temple scribes, and listening patiently to their monotonous figures regarding the apportionment of taxes to the gods, both foreign and indigenous. Before long the officials were wrangling over which temples deserved the greater subsidies, and with an inward sigh and a surreptitious glance at the waterclock Khaemwaset settled down to arbitrate their demands as tactfully as he could. The task was important, for the slighting of a foreign god could result in a diplomatic incident, and he did his best to give it his full attention, but he was relieved when at last his decisions were accepted and he was able to send the men away after a few moments of general conversation and wine sipping.
Walking through into his sleeping quarters he took a few grains of incense, lit the charcoal in the tall censer stand and sprinkled the myrrh onto the glowing blackness. Immediately a harsh, sweetish-grey smoke began to plume upwards. Khaemwaset opened the doors of the shrine, prostrated himself before Amun’s benign smile and, lying on the cool tiles, he began to pray.
At first his words were part of the formal evening litany spoken each night far away in Thebes, where Amun towered in the heart of the temple of Karnak and ruled that city as he had done for centuries, but before long the solemn lilt of ritual gave way to a few stumbling personal pleas, and then silence. Khaemwaset lay with eyes screwed shut, aware of the solid resistance of the floor at his knees, his thighs, his elbows, breathing in a minute film of dust and the smell of beeswax.
Amun, something is wrong with me, he half thought, half prayed. I do not know what it is, indeed, the stirrings of discontent and something else, something alien and alarming, are so faint in the deep recesses of my ka that I wonder if I am not mistaken. Is it the beginning of disease? Do I need a purge, a week of fasting, an elixir? Is it a lack of proper exercise? He remained very still while he probed himself. A reluctant distaste for his father, the pa
lace, the showy arrogance of Pi-Ramses, the paper-shuffling important ministers, began to spread like the fiery rash on the little dancer’s body, and he let it grow. I am the greatest magician and physician in Egypt, he thought again bitterly, yet I am held in awe only because I in turn hold the reins of government in these hands, these hands that dig, that search, that would willingly relinquish the dry, dumb details of administration if they could hold just once the Scroll of Thoth, the key to all power and all life. Sometimes I think that I would even relinquish my ka itself for the opportunity to possess the two spells the Scroll is said to contain. One spell gives the power of bodily resurrection to the one who legitimately speaks it, and the other gives him the ability to understand the language of everything living under the sun. I command all people in the kingdom save my father, but I do not command the birds, the animals … or the dead. I am aging, my ways are becoming increasingly set, and I am afraid. I am running out of time while somewhere far down in the earth or entombed in rock or lying on the breast of a magician who was mightier than I are the words that would make me the most powerful man Egypt has ever known.
He groaned and sat up, crossing his legs, his eyes on Amun’s gold sandals. Once the quest was like a game, a young man’s ideal, full of excitement and pregnant with strong possibility. I played with it happily while I was learning medicine, beginning a family, working with my father, sure that I was the most favoured man in the world and the Scroll would fall into my lap as a gift from the admiring gods. Then I began my great labour of restoration and exploration and the game became the underlying cause of everything I did, a dark, constant pulse of waning hope and mounting frustration that gradually ceased to be a game. For seventeen years I have searched. I have grown mighty in knowledge but I have not found it.
Scroll of Saqqara Page 5
