“Perhaps not,” Ramses retorted, “but the fire was a most convenient opportunity to change the terms of the agreement. Now my dear Khatti brother whines of sore feet, as though he himself must sally forth from his citadel and personally chase every goat, every horse. Are there no viziers in his land? No competent stewards? Or must his wife take command of everything?”
The Khatti ambassador was obviously well used to such stinging diatribes. He waited calmly, his hands tucked into his brocade gown, until Ramses had finished. Then he said, “Does Your Majesty perhaps doubt the honesty of his brother? Is he casting aspersions on the king who has kept the Treaty of Kadesh that his illustrious father made before him, in spite of pressures from the Babylonian King Kadashman-Enlil to make a new treaty with him?”
“Kadashman-Enlil is a slippery little weasel,” Ramses muttered, “in spite of our renewed diplomatic relations. And I happen to know, Urhi-Teshub, that your king is in fact squabbling with the Babylonian.” He bit into a honeyand-almond cake, chewed thoughtfully, then dabbled his fingers elegantly in the water bowl. “Why should I trust Hattusil?” he asked grumpily. “He refused my request to revise the treaty and give me more of Syria, and then I heard that he himself is claiming the very portion I wanted.”
“It was Khatti’s portion in the first place, Divine One,” the ambassador responded firmly. “According to the more ancient treaty between the Khatti and your father, the Osiris One Seti, in very clear terms …”
Khaemwaset sighed inwardly. Urhi-Teshub had made a tactical error in mentioning Seti. Ramses’ father was a sore point with him. Seti had been a man of taste and vision. His monuments and his greatest work, the temple of Osiris at Abydos, displayed artistry of such fineness and beauty that one caught one’s breath at the sight of it. But worse, Seti had succeeded in his wars where Ramses, in spite of his protestations to the contrary, had failed rather ignominiously. Khaemwaset listened to the two men wrangling back and forth, and thoughtfully sipped his wine. When he was ready he broke in, careful to interrupt the ambassador, not his father.
“I do not see the point of all this,” he said firmly. “We are here to bring the marriage negotiations to a successful close, and with all respect, Urhi-Teshub, if you wish to discuss the matter of the validity of old treaties you might arrange another time.” The ambassador bowed and smiled, obviously relieved. Khaemwaset turned his attention to Ramses who was pettishly, though gracefully, playing with his wine cup. “Our own ambassador Huy is in Hattusas,” he reminded him. “Send a message to the effect that we are willing to receive the dowry at the same time as the princess, providing Huy personally makes sure all gifts are present at the time of departure. Hattusil cannot be blamed for fires and illness, only for tardiness.”
“He boasted too long and too loud,” Ramses remarked. “I suggest that we request a five percent increase in the amount paid, to compensate us for all these delays. After all, tribute is definitely due to us.” He cast a wily, sidelong glance at Khaemwaset. “I am not sure that the princess is worth the strain these negotiations are placing upon my royal heart. I might just decide to break them off and marry another Babylonian instead.”
“Hattusil himself might do the same if we put unnecessary pressure on him,” Khaemwaset objected. “We are talking about a dowry, Father, not tribute, as you well know. Give the Khatti king the benefit of the doubt, but make it clear that he is expected to fulfil his bargain completely. You do not wish to appear greedy and grasping, do you?”
“I want what is due to me,” Ramses said emphatically. He sat back, his stooped shoulders curved over the weight of gold and silver on his chest and his braceleted arms loose along the carved lions’ spines of the chair. “Oh very well. Tehuti-Emheb, write the damned letter to Huy and one to Hattusil expressing my displeasure at the delay and my suspicion that he is simply too poor to make good his boast, but tell him that I will magnanimously wait for the fruition of these extremely trying negotiations.”
“His Majesty spoke in haste,” Khaemwaset said deliberately to the scribe. “Leave out His Majesty’s suspicion.” The man nodded and bent over his palette. Ramses chuckled. “This meeting is over,” he pronounced. “Out, all of you. Khaemwaset, you stay” The ambassador bowed and together with the scribe, backed down the long hall and out the doors. Ramses did not wait for them to disappear. He got up and beckoned Khaemwaset. “Call your steward for your medicine bag,” he ordered. “Ashahebsed, do it for him. Come into the inner room Khaemwaset, and examine me. My chest pains me sometimes when I breathe, and I have breathlessness occasionally. I need a potion for fatigue also.” He did not wait for his son’s acknowledgement, but strode away. Khaemwaset followed. His father’s condition was not reversible, but he had never dared to tell Ramses so, even though he knew that Pharaoh would blithely ignore his words. He was convinced that he would indeed live forever.
3
Praise to Thoth …
the Moon beautiful in his rising …
he who sifts evidence,
who makes the evil deed rise up against the doer,
who judges all men.
BY THE TIME Khaemwaset had examined his father, found no change in his condition and prescribed an innocuous elixir for his fatigue, the afternoon was far advanced. He was tired himself, more from the strain of the negotiations than from any physical activity. His horoscope, which he as a magician cast for himself and the rest of the family at the beginning of each month, warned him that the last third of this day would be portentous, either extremely lucky or dismally unlucky, depending on his own actions. The ambivalence of the prediction annoyed him, and he thought of it again as he made his way back to his apartments to sleep until dinner-time. He often enjoyed Pharaoh’s great feasts. Guests from all over the world were invariably present and included fellow scholars, magicians and physicians with whom he could talk and argue. But today the horoscope’s odd pronouncement would lurk behind any congenial contact he might make.
The family’s private suite was empty. Khaemwaset did not bother to summon Kasa to undress him. He stripped off his clothes, took a long drink of water from the large jar always standing full in the airy hallway and collapsed onto his couch with relief.
An hour after sunset he, Nubnofret and Hori were announced and walked together with their train into Ramses’ largest reception hall. At the striking of the Chief Herald’s staff upon the floor, all conversation had ceased until Khaemwaset’s titles were called, but as he and the others proceeded into the room the din began again, and Khaemwaset felt as though he were wading in noise.
Hundreds of people stood in brightly clad groups, or milled about, wine in their hands, talking and laughing, their voices fusing to echo off the many papyrus pillars and the silver star-dusted ceiling in mighty waves of sound.
A slave girl, naked but for a blue-and-white ribbon about her waist, came up to them bowing, and placed garlands of pink lotus and blue cornflowers over their heads. Another offered scented wax cones to be tied on their wigs. Khaemwaset bent good-humouredly, feeling the soft hands of the girl fumble with the ribbon, his eyes already scanning the crowd.
Bint-Anath was approaching, her many-pleated, floor-length sheath floating scarlet around her, her slim shoulders visible under a billowing white flounced cloak, and the long black ringlets of her wig already glistening with melted wax. The slave girl walked away and Khaemwaset bowed to Egypt’s Chief Wife. “Greetings, brother,” Bint-Anath said cheerfully. “I would stay and talk to you but it is really Nubnofret with whom I want to gossip. I have not seen her in a very long time. Do excuse me.” She was like a goddess, like Hathor herself, moving lightly in the circle of reverence the guests had provided, her pair of massive Shardana guards towering beside her and her exquisitely gowned and painted retinue behind.
“You are more beautiful every time I see you, Bint-Anath,” Khaemwaset said gravely. “Of course I excuse you. Write me a letter instead.”
She gave him a dazzling smile and turned to Nub
nofret. Her female attendants were no longer chattering among themselves. Their glances flickered furtively over Hori, away, then back to the young man’s matchless face and brown, well-muscled body. He grinned at them engagingly and Khaemwaset, catching Antef’s eye, winked at him.
One girl, bolder than the rest, came up and, after bowing to Khaemwaset, addressed Hori directly. “It may be that having been in Pi-Ramses only two days, you lack a dinner partner, Prince,” she suggested. “I am Nefert-khay, daughter of Pharaoh’s architect, May. I would be pleased to entertain you while you eat and perhaps sing for you afterwards.”
Khaemwaset, amused, noted Hori’s preliminary quick assessment turn to slow interest as he took in Nefert-khay’s high breasts and supple waist under the yellow sheath, her dusky kohled eyes and moist mouth. Hori inclined his head.
“As May’s daughter you must also enjoy the privilege of dining in the first row next to the dais,” he said, “so lead me there, Nefert-khay, and we will be ready for the food as soon as Pharaoh is announced. I’m hungry.”
They wandered away, threading easily through the crowd, and Khaemwaset watched them go. Antef had tactfully vanished but Khaemwaset knew that though Hori might dine cheerfully with the girl, get drunk with her, kiss and compliment her and perhaps even essay more urgent caresses in the privacy of the sprawling gardens, he would end his evening lounging by the river or in his suite with Antef.
Khaemwaset knew that his son was not attracted to men, though rarely a man might be sexually drawn to him. He liked and appreciated the young women who flocked around him, but his emotions, and therefore his body, remained unengaged. For Hori, the one could not operate without the other.
Khaemwaset spared a moment of pity for May’s forward little daughter, then went to seek out his own small table on the dais where already the members of Ramses’ immediate family were gathering. Lowering himself to the cushions provided, he exchanged a few polite, cool words with his brother, the Crown Prince Ramses, already deep into his cups, and with Second Wife and Queen Meryet-Amun, before the Chief Herald’s staff hit the floor with three resounding booms and the hundreds of voices trailed away. “Exalter of Thebes, Son of Set, Son of Amun, Son of Temu, Son of Ptah-Tenen, Vivifier of the Two Lands, Mighty of Twofold Strength, Valiant Warrior, Smiter of the Vile Asiatics …” The Herald’s voice droned, and here Khaemwaset smiled a trifle grimly. “… Lord of Festivals, King of Kings, Bull of Princes …” Khaemwaset ceased to listen. Every forehead in the hall was resting on the floor and his own was buried in the cushions he had been sitting on a moment before.
The Herald at last fell silent. Khaemwaset heard the crisp slap of his father’s sandals on the dais by his ear, followed by the lighter tread of his sister. Bint-Anath settled herself beside him with a wriggle and a sigh, Ramses bade the crowd rise, and Khaemwaset resumed his cushions and pulled the low table towards him.
Pharaoh leaned past his daughter-wife, resplendent in his blue-and-white-striped helmet surmounted by the golden cobra and vulture, his sharp eyes heavily kohled, his eyelids lustrously green. Rings glittered on each of his fingers, and ankhs and Eyes of Horus tinkled on his concave chest. “I drank some of the potion you prescribed for me, Khaemwaset,” he said. “It was disgusting and I don’t think it has done me any good, unless it is responsible for my vast appetite tonight.” At the foot of the dais the symbols of his divine royalty—the crook, flail and scimitar—were being set in their holders by their Keeper, and a contingent of Shardana guards was lining up between the dais and the crowd. At a signal from Ashahebsed, standing discreetly behind the royal table, food-laden servants began to pour from the shadows and a mouth-watering aroma stole through the mingled odours of scented wax, flowers and perfume. Ashahebsed began to serve Ramses.
“You expect miracles from all those around you, including me,” Khaemwaset answered warmly. “Give the medicine a chance, Father. You might try going to bed earlier, too.”
Ashahebsed was tasting the food. Ramses watched impatiently. “I am just as busy in bed as out of it,” he said wickedly. “My women are killing me, Khaemwaset. So many of them, and they all demand satisfaction! What am I to do?”
“Stop acquiring so many,” Bint-Anath broke in, laughing. “Listen more closely to Suty when he tries to tell you how much gold your harems are draining from the royal treasury every day. Then you might be deterred from further purchases and contracts.”
“Hmm,” was all the reply. Ramses began to eat steadily, though with a delicate grace.
Khaemwaset’s table servant had filled his plate also, and he ate and drank with appreciation for the excellence of his father’s cooks. He saw Nubnofret close to the dais, sitting with a few of her female friends among the nobility, and not far from her he spotted Hori and Nefert-khay. She had both hands resting on his bare shoulder and was nuzzling his ear as he ate. With a pang, Khaemwaset thought of his Sheritra. What was she doing at this moment? Saying her prayers, walking in the torch-lit garden with Bakmut’s undemanding company? Perhaps she was sitting in her room, knees drawn up to chin, wondering what he was doing and castigating herself for the shyness that prevented her from plunging into life. He would have liked to have seen her here, eyes aglow with wine and excitement, her fingers drawn to some young noble’s shoulder and her mouth pressed against some adoring ear. Pharaoh was directing another comment in his direction. His brother Ramses was slumped over his food and humming tunelessly to himself. Khaemwaset gave himself over to the pleasures of the evening.
Several hours later, full of stuffed goose, cucumber salad and various pastries, slightly inebriated, Khaemwaset found himself near the north doors of the hall talking to his friend Wennufer, High Priest of Osiris at Abydos. The noise had not abated. If anything, the crowd had become more raucous as the wine jugs emptied and the entertainment had begun. Shouts and snatches of song erupted here and there as guests expressed their approval of the fire-eaters, the jugglers and acrobats, the sinuously naked dancers whose hair brushed the floor and whose golden finger-cymbals clicked out a taunting invitation together with their sweat-slicked hips.
Khaemwaset and Wennufer had retired to a relatively quiet place where they could both talk undisturbed and enjoy the night wind wafting through the open double doors from the dark garden beyond. Pharaoh had left some time before. There was no sign of Hori, and Nubnofret had come to Khaemwaset earlier to let him know that she would be spending the greater part of the rest of the night in Bint-Anath’s suite. He had kissed her absently and turned his attention back to Wennufer’s argument with regard to the proper origins of the heb-sed festival, and both men were soon oblivious to the uproar around them.
Khaemwaset was engaged in making a strong point, his face thrust close to Wennufer’s and his wine cup extended so that the nearest slave could fill it, when he felt a touch on his arm. He ignored it, dimly presuming that someone had jostled him, but it was repeated. Irritated, he turned.
An old man stood before him, coughing with an attempt at the polite control Khaemwaset had come to recognize in those with chronic lung conditions. He was slightly bent, and the hand that had importuned Khaemwaset was already returning to clutch an amulet of Thoth that hung on his wrinkled chest. He wore no other ornament. His shaved head was bare, as were his yellowed feet. He might have been ugly with his seamed jowls and unhealthily puffy features, but for his eyes. They were alert and fixed Khaemwaset with a steady gaze. The man wore an old fashioned thigh-high winding kilt over which his belly sagged, and tucked into its belt was a scroll.
Khaemwaset met his glance with an impatience that quickly turned to bewilderment Those eyes seemed familiar. A fellow priest? he thought, from On or Memphis? Then why so poorly dressed? He could pass for a peasant. One of my back-room servants, those on whom I rely but rarely see? Then what is he doing in Pi-Ramses, and how, for that matter, did he obtain leave to enter here? If he is a servant, often seen but not consciously acknowledged, I had better have a word with Nubnofret about retiring him.
The poor man looks as though he already has one foot in the Judgement Hall. He repressed an urge to embrace the stranger that was followed by a sudden cold shudder of what felt like repulsion. Wennufer, seeing his friend’s abstraction, had fallen silent and was sipping his wine and staring into the dishevelled crowd, ignoring the petitioner altogether— for Khaemwaset was sure the man was a petitioner of some kind. For medicine, I expect, he thought.
Khaemwaset began to grow sober under the stranger’s level stare, yet he could not look away, and gradually he saw something in those depths, a lurking terror quickly masked. At last the man spoke. “Prince Khaemwaset?”
The question was a formality, Khaemwaset knew. This man was perfectly aware of his identity. He managed to nod. “I cannot examine or treat you at this time,” he got out, surprised to hear himself whispering. “Petition my Herald for an appointment.”
“I do not want to be treated, Prince,” the stranger answered. “I am dying and I have little time left. I come to ask a favour of you.”
Favour? Khaemwaset saw that the full lips were trembling. “Then ask,” he urged.
“It is a very serious matter,” the man went on. “I beg you not to take it lightly. The fate of my ka hangs in the balance.”
So it was an affair of magic. Khaemwaset relaxed. The old man wanted a spell of some kind, either chanted for him or written down to take away, but even at the thought the man was shaking his head.
“No, Prince,” he said huskily. “It is this.” He looked down, the torchlight sliding over his bald scalp, and fumbled at his waist, withdrawing the scroll. Carefully he held it out and Khaemwaset, his interest piqued, took it, turning it over in his practised hands.
It was obviously very old. The papyrus had a brittle fragility that made his fingers suddenly gentle. It was quite thin, perhaps not more than three revolutions, yet its weight was curiously great.
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