Instead of turning north to skirt the temples of the kings in the Ankh-tawy district, Khaemwaset ordered the bearers to veer south, cutting across the edge of the southern suburbs where most of the common foreigners lived and crossing the canal that was fed by the Nile and linked the temples of Hathor in the south and Ptah in the north. Khaemwaset had not bothered to include Ramose in his entourage, and it was sturdy Amek who called the warning to the increasingly thick crowds to give way and pay homage to the son of Pharaoh.
Soon the noise and stir of the Peru-nefer district began to assault their senses, and the narrow streets of riverside Memphis intersected around them, lined with two- and three-storey mud houses and shops and fronted by canopied stalls behind which the keepers shouted their wares. In spite of the crush of people, the braying of donkeys and the shrieks of naked children rolling in the dust and litter, Amek managed to keep a space of reverence around his royal charges.
Sheritra saw something that caught her eye and Khaemwaset ordered the litters halted. He watched her as she scrambled onto the street, her linens displaced and her sandals forgotten in the bottom of her litter. Sheritra rushed across to a stall piled with vases and oddly carved boxes that surely came from Alashia, judging by the weird sea creatures illustrated on them.
But once there her shyness took over and she hung back, arms folded, eyes on the display. Khaemwaset gestured to Amek, who went to her and discreetly asked what she was interested in, and, while she whispered and Amek haggled, Khaemwaset looked through the milling bodies to the river, glimpsed briefly and then lost again as the people moved.
He was enjoying himself. Nubnofret would be aghast if she knew that her daughter was standing in a public place amid the dust and offal, engaged in a purchase of insulting cheapness while beside her three men were reeling, drunk, onto the street from the inviting coolness of a beer-house.
Soon Sheritra came up to him, arms wrapped about an ugly, biliously green pot, a wide smile on her face. “It is a disgusting thing,” she said breathlessly, “but I like it and I will make Bakmut fill it with blooms. Where are we going now?”
Khaemwaset ordered the litters turned homeward on the river road with a sense of regret. The afternoon had been worth the sharp words Nubnofret would rain on their heads. The road that followed the bank of the water was much wider than the city streets, and they were able to sway along side by side. The crowds were still plentiful but moved in a constant fashion, and their progress was faster.
They had crossed the bridge over the canal that led from the river to the watersteps of Ptah’s temple when Khaemwaset, idly watching the weaving citizens ahead, suddenly stiffened and sat straight. A woman was striding away from him, her naked feet kicking up little puffs of dust. She was tall and supple-spined, moving with a confident, loose swing of her hips that caused those around her to step out of the way. Khaemwaset could not see her face. She held her head, with its cap of gleaming black hair, very high, and was not glancing to right or left. Her arms swung unselfconsciously, brushing her white-clad thighs, and on both wrists she was wearing twisted silver bracelets that resembled snakes.
“Look at that woman!” Sheritra called across to him, pointing. “That one, there! What presence she has, doesn’t she, Father? Her walk is almost arrogant, in spite of the fact that she is wearing a very old-fashioned sheath and no sandals.”
“Yes, I see her,” Khaemwaset called back, hands clenched in his lap, neck craning to keep her in view. Her sheath was indeed old-fashioned. It followed the contours of her lithe body in white curves, beginning at her shoulder blades, clinging to the small of her back and ending at those flexing ankles. Khaemwaset’s eyes travelled its length, noting how her firm buttocks under the gleaming linen were clenching and loosening, clenching and loosening.… She had cut a slit up one side of the tight garb in order to stride out, and he watched her long brown leg appear, straighten lazily, then disappear, only to fill his vision once more.
“Is that a wig, do you think, or is it her own hair?” Sheritra was saying. “In either case, no one wears their locks like that any more. Mother would not approve of her!”
No, she would not, Khaemwaset thought, his throat tight. There is a controlled ferocity about that walk that would antagonize Nubnofret immediately. “Move faster!” he shouted at his bearers. “I want to catch up to that person. Amek, run ahead and stop her.” Why are they not all staring at her? he wondered. He watched Amek struggle through the crowd as the pace of his bearers quickened, but with a sinking in his stomach he knew that his captain would not catch up with her. Even as he became aware of his own nails digging into his palms and released the frenetic grip on himself, she was swallowed up and was gone. Amek came back. “I am sorry, Prince,” he said. “For all her grace, she ate up the ground.”
So Amek had noticed also. Khaemwaset shrugged. “Do not worry,” he replied. “It was just a passing fancy, and we must be getting home.” Sheritra’s eyes were on him in speculation. He glanced down at the white marks on his palms then looked across at her. “I have been more curious than circumspect,” he said, and she smiled.
“One may appreciate beauty without any blame,” she comforted him. “I too saw that she was lovely.”
For once the self-deprecation in his daughter’s voice merely annoyed Khaemwaset. He grunted, barked a loud order and twitched the curtains of his litter closed, riding to his front gate and the challenge of his gatekeeper in his mud hut with eyes closed and a growing sense of loss.
5
Oh Man who givest way to thy passions, what is thy
condition?
He cries out, his voice reaches to heaven.
O Moon, accuse him of his crimes.
AS HE AND SHERITRA MOVED stealthily through the house, Khaemwaset could hear the servants chattering as they lit the lamps in the garden. “We are both filthy, and reek of the bazaar,” Sheritra whispered. “Do we appear like this but on time, or do we wash and be late?”
“We wash,” Khaemwaset answered firmly. “Tardiness is not as high on your mother’s list of crimes as dirtiness. Be quick though, Sheritra;”
They parted. In Khaemwaset’s quarters Kasa was waiting, his arms full of towels, clean linen and appropriate jewellery laid out on the couch. “The Princess is furious,” he said in answer to Khaemwaset’s brusque query. “She wanted to know where you had gone. The Princess Sheritra did not play her lute today.” Khaemwaset was already on his way to the bath house with Kasa padding behind. “I know,” he said. “These little escapes of mine are scarcely worth it, Kasa. Nubnofret’s wrath is a terrible thing when roused. Wash me quickly.”
Before long he was stepping from the increasing gloom of the house into the warm evening glow of the garden. Sheritra was already there, sitting with her knees drawn up under a plain blue gown, her encircling arms hung with several lapis bracelets and a lapis circlet resting on her brow. Her face was unpainted. She was talking to Hori who was lounging in the grass beside her, his hair damp from his own bath. Khaemwaset approached them through the soft twilight, taking the chair behind which a servant was bowing. He had time to do no more than greet his son before Nubnofret appeared from between the pillars, a servant bearing a tray of delicacies behind her. Khaemwaset took a clove of garlic steeped in honey, aware of Nubnofret’s frozen face as she sank gracefully into the chair beside him.
Sheritra was giving Hori a spirited account of their day. “And we saw the most extraordinary woman!” Sheritra said. “Wasn’t she, Father? Sort of arrogant but easy, if you know what I mean.” Nubnofret turned quizzical and rather too sharp eyes on her husband, and Khaemwaset found himself suddenly unwilling to discuss the creature who had paced ahead of him, tall and supple and magnetic, and had left a tiny bleeding scratch in his mind like the swipe of a cat’s claw. “She was indeed unusual,” he agreed. “Nubnofret, how much longer is dinner going to be?”
“Not more than a few minutes,” his wife replied, obviously annoyed, “though I am surprised that ha
ving come home late you wish to rush to your food.”
For a little while longer the family shared their news in the rapidly darkening garden, while the lights in the house began to cast pale beams over the velvet flowers and the crystal movement of the fountain became a grey cascade. The fish in the ornamental pond at the farther end rose to the surface and made little eddies as they snapped at the mosquitoes that swarmed over them, and the monkeys shambled close to the group and squatted, their eyes on the tray and their furry hands outstretched.
Finally Nubnofret relented. Nodding at Ib as the household’s Senior Steward, she rose, and the others followed suit.
I wonder what that woman is doing tonight. The thought came to Khaemwaset without warning as he mounted the few wide steps between his pillars and turned towards the wonderful mix of aromas blowing from the dining room where the musicians were already playing. Has she a husband, and are they walking together in their garden, enjoying the night breeze? Does she live with her parents, perhaps, a person of inscrutable aloofness, scorning men, even now alone in her apartments while her family entertains some eager suitor who will never have the privilege of touching her? No, his thoughts ran on as he took his place in the pile of cushions. She is not a girl. Many suitors have come and gone but she is not interested. She is a commoner who knows that her worth is greater than all of them, and she waits for a prince.
Nubnofret was settling herself beside him, and for a moment Khaemwaset felt the lash of her tongue. “I am used to being deserted by you on any occasion you might find boring or not necessary for good governmental relations,” she hissed, “but I will not have you subverting my authority with Sheritra or encouraging her to shirk her duties in this house! I will not have you teaching her that self-indulgence is acceptable.”
Looking into her fiery eyes, he wanted to explain that he had been trying to apologize to Sheritra for letting her down the night before, but he could not make the effort. Not at the moment. “I am really sorry, Nubnofret,” he said quietly, “and you are right. I will not argue with you.” She blinked and sat back, her expression softening. She had obviously expected a sharp retort from him. He kissed her softly on the cheek and suddenly she took his face in both her hands and pressed her full mouth against his.
“You drive me to distraction,” she said throatily, “but I love you all the same.” She tasted of sweet honeyed wine, and her tongue had flicked his own.
In spite of his intention to devote the rest of the evening to his family, Khaemwaset found his thoughts circling the mysterious woman while his mouth spoke of inconsequential things. He saw her heels rise, her calves tighten as she walked. He saw her white sheath rub against her outer thigh. It is ridiculous, he told himself. Egypt is full of beautiful women of every nationality. I see them every time I leave home, enter a temple, move through the palace at Pi-Ramses. Why this woman? He had no answer, and in the end dismissed her from his mind with the energy of years of self-discipline. He had his cup refilled for the fourth time, noticing that for once Nubnofret was matching him, and did his best to join his children’s light-hearted conversation but the wine was better, rich and cool, and in the end he fell silent and let it lead him where it would.
Later, as he slid rapidly towards sleep, he was aware that he had had more wine than was good for him. Drunkenness was a pleasant pastime. Everyone indulged themselves, but Khaemwaset knew that he was becoming too old, at thirtyseven, to function well the following day if he had imbibed too freely the night before. Nubnofret will have a sore head tomorrow too, he thought, mildly annoyed with himself as his eyes closed and he pulled the sheets up over his shoulders. I drank from guilt and she from irritation, I suppose. One should only drink from joy. That was his last coherent thought.
He dreamed, and in the dream he was sitting on the grass in a Delta orchard, under the full weight of a noon sun, but there was no discomfort, only a feeling of tremendous well-being. Good, he thought in his dream, closing his eyes and lifting his face. This is an omen of great pleasure to come. The trees around him were heavy with ripe fruit, and now and then he could hear the soft thud of an apple detaching itself and falling to the ground. For a while he remained thus, in a bath of contentment, not wondering, for this was a dream, why the scent of blossom was so strong at harvest time.
Then another awareness began. His penis was stirring, swelling under his plain linen kilt, becoming fully hard. Another good omen, his dream self thought happily, opening its eyes. My possessions will multiply. Through the glare of sunlight he thought he caught a flicker of movement in the shade where the trees stood dusty and motionless. White linen, the suspicion of a brown leg with foot pointed, a hand sliding around a trunk, the fingers long and graceful, caressing the bark. I am as hard as that wood, he whispered, and full of sap. Full of sap … He was dizzy with pleasure and the tension of his erection, his eyes on those fingers stroking, pressing, exploring … He woke with his knees drawn up, both hands around his penis. He was oozing sweat. His sheets lay in a crumpled pile on the floor.
Groggily, with an unpleasant lurching in his head, he staggered up. Damn the wine, he thought, grabbing a handful of linen and winding it around his waist. He groped his way to the door and stepped out into the passage. He had no idea what time it was, but it felt very late. The house was silent. Stumbling a little, he made his way to Nubnofret’s suite and let himself in over the snoring body of her guard. Wernuro was also fast asleep, limbs akimbo on her mat by the door. Khaemwaset went around her and straight through into his wife’s bedroom.
She too was snoring gently, her sleeping gown open to the waist, sheets bunched around her knees. This is not Nubnofret, he thought dimly as he bent over her. Not my fastidious wife. This is Nubnofret my drunken wife. The words increased the sexual urgency that had impelled him there. He eased clumsily onto the couch beside her, pushing the thin linen away, and his lips closed over her nipple. It hardened immediately and she moaned, pushing against his mouth. He felt her legs untangle, her thighs part.
“Khaemwaset?” she murmured.
“Yes,” he whispered back. “Are you awake? Am I welcome, Nubnofret?”
For answer she took his hand and placed it between her legs, her head coming up to receive his kiss. Her body smelt of the heavy perfume she liked and her flesh was hot and yielding. He made love to her in the daze of his dream and his need, hearing her cry out her own climax moments before his own exploded. He collapsed onto her, trembling and wet, but she went on crying. “Nubnofret?” he grunted, puzzled and disoriented, and she pushed him roughly away.
“That’s Sheritra,” she said tersely, and slid out from under him, reaching for her gown at the same time. Dazedly he fumbled to tie the sheet once more around his waist, and they hurried into the passage.
Wernuro and the guard were now awake, Wernuro struggling sleepily to light a lamp. Nubnofret brushed past them. Khaemwaset’s eyes were on the tumble of russet hair down her back, the swift padding of her naked feet under the floating white gown. Naked feet, he thought, suddenly confused. Naked feet. Sunlight. Apple orchard. My dream. Like a blow he knew then that the woman who had been lurking behind the laden tree in his dream was the same one that he and Sheritra had pursued that afternoon, and he had just rendered the protecting spell of the morning null and void by making love to Nubnofret. How did it happen? he asked himself, aghast. To me of all people! Such loss of control is inexcusable. I am unguarded, we are all defenceless.
Nubnofret was turning into Sheritra’s quarters just as Bakmut was coming out. The servant bowed. “What is wrong?” Nubnofret asked sharply. “A nightmare, I think,” the girl answered. “I am on my way to fetch a little wine for the Princess, to calm her. She is fully awake now.”
Khaemwaset did not wait. Stepping past the two women, he strode to Sheritra’s couch. His daughter was sitting up, arms about her knees in a characteristic gesture, her face pale. When she saw him she held out her arms and he sank onto the couch while she buried her face in his sh
oulder.
“What is it, Little Sun?” he asked soothingly. “It’s all right now. I’m here.”
“I don’t really know,” Sheritra replied, a quaver in her voice though she was trying to keep it steady. “I never have bad dreams, Father, you know that, but tonight, just now …” She shuddered and lifted her head “It was something terrible, fearsome, not a person or an animal but a feeling, like something growing behind me, without eyes or ears but aware of me as prey, something malevolent to devour me.”
Nubnofret had seated herself and taken Sheritra’s hand. “Bakmut will be here in a moment with the wine,” she said reassuringly, “and you will drink and sleep again. It was only a dream, my dear. See, your father and I are here and your things are all around you, safely and sanely. Hear that owl, hunting? You are at home in your own bed, and all is well.” She was stroking the pallid hand as she spoke, smiling at both of them. Khaemwaset was overcome with tenderness for her. He put his free arm around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Sheritra said. “I did wrong today, Mother, and this may very well be the punishment of my conscience.”
For once Nubnofret did not take advantage of the statement. “I do not think so,” she said. “Here is Bakmut. Drink the wine, and we will stay with you until you fall asleep again.”
Sheritra’s plain features relaxed. Taking the cup, she drank deeply, then burrowed down into her pillow. “Tell me a story, Father,” she asked drowsily, and, with an amused glance at his wife, he began to do so, but he had only recited a few sentences when Sheritra’s breathing became regular and her eyes ceased to flutter under the pale lids. He and Nubnofret crept out and Bakmut closed the door behind them.
“We used to do this when the children were very small,” Nubnofret said to Khaemwaset as they walked back down the passage. “Although Sheritra was so frightened, I felt almost young again.” She smiled at him wistfully out of a welter of disordered hair.
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