“I really shouldn’t,” she said hesitantly. “Mice have got into one of the granaries in the rear courtyard and spoiled the grain, and we will be short of bread. Our farm steward is coming shortly to take my order for more grain from the big granary, and I must supervise the laying of gazelles’ dung to repulse the mice.” She was making her excuses with regret, Khaemwaset saw.
“What do we have a kitchen steward for?” he objected. “Let him oversee the matter. You have trained them all well, Nubnofret. Let go for once.”
She thought. Then, “You are right,” she agreed. “Give me a little time to dress, my dear, and I will join you at the watersteps.”
He did not really want to go on the river with her. He wanted to find an isolated, private spot and stand there, kneel there, lie there, until the moment when Ib came to him to say that the woman had been run to ground. But he knew the dangerous irrationality of that urge and fought it off determinedly. The river would be beautiful as Ra descended into the mouth of Nut, and it would make Nubnofret happy. The thought of making Nubnofret happy brought to him an engulfing guilt and he smiled, nodded and left her apartment quickly.
In the weeks that followed, Khaemwaset went through the motions of his duty with grim and iron determination, while his servants scoured the streets of Memphis. Khaemwaset forced himself to inspect the as yet barely begun excavations in the desert for the Apis mortuaries, and see to the dredging of several canals on his agricultural estate. No news of Pharaoh’s labyrinthine marriage negotiations with the Khatti came from the Delta, and Khaemwaset was relieved. The last thing he wanted was to answer a summons to attend his father in Pi-Ramses when all his inward attention was fixed on the reports of his soldiers each evening.
His sleep was troubled. He dreamed of high winds that whipped the surface of the desert into a howling maelstrom of sand, of the Nile in a flood that spilled over Egypt and kept on pooling, lapping, eating inexorably mile after mile of the cooking fires in his own kitchens that spread and grew until they towered, hungry and angry, over the whole city, lighting it with an ominous orange glow.
When the time came for the casting of his and the family’s horoscopes for the coming month, he performed the task fearfully, with more than his usual meticulous attention to every detail. The prognosis for himself was very bad. According to this, he thought as he wrote the results at his desk, I should take to my couch and not stir until the month of Hathor is over. I do not see death here, or physical accident, merely bad luck. Merely. He chuckled without a trace of humour. Nubnofret’s signs for the month were much as they always were—no more than slight tremors in an even flow that seldom changed—and Hori’s, always so strongly fortunate, showed a mild dip in the number of days. Sheritra’s horoscope was almost as bad as Khaemwaset’s own.
When he had finished the work, which had taken him a whole day, he pushed it hastily into a drawer and sat back with a kind of despair. I can send Sheritra to Sunero’s house at Ninsu if she would go, he thought. Nubnofret and I did discuss the possibility. But would that be pushing her into the place where her luck will be worse, or will keeping her at home precipitate the disasters that I see? There are no answers. We have lived through illness, dynastic deaths, royal intrigues, he thought again as he rose and left his office. All showed beforehand as unlucky days. The only surprises were the occurrences themselves. We will weather this month as we weather everything. But he knew, as he wandered down the passage and out into the fading daylight, that his confidence was spurious. Something alien was in the air, and he acknowledged it with great mistrust.
He was curiously reluctant to visit the tomb at Saqqara. Penbuy and his other scribes and artists were still at work there, and Hori spent several hours overseeing their efforts every day, but Khaemwaset stayed away. He wanted it closed and sealed. He wanted to give the scroll that he had cut so avidly from the bandaged fingers of the corpse to Penbuy to be copied so that the original might be returned, but so great was his distaste for it that he let it lie where the scribe had locked it away. Eventually, he knew, he must either continue the work of deciphering the enigmatic thing or put it back where it had come from, but he did not need to decide anything just yet. Daily, Hori laid before him the intricate, riotous scenes and hieroglyphs faithfully reproduced from the tomb’s plastered walls, eager to discuss them with his father, but Khaemwaset found excuses to simply disregard them. “They are beautiful but not particularly informative,” he told his son. “We can go over them once the tomb is closed but at the moment my attention is taken up with the Apis bulls.” It was a lie, and Hori knew it. Looking at his son perched on the edge of the desk, sandalled foot swinging, he had been going to say, “Leave me alone, Hori,” for Ib had come to him not an hour before with yet another shake of the head, but he restrained himself. “Just get Penbuy to file it away and I will find a few idle moments within the next day or so to go over it.” Hori, shooting him a keen glance, slid off the desk and went away.
Khaemwaset sat on blindly, staring into nothing. When did all this begin? he was thinking, but he was not even sure what “this” was. Slowly, he mentally girded himself for another family dinner, another evening in the cool of the garden or listening to Nubnofret’s not unpleasant observations, then blessed unconsciousness followed by yet another long, hot series of hours that he must fill or go mad. An obsession. Yes, it was nearly that. Then let the moment of meeting come, let it shatter me with furious disappointment, and then, O please Thoth, please Ptah, please Hathor, goddess of beauty, let my life return to its former sane state!
One week into the month of Hathor, Khaemwaset began to give up hope of tracing the woman. Reluctantly, he called in his soldiers. To his relief, he found that the moment of his admission of failure brought with it the first intimations of peace, and his mind began to calm. He returned to his studies, his few select patients, and his duties with the beginnings of an honest interest. His horoscope still made him anxious but he decided that he had been in such a restless condition that he had not done the casting properly.
On the third day of the second week of Hathor he set out to confer with Si-Montu regarding the promised grape harvest in the royal vineyards his brother oversaw on the outskirts of Memphis. Pharaoh had sent a request for figures on the expected yield and Si-Montu had in turn sent a message to Khaemwaset, worried about the appearance of blight on some of the vines but more than happy to have an excuse to while away a hot afternoon drinking beer and talking about nothing in particular. Khaemwaset had welcomed the invitation and had set off in his barge with Kasa, Amek and two bodyguards to have himself rowed beyond the northern limits of the city to where his father’s vines luxuriated, tended like spoiled children behind their high, sheltering walls
Khaemwaset sat on the deck under the small awning, enjoying the morning breeze that would turn in a very few hours to the scorching breath of a Ra growing in power and intensity towards high summer. The riverbank as he travelled north and away from Memphis’s industry and markets was carefully cultivated. One noble’s estate followed another, one set of clean white watersteps with tethered barges and skiffs giving way to lawn, shrubs, trees, a wall and then another tier of water-lapped steps The river road ran behind these private enclosures, encircled the Northof-the-Walls suburb, and returned to meander beside the Nile just before it crossed the northernmost canal. Ramses’ vineyards, surrounding Si-Montu’s inviting home, grew beyond the canal and were fed by irrigation canals bridged by the road.
Khaemwaset watched the last well-groomed estate drift by, a tangle of river growth follow, and the road appear again, choked as ever with laden donkeys, barefooted peasants and litters borne by dusty slaves. He did not mind the return of their babble. Today he felt peaceful and optimistic. The wet-scented air cooled the sweat from his brow under the black-and-white-striped linen helmet he wore. The Nile was a glittering blue, slapping gently and rhythmically against his craft. His captain called the beat to the rowers, his sing-song voice seeming to blend with
the noise from the bank, the shrieking of the birds that dipped over Khaemwaset’s head in search of flung food and the pad-pad of Kasa’s tread as he came from the cabin to proffer cool, mint-flavoured water and dried dates. Amek stood in the prow, his eyes, as ever, slowly circling the bank, the other craft slicing the water, the fellahin, working the shadufs that poured wet life onto the fields of the farther bank.
Khaemwaset had just thanked Kasa and was raising the gold cup to his mouth when his gaze caught a flash of brilliant scarlet among the dun confusion of animals and bodies on the road. His hand froze. His mouth went dry. Then a rage such as he had never known filled him, galvanizing his limbs and flooding his lungs. She was threading her way through the crowd with the easy grace he had come to know so well, had seen so tantalizingly often in his cursed imagination, a white ribbon encircling her forehead and fluttering down her straight back, the sun glinting on the simple circle of silver around her throat and playing against the silver bracelets rubbing loosely from wrist to forearm. As he came to his feet and stared, that horrendous anger pulsing through him, he saw her raise one languid hand to brush a strand of wind-teased black hair away from her cheek. Her palm was hennaed bright orange. You bitch, he thought, trembling, the weeks of misery and restless compulsion churning in his mind, Ib’s face each frustrating evening, Sheritra’s silences, Hori’s disappointment, even his servants’ exhaustion, known but not seen, all jumbled together to form this towering urge to violence. Bitch, bitch, oh bitch! “Captain!” he shouted. “Steer for the bank immediately! Amek!” The cup had fallen from his grasp and he was vaguely aware of Kasa bending to retrieve it as Amek strode across the deck. “As soon as the boat hits the bank I want you to stop that woman.” He pointed, and Amek’s eyes followed his shaking arm. The man nodded. She was coming towards them along the road, in the direction of the city, and they had ample time to cut her off. This time, Khaemwaset thought fiercely, teeth clenched, this time you will not escape me. “When you have stopped her, ask her her price.”
Amek’s black eyebrows rose. “Her price, Prince?”
“Yes, her price. I want a night with her. I want to know how much she charges.”
The captain of his bodyguard bowed and without further ado kicked off his sandals, went to the side, and prepared to jump onto the muddy bank the moment the barge struck. Khaemwaset stepped back under the awning, scarcely aware of what he had said. The shaking was abating but the anger was still there, a steady coal heating his blood and making his fingers curl into fists.
The barge bumped the bank, and even before it ceased to quiver Amek was over the side, knee deep in mud and splashed to the chin. The woman was almost level with him, unknowing, unseeing. Hurry, Khaemwaset thought. Tensely, he watched his man pull his tough soldier’s legs from the mire one after the other, grasp the straggling river growth, and haul himself up, staggering then sprinting onto the road. Now Khaemwaset’s chaotic mind called. Now, Amek! Amek ruthlessly pushed the crowd aside and a second before the woman would have passed, spread his feet apart, drew his short sword and brought her to a halt.
She stopped slowly, one knee flexed under the tight sheath that was the hue of some exotic bird, her hands still loose, and Khaemwaset, his anger becoming swamped in anxiety, found time to admire her seemingly unshakeable aplomb. He saw Amek speak, his sword held against his mud-spattered leg, and expected the woman to glance towards the barge when the request was made, but she did not so much as move that proud head. Her lips parted. She spoke briefly and made as if to step aside, but Amek once more barred her way, speaking quickly. This time her chin came up and her mouth moved rapidly, forcefully. Amek leaned forward. So did she. They glared at one another. Then, abruptly, Amek sheathed his sword and the woman eased into the flow of travellers passing Khaemwaset and the barge, passing out of sight with an infuriating serenity. Khaemwaset found that he could not swallow. Indeed, he could hardly breathe.
The barge captain had run out a ramp and Khaemwaset, hands still curled tightly in upon themselves, watched Amek come striding up it, across the deck and in under the shade of the awning. He bowed. Khaemwaset fought for air, for his voice, and found both.
“Well?” he croaked.
Amek grimaced. Drying mud was beginning to flake from his legs and he wiped at a streak of it on his cheek. “I made the request,” he said. “I put the question with great tact, Highness.”
“Of course you did!” Khaemwaset snapped impatiently. “I know you, Amek. What did she say?”
The man looked uncomfortable and his eyes slid away from Khaemwaset’s. “She said, ‘Tell this presumptuous man, your master, that I am a noblewoman and no mean person. I am not for sale.’”
Khaemwaset’s mouth suddenly filled with saliva. “You pressed her. I saw it!”
“Yes, Prince, I pressed her.” Amek shook his head. “She simply repeated, ‘I am a noblewoman and no mean person. Tell that to your rude and arrogant master.’”
Rude and Arrogant. Khaemwaset heard a string of curses go reeling through his head. “Did you at least try to find out where she lives?”
Amek nodded. “I told her that my master is a very rich and powerful man who has been seeking her for a long time. I thought that she would be complimented and thus soften her stance. But my words made no difference at all, in fact she smiled rather coldly into my face. ‘Gold cannot buy me and power cannot frighten me,’ she said. I did not want to exceed my instructions and arrest her, Highness. I had to let her pass.”
Khaemwaset’s fist came up and caught Amek on the side of the jaw. Amek, unprepared, went down and lay for a moment, stunned. Then his head lolled and he fingered his mouth. Arrest her! Khaemwaset’s mind was yelling. Arrest her, beat her, you should have dragged her on board and thrown her at my feet! Then all at once reality collapsed upon him and he knelt, aghast at what he had done. “Amek!” he said urgently, helping his guard to his feet. “I am sorry. I did not mean to strike you…. By Amun I did not …”
Amek managed a weak smile. “I have seen her face,” he said. “I do not blame my prince for striking me. She is very beautiful. I am the one who must apologize. I have failed my prince.”
Yes, you have seen her face, Khaemwaset thought, sick to the heart. You have felt her breath on you, you have noted the flicker of her eyelids, the rise of her breast as she drew breath to answer you with such scorn. I want to hit you again. “No,” he said shortly. “No, you have not.” And with that he swung abruptly on his heel and disappeared into the cabin, pulling the curtains closed savagely behind him.
He had not given the barge captain further instructions. He sat in the blue-tinged dimness of the cabin with his knees drawn up, eyes jammed shut, rocking to and fro in humiliation and the anger that had become directed now at himself. I have never struck a member of my staff before, he thought in agony. I have reprimanded, I have shouted. I have come close to losing my temper on many occasions, but never, never have I hit out. And at Amek! A man of silent loyalty, great efficiency, a man who has shielded and protected me for many years. He bit his lip, feeling the barge slip off the mud of the bank with a slight jerk, hearing the captain shout an order. It will do no good to apologize again, Khaemwaset’s thoughts ran on. The harm has been done. I can never take back that moment of sheer insane fury. And at what? He leaned back against the cabin cedar-fragrant wall and opened his eyes. A woman. A woman who got away from me. Amek did his duty then refused to break a law of Ma’at by compelling her into my presence.
He heard Kasa’s hesitant knock on the outer wall and pulled himself together. “Come!” The man opened the curtain, entered and bowed. “In the absence of any command to the contrary, the captain is proceeding to my lord Si-Montu’s watersteps, Highness,” he said. “Do you desire anything?”
Khaemwaset suppressed an urge to burst into hysterical laughter. I desire that infuriating mirage of a woman. I desire to wipe out the last hour. I desire the balm of soul I used to take entirely for granted. “Bring me water,” he s
aid, “and the dates.” He had been about to order the barge to return home but suddenly the idea of pouring everything into the ears of his favourite brother was irresistible. He drank the water Kasa brought, nibbled on a few dates and brooded.
Ben-Anath greeted her brother-in-law with her usual affectionate embrace and installed him in the garden under the shade of a giant spreading sycamore, After assigning him a servant and apologizing for having to leave him temporarily unentertained, she bowed and went back into the house. Khaemwaset was relieved. Ben-Anath was an easy woman to be with, but in his present state of mind he did not think he could make an effort at polite family conversation. He asked the servant for beer and when it came he forced himself to sip it carefully. He wanted to gulp it down and ask for more. He wanted to get drunk on this hot, completely frustrating afternoon. But the need to talk to Si-Montu was greater.
Presently his brother came striding across the grass. He had obviously been at work in the vineyards and had taken a moment to wash and change his kilt, but other than the strip of white linen around his thick waist he was naked. His brown body was chunky and formidable, not from drawing the bow, wrestling, or chariot-driving, but from sweating beside his labourers; his presence gave Khaemwaset great comfort. Rising, he kissed Si-Montu’s damp, bearded cheek. Si-Montu waved him back to the cushions strewn on the reed mat and sank down beside him. “What?” he expostulated. “Drinking beer in the middle of the finest vineyard in Egypt? The grapes will wither and die from chagrin, Khaemwaset. How are you? Bring a jar of the five-year vintage!” he shouted at the servant, then he fixed Khaemwaset with a bright, altogether too piercing eye. Si-Montu might look like a peasant and roar like a sailor, Khaemwaset reflected, but he is neither. He is a royally educated prince of the land, and too many people forget it.
Scroll of Saqqara Page 14
