She ate a simple and exquisitely prepared meal in the hall, sitting cross-legged on cushions before a low cedarand-gilt table, waited on by her own steward who tasted each dish before serving her. Khaemwaset had his own tasters but they were seldom seen. The food at home was pronounced safe before it arrived in the dining hall and the courtesy here, performed in her presence, a reminder to all of her exalted station, titillated her. Many nobles had tasters, particularly those closest to Pharaoh, who had reason to fear the ambition of underlings, but it was obvious that Sisenet did not bother with one. He, his sister and his nephew ate with a delicate relish, talking to each other and Sheritra with easy grace, so that soon she felt entirely at home.
When the meal ended, all disappeared to sleep away the worst heat of the afternoon, and Sheritra, freshly washed, slipped between her own sheets in Tbubui’s bedchamber contentedly. Bakmut had placed her sleeping mat against the wall behind the door, but on Sheritra’s dismissal she continued to hover beside the couch, obviously troubled.
“What is it, Bakmut?” Sheritra asked
The girl clasped her hands together, eyes downcast. “Forgive me, Highness,” she said, “but I do not like this place.”
Sheritra sat up. “What do you mean?”
Bakmut bit her lip. “I am not entirely sure,” she replied hesitantly, “but the servants of the house, they do not speak.”
“You mean that they do not speak to you? They are rude?”
Bakmut shook her head. “No, Highness. I mean that they do not speak at all. They are not deaf, for they respond when spoken to, and I do not think that they are dumb, for I saw one of them lick her mouth, but they simply never say a word.”
“Perhaps their mistress has trained them that way,” Sheritra offered. “Each household is different, you know that, Bakmut, and the demeanour of servants varies depending on their employers’ way of life.” Surprised and apprehensive, she found that she was fighting to keep a stridency out of her voice, wanting to reprimand Bakmut for attempting to coalesce her own vague fears. “This family has a need for more silence than we do,” she went on, “and probably the servants have been commanded not to speak unless their instructions are not clear. It is nothing. Put it out of your mind.”
Bakmut still hesitated. “But the silence is not nice, Highness. It weighs on me.”
“You are simply not used to it,” Sheritra said with finality, lying down again and easing the ivory headrest more comfortably against her neck. She bit back an impulse to tell the girl to keep reporting her feelings and impressions, and closed her eyes. Bakmut’s feet could be heard padding to the sleeping mat by the door and her little sighs as she composed herself brought a sense of security to Sheritra. My guard is outside in the passage, she thought. My staff have flooded the house. Harmin is within the sound of my cries, and I have embarked upon one small adventure solely for myself. What is this unease that borders on fear? I do not like the silence either. It is not calm, not a contented aura through which we might all move. It is like an invisible veil of obscure purpose that isolates us, cutting us off from events outside its power. Still with eyes shut, she smiled at her fanciful diagnosis And I believed our house to be quiet! she thought. You are still a timid child, Sheritra. Grow up! She sensed the implacable force of the early afternoon’s heat searing the thick mud walls that cocooned her. Bakmut groaned briefly in her dreams. The sheets slid silkily against Sheritra’s smooth skin and she slept.
11
From the evil-doer the quay slips away.
He is carried away by his flooded land.
KHAEMWASET SAT behind his desk, his head swimming in the close airlessness of his office, and stared down at the papers littered between his hands. It was the beginning of Phamenoth. Sheritra had been gone for three days and Khaemwaset missed her, surprised at the definitely hollow place she had left. He had not realized how much he had taken for granted the moments when he would turn a corner and find her bending with milk for the house snakes, or glance up from his meal to where she would be folded, one knee up, her linens askew, frowning over her food while the ebb and flow of family conversation swirled apparently unheeded around her. The garden, wilting and struggling under an intensifying sun, seemed forlorn without her presence. He had grown so used to Nubnofret’s sharp reprimands and his own automatic rebuffs in defence of his daughter that he had been scarcely aware of them, yet now when he, his wife and Hori settled in the dining hall to while away the evening hours, he cast about for what was wrong and discovered the absence of one familiar habit.
Hori was unusually preoccupied and uncommunicative. Perhaps he missed her also. He was gone from sunrise to dinner time and no longer sought out his father with an eager account of his days. Khaemwaset presumed that he was still overseeing the work on the tomb and roaming the city in his spare time with Antef, and it worried him to see Antef on several occasions wandering moodily along the paths of the estate by himself. Khaemwaset had removed the stitches in Hori’s knee and the boy no longer limped. The wound had healed well but would leave an untidy scar. Khaemwaset wanted to ask his son what he had done with the earring, and what was the cause of his distress, but found he could not. A wall, still insubstantial but strengthening, had appeared between them. Hori had withdrawn and Khaemwaset found himself unwilling to pierce that almost sullen shell. He had his own agonies.
Two days after Sheritra’s departure he had summoned Penbuy and, wrapped in an atmosphere of complete unreality, had ordered his Chief Scribe to draw up a marriage contract between himself and Tbubui. Penbuy with his impeccable manners and the restraint of good breeding, had given his master the briefest of stares, blanched a little under his deep olive skin and sunk cross-legged to the floor, arranging his palette in the pose hallowed by generations of scribes. “What title is the lady to receive?” he asked primly, pen poised.
“She will of course immediately become a princess when she signs the document,” Khaemwaset said, hardly recognizing his own voice, “but her official position here will be that of Second Wife. Emphasize in the contract that Nubnofret remains Chief Wife and Superior Princess.” Penbuy wrote.
“Are you aware of her assets, Prince?” he asked at length. “Do you wish a clause giving you the right to control any or all of them?”
“No.” Khaemwaset was finding the exchange more difficult than he could have imagined. Guilt and dread were making him testy, but he had now lived with the two negative emotions so long that he was able to ignore them. The feeling of brittle illusion surrounding what he was doing was very strong. “I know nothing of her assets save that she has some property of her own. Her late husband’s estate went to Harmin. I have no desire to meddle in her commercial affairs.”
“Very good.” Penbuy’s head went down again. “And what of her son?” he queried. “Is he to share in your bequest to Hori and your daughter in the event of your death?”
“No.” Khaemwaset’s answer was curt and he was sure he saw a relieved loosening in his scribe’s stance. “Harmin does not need anything from me. Nor is he to receive any princely title unless he marries Sheritra. He must not know that, Penbuy.”
“Naturally,” Penbuy purred, writing industriously. “But what of any offspring from this marriage, Prince?”
Khaemwaset’s gut churned. “If Tbubui gives me children, they must share equally in my wealth with Hori and Sheritra. You will include the usual clauses, Penbuy. I am to provide for Tbubui, treat her with respect and kindness and perform such accepted duties as a husband is obligated to do. And before you ask, her brother will not be mentioned in this contract at all. He is incidental to this negotiation.”
Penbuy laid his pen carefully on the palette and for the first time looked up at his master. “Prince, you do remember that as a member of the royal family your choice of wives is subject to Pharaoh’s approval,” he reminded Khaemwaset with pursed mouth and expressionless gaze. “If the lady’s blood proves to be too common and you pursue this course, you run the risk of
being removed from the list of blood princes in line for the throne.”
It was Penbuy’s duty to say those things, but Khaemwaset was angry nonetheless. I do not care, he thought savagely. I will have her in the face of any opposition, my father’s included. “Merenptah would be delighted to see my name removed from that list,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “As to the lady’s blood-line, I want you to go to Koptos and research her claims. Add a last clause to the contract to the effect that she may sign it but it only becomes valid subject to confirmation of her noble status. That releases me from any legal pressures in the event that she has lied to me or my father refuses me the marriage.” But it means nothing, he had thought privately. All of this, it means nothing. It is only a way in which I may lure her here, under my hands and eyes, forever.
Penbuy smiled faintly. “Koptos,” he said with resignation. “Koptos in the summer.”
Khaemwaset rose. “A disagreeable assignment, I know,” he acknowledged, “but I trust no one else to perform the task as thoroughly as you, old friend. Have the document ready to sign tomorrow, and, Penbuy …” The scribe looked at him questioningly. There was a small pause while Khaemwaset, outwardly in control, fought to form the next words. “Nubnofret knows nothing of this. Nor do Hori or Sheritra. Keep your counsel. You will leave for Koptos tomorrow afternoon.”
Penbuy had nodded, risen and bowed himself out, leaving Khaemwaset feeling strangely dirty. I do not care what my servant thinks of my deeds, he told himself firmly, for what is he but a tool, an instrument for my use? Yet Penbuy had been his advisor for many years and Khaemwaset had had to choke back the desire to ask the man for his opinion. He had not wanted to hear it.
Now he sat bowed by the heat, the completed papyrus before him covered in Penbuy’s neat, faultless script. He had read it and sealed it, and it waited now for Tbubui’s approval.
Beside it lay another scroll, the sight of which filled Khaemwaset with distaste and reminded him of the night of panic that had sent him hurrying to a spell of protection he himself had so soon negated. I cannot look at it now, he thought, his fingers tapping anxiously over the notes he had made then. Penbuy has gone to Koptos, and while he is away I must talk to Nubnofret. But what is the point of upsetting her before Penbuy returns with the results of his investigation? another voice objected. The last clause releases you if necessary, so take the document to Tbubui, obtain her seal, see what Penbuy discovers and then talk to Nubnofret. There is no hurry. Work on this mysterious piece of history you have been avoiding. Call in Sisenet, then scour your mind of it and put it behind you. Once Nubnofret has accepted the situation with Tbubui the future will be richer, lusher, more satisfying than you ever dreamed possible. Lay this scroll to rest first. Overcome your cowardice and begin now.
With a dragging reluctance he rolled up the contract, pushed it to one side and set the ancient writing and his notes in its place. Calling the servant who stood stolidly in the corner he asked for beer, recognized his own delaying tactic, and with a grimace began to work. Tomorrow I will visit Sheritra, give Tbubui the contract to study and invite Sisenet to assist me, he decided. It is time to return to reality. But the briskness of his decision did nothing to lift the cloud of insubstantiality that dogged him. He felt as though months ago he had somehow become detached from himself, that his being, his time, had been bifurcated and his other self, more heavy with blood and life, with sanity and substance, was even now living out his correct reality, while this shadowy self had been nudged onto a pathway that might or might not bring him back in the end to a reunion with that other self. The thought gave him a moment of sick dizziness, but it passed, and he bent with an unconscious moan to the riddle of the dead man’s treasure.
He spent the following morning impatiently listening to his steward’s report on the progress of his crops and the health of his animals. In two months the harvest would begin, and all prayed that the reaping might be accomplished without disease or blight developing on the grain. Khaemwaset’s cattle were fat and healthy, his fields fully mature, tall and green.
After curtly thanking his managers, he read a message from the palace. His mother was very ill and her Chief Steward had taken it upon himself to inquire of Khaemwaset whether he could make the journey to the Delta to treat her. The polite, subtle request threw him into a fever. She knows she is dying, he thought furiously. She knows that I can do nothing more for her. It is her staff, her stupid cow-like retainers, who still believe that I can somehow magic her back to health. She has her husband to comfort her, and whatever faults great Pharaoh has, he loves her and does not neglect to visit her. Surely in dying she wants her husband, not a son she rarely sees, by her side? Tersely he dictated a letter to the steward telling him that he would come to Pi-Ramses at his earliest convenience, which would not be for some time, and that Pharaoh’s physicians were as competent and reliable as he.
There was also a brief communication from Amunmose, Chief of Pharaoh’s Harem in Memphis, complaining that the physician appointed by Khaemwaset himself to see to the medical needs of the women was incompetent and had been dismissed. Could the Mighty Prince suggest a replacement? Not now, Khaemwaset thought with nagging irritation. Tomorrow. I will see to it tomorrow.
On his way to Nubnofret’s quarters he came upon Antef. The young man was scantily clad in nothing but a loincloth. A quiver of arrows was slung over his shoulder and his bow hung negligently from one slender hand. Khaemwaset brushed past him, then halted and turned.
“You go to archery practice, Antef?” Antef nodded. He looked unhappy and tired. “Will Hori join you?”
“No, Highness,” Antef replied. “I have not seen the Prince today. He slept late and then hurried out.” His eyes would not meet Khaemwaset’s and Khaemwaset felt a wave of sympathy that answered the deep sadness in the pleasant boy.
“You have not seen much of my son lately, have you?” he said gently. Miserably Antef shook his head. “Can you tell me what ails him, Antef? Without betraying his confidence, of course.”
“I would tell you if I knew, Highness,” Antef blurted, “but Hori no longer confides in me. It is as though I have displeased him in some way, but by Set I cannot imagine how!”
“Neither can I,” Khaemwaset said gently. “I am sorry, Antef. Please do not lose patience with him.”
“I do not intend to, Highness.” Antef smiled wanly. “I think he will talk to me eventually.”
Khaemwaset nodded and passed on. He did not want to dwell on Hori’s mysterious change of face, preferring to believe that his son’s good sense would reassert itself without interference.
When Khaemwaset was announced, Nubnofret was standing in the middle of the bedchamber, hands on her hips, amid a welter of gowns and cloaks. Wernuro and two body servants were sorting through the brilliant piles of beaded gilded linens and a harried-looking scribe sat at his mistress’s feet, pen working furiously. “Put that one aside,” Nubnofret was saying. “It can be altered for Sheritra. And those two have worn patches on them. They had better be cut up. Such a pity,” she smiled, turning for Khaemwaset’s dutiful kiss. “They were my favourites. I am ordering new clothes, dear brother. The linen woven from last year’s flax is particularly fine and I have requisitioned a good portion of it.”
“So you will be busy all day?” Khaemwaset asked hopefully. She made a rueful grimace.
“Yes. The gown-maker is coming. Why do you want to know?”
“I am going to visit Sheritra,” he said carefully, “and at the same time I will invite Sisenet to come and peruse the scroll. I thought you might like to see your daughter and spend some time with Tbubui.”
In spite of the enforced steadiness of his voice she looked at him curiously. “Sheritra has only been gone for three days,” she pointed out. “And you can just as easily send a herald to Sisenet. You have neglected patients, Khaemwaset, and although Penbuy is loyal to you and does not complain, I am aware of the official correspondence piling up on your desk. Such irrespons
ibility is not like you.”
I am not answerable to you, he thought, annoyed. Sometimes you affect the tone of a mother with me and I hate it. “Such things are not your concern, Nubnofret,” he rebuked her, with what he hoped was kindness. “Run the household and leave my business to me. I have been very tired of late and I see nothing wrong with an afternoon chatting to my daughter and her host.”
Usually at this juncture she would back down. Her passion for control occasionally prompted her to encroach on Khaemwaset’s sphere, but a gentle reprimand would have her laughing at herself and retiring. But this time she stood her ground. “It is not just a matter of one afternoon,” she persisted. “For weeks now you have been withdrawn and short with everyone. I am surprised that you have not received one of Ramses’ barbed letters of inquiry concerning Egypt’s forgotten affairs.” She was watching him with something very like wounded puzzlement in her eyes, and Khaemwaset wondered fleetingly if perhaps she was more astute than he had thought. He would have to talk to her sometime soon, but not today, not today! He hastened to placate her while the servants waited in their well-trained immobility.
“It is true that I have not given my duties the attention they deserve,” he admitted, “but, Nubnofret, I am in need of a rest.”
“Then let us go north for a week or two. Perhaps the change would restore you.”
He laughed sharply “I hate Pi-Ramses,” he said flatly “You know that.”
She came close to him, picking her way delicately among the discarded clothes. “Something is seriously wrong, my husband,” she said in a low voice, looking directly into his face, “and do not insult me by denying it. Please tell me what it is. I only want to help and support you.”
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