Scroll of Saqqara

by Pauline Gedge

  “Poor Hori,” Nenefer-ka-Ptah said with mock concern. “Perhaps you should sit. Here. Take my chair. Shall I call a servant and order wine for you?” His black eyes twinkled with ghoulish humour. He knows what I am thinking, Hori told himself, the terror beginning. I am in the presence of something hundreds of years old, something that has no right to be walking and talking, smiling and gesturing, something that should by rights be wound in linen and lying in darkness, rotting. “I can wake them with a word,” Nenefer-ka-Ptah went on “They do not mind They are perfectly obedient, my servants.”

  “No wine,” Hori whispered, though he longed for something to wash away the taste of coffins in his mouth. His earrings winked jauntily up at him and the grotesque doll grinned its knowing smile.

  “She was the talk of the south, my wife,” Nenefer-ka-Ptah said conversationally. He had begun to pace in a leisurely fashion, his feet making no sound. “High-born, beautiful, with that seductive magnetism men cannot resist. Her sexual prowess was legendary. She clung to me when we were drowning, clung like a lover, her legs wrapped around mine, her body convulsing against me in fear. She has wrapped her legs around you, hasn’t she, Highness?” Hori nodded, spellbound and repulsed. “I was not afraid. I thought of the Scroll, my Scroll, the thing I had laboured long and hard to acquire, and I was comforted. The sem-priests had their orders. We were to be buried in coffins without lids and immured behind a false wall. The Scroll itself was to be sewn to the corpse of one of my servants. I actually commanded two of them to be killed in the event of my death so that they could be buried in my tomb. But Merhu …” He came to a halt, passing a hand over his shaven skull. “Merhu. My son. The flower of Egyptian youth in those days. Handsome, in demand, accomplished, spoiled, and wilful. He knew about the Scroll. Both of them did. He agreed to my preparations for his burial also, and it was just as well, for he himself drowned not long after Ahura and I were beautified and laid in the tomb your father so cheerfully desecrated. All of us dead by water,” he said. “That surely was a cosmic joke, for we loved the Nile inordinately. We swam in it and fished from it, glided on it in long red evenings, often made love on its verge with our feet kissed by its waves, held parties on its mysterious bosom and ached for it as we watched it falter and recede every year. We decorated our tomb at Saqqara with it, Merhu’s also at Koptos, the city he loved, and all the while the god was waiting to end our lives with the thing that had given us the highest pleasure. Of such interesting ironies is life composed.” He came to Hori. “I knew that possessing the Scroll brought its own dangers,” he said, “but I was a great magician, the greatest in Egypt, and I chose to take the risk. It was mine. I earned it. The price I and my family paid was an early death after five years of power and prosperity.”

  “You have not answered my question.” Hori faltered, although if he had been strong enough he would have fled in screaming horror from that place. I have been inside a corpse, he was thinking. I have made love to dead flesh like one of those madmen who loiter about the House of the Dead. And what of Father? His life has shrunk to a single force, the ecstasy of possessing Tbubui. Even Sheritra is defiled. All of us, we have committed unnameable sins no one else in Egypt could understand. Were these three always like this? he wondered. So predatory, so utterly without scruple? Or has the mysterious alchemy of a forced resurrection taken something human from them, some component necessary for a blameless life, a good judging, and then peace in the paradise of Osiris? Is the price of such a resurrection also a rejection by the gods? Have we also, all of us, been rejected? Nenefer-ka-Ptah had begun to pace again.

  “Your question?” he said. “Oh yes. Why you. We were grateful to your father for rousing us, and if it had been left to us we would simply have retrieved the Scroll and gone on living quietly in Memphis. But Thoth …” He seemed to be searching for words. “Thoth had become my master. The Scroll was his creation, and in acquiring it I came under his direct domination. It is not a good thing, to come under the unblinking contemplation of a god. Much more than mere adoration is required. Oh much more. His beak is sharp, young Hori, his shining eye remorseless. One becomes a slave. ‘Khaemwaset has sinned,’ he said. ‘He no longer serves any god but himself. He must be destroyed. Your ka is forfeit to me in exchange for the Scroll, and Khaemwaset’s for his arrogant plundering, his continued desecration of hallowed places. See to it.’ One does not disobey a god, and I must confess, Prince, that I have enjoyed tearing your complacent, haughty little family apart. We all have. For me it has been a chance to practise magic again, and for Tbubui, an opportunity to play the game at which she is most accomplished.”

  He looked directly at Hori, and at once desire for Tbubui flared in him, hot and immediate in spite of his pain. “You are abominations, all of you,” he cried. “Give me back my life!”

  “But you are tainted too,” Nenefer-ka-Ptah pointed out, grinning. “You have been inside her. There is no salvation for you.”

  Hori felt the knife in his hand, solid and somehow comforting. “I do not deserve this!” he shouted. “I refuse to die! I refuse!” In a frenzy that lent a superhuman strength to his arm he launched himself at Nenefer-ka-Ptah, knife held low. Nenefer-ka-Ptah stood impassively, his face completely blank. Screaming, Hori jabbed the paring knife up under the man’s chin, pushing it with a grunt until the hilt met flesh. Nenefer-ka-Ptah did not even flinch. Hori doubled over, weeping and trembling, then looked up. Nenefer-ka-Ptah was watching him, and all at once he yawned. With a despairing horror Hori saw the blade caught in the back of the man’s throat, clean and dry. Impatiently Nenefer-ka-Ptah reached up and pulled it out. It came with a slight sucking sound. He tossed it onto the table. “I am already dead,” he said equably. “I thought you understood that, Hori. I cannot die a second time.”

  Weakness swept over Hori and he cowered on the rough floor, weeping with impotence and pain. He was about to pull himself upright when there was a convulsive movement by the open door. Through eyes blurred by tears of agony he caught a glimpse of Sheritra, open-mouthed, frozen in shock. Antef was behind her. “I saw!” she screamed. “O gods, Hori, you were right! I saw!” Hori began to struggle up. He sensed Nenefer-ka-Ptah bowing.

  “It is the delectable little Princess Sheritra,” he said. “Welcome, my dear. Would you care to join our modest feast? I have little to tempt you but scorpion husks and dead mice, but perhaps you would prefer to dine on your brother Hori’s ka? Very fresh and juicy it is.”

  “Hori!” Sheritra cried out. He was on his feet now, shocked almost beyond bearing, but still capable of coherent thought.

  “Get out of here!” he ordered. “Antef …” But it was too late. With a shriek of terror Sheritra had turned and fled along the passage. Hori struggled to follow, and as he came to the door Antef rushed to support him. Together they emerged into the corridor in time to see the further door open, flooding more light into the darkness, and Sheritra cannon into Merhu, who had stepped out and was standing in the way. Sheritra threw herself into his arms.

  “Tell me it isn’t true!” she was screaming hysterically, clutching him, burying her face in his neck, her body pressed rigidly against him. “Tell me that you love me, you adore me, we will marry as soon as the contract is drawn up.” She raised a terror-stricken face to his. “Tell me that you did not know about your mother, about Sisenet, any of it! Tell me, Harmin!”

  His father had come out of his room and was standing nonchalantly, watching. Hori, leaning heavily on Antef, saw a glance of mutual conspiracy flash between the two of them, a gloating moment of triumph before Merhu pushed her roughly away.

  “You?” he said loudly, looking her up and down with feigned surprise. “Me marry you?” He was stepping back, contempt in every regal line of him, and Sheritra was momentarily dumbfounded. “You were an assignment I was asked to undertake, and not even a particularly interesting one at that. Virgins bore me. It was boring to possess your scrawny body and even more tedious to pretend I loved you. I want no more
to do with you. The game has palled.”

  “Sheritra …” Hori gasped, but she whirled and pushed past him, such shame and unbelief on her face that he shrank back.

  He began to hobble after her, with Antef’s arm around his waist, and behind them Nenefer-ka-Ptah started to laugh. The coarse, inhuman sound followed them along the passage and out into the garden, a rising cacophony of insane delight that woke the shadows and pursued them like the gleeful demons of the underworld, until the path began and the palms gradually muffled that hysterical shrieking.

  Sheritra was huddled at the foot of the watersteps, her breath coming in shuddering gasps, too shocked to cry. The skiff had vanished, Hori noticed as he and Antef made their halting way towards her, but the raft was tethered securely to the one pole at the foot. “How did you know I was here?” Hori managed.

  “The Princess knew,” Antef said. “The alarm was raised two hours ago when your guard was found dead at your door and you were gone. We had spent most of the day trying to devise a way to get you out. She said that the only place left for you to try was Sisenet’s house. We crept away in all the hue and cry and I doubt if we were missed.”

  They had come up to Sheritra but she gave no sign of having seen them. She continued to hug her knees, her face buried, her whole body shaking with suppressed sobs.

  “Sheritra,” Hori said urgently. “You cannot stay here. You must go home. Sheritra!” At length she lifted her head. Her face was disfigured in its grief but it was dry, and under the impact of shock and betrayal, Hori thought he saw something terrible, a cold implacability he did not like. “Antef and I will take you home,” he said, “and then we will drift towards the Delta. I must find a priest of Thoth or of Set to take this curse from me.” She rallied with an obvious effort and came to her feet unsteadily.

  “Forgive me for not believing you, Hori,” she said in a strangled whisper. “I saw you strike Sisenet. I saw the knife in his throat. I still cannot accept …”

  “I know,” he said swiftly. “Get onto the raft, Sheritra. Antef, you will have to row.”

  They tumbled onto the craft and Antef pushed off. Hori sat with his arm flung over Sheritra, his head nodding against her breast as Antef panted, fighting the current. Hori closed his eyes. Two days, he thought. I have two days if that demon spoke correctly. Sheritra stirred and he heard her whimper.

  The raft bumped and Antef said, “Your Highness, we are home. Do you want to disembark?”

  Hori pulled himself away from his sister. Dimly he felt her take his face between her hands, and her kiss was like dark petals on his lips. “I love you, Hori,” she said urgently, her voice breaking. “I will never forget you. Go in peace.”

  So she knows that I will not survive, he thought dimly. He rubbed his cheek against hers but he was incapable of words. His burst of energy was over and he wanted nothing more, now, than to curl up on the floor of the raft and lapse into unconsciousness. He felt her rise and heard her footsteps crossing the craft, then there was only the river’s secret sucking noises and Antef’s regular panting. “Take me north, Antef,” he murmured, and gave himself up to the blessed painless spiral into oblivion.

  Sheritra walked calmly up the steps. Behind her she heard Antef grunt as he poled the raft away, but she did not turn. She was cold and calm, she was in control of herself. With an absent word of greeting to the guard by the water she reached the path and started along it, still encased in that brittle unnatural peace.

  Dawn was not far off. She felt it. The torches were guttering and the darkness in the garden had a quality of restlessness about it. A servant rushed by, giving her a cursory reverence, and further on a guard was fruitlessly searching the bushes. They will not find him, she thought coldly. Already he is a possession of the gods. No one can touch him now.

  She swung into the house by the main entrance, ignoring the flurry of frenetic activity going on, and made her way unimpeded to her own quarters. Bakmut was asleep, sprawled across the doorway, but Sheritra stepped over her and continued on into her bedchamber. The night lamp still burned by her couch, casting a friendly, limpid glow.

  Going to her cosmetic table she opened a box and drew out the copper razor Bakmut used to shave her body hair. It was very sharp, and she drew the blade across her thumb reflectively. What was it Father said so long ago? she wondered. If you want to slit your wrists, do not pull the blade across the flesh. You will not damage the arteries sufficiently. Dig the knife lengthwise for a full and copious flow of blood. That way you will be beyond help. Beyond help … It was all a game, she thought dully, the razor poised. He pretended to understand me, pretended to love me, and all the times we made love he was laughing at me, forcing himself, repulsed by my body. Oh curse him, curse him! And curse me for a simpering fool. I should have known that no man as beautiful as he would be attracted to such a homely girl as I am.

  She longed to be able to plunge the innocuous, gleaming blade into her flesh, to feel the moment of pain, to see her blood spurt, but she could not make the savage, self-destructive movement required. No one will care, that is the thing, she thought coldly. Not Father, not Mother, and Hori is battling his own death. No one will be hurt by my dying, and Tbubui would simply smile. I brought this on myself. I never did deserve to be happy and I will spend the rest of my life reminding myself of that fact. These four walls will be my witnesses.

  “Bakmut!” she called, tossing the razor onto the couch. After a moment her servant appeared, blinking sleepily. “Bring me the scroll from Pharaoh.” Bakmut nodded and shuffled away, and a moment later she returned, holding out the tightly wound message. Sheritra took it and, breaking the seal, unrolled it. “To my dear grandson, Hori, greetings and fond felicitations,” she read. “Having taken your news under advisement and having consulted my Minister for Hereditary Entitlements, I have decided to investigate your allegations. Expect a person of authority to arrive in Memphis within two weeks. Know also that I am most displeased with the antics of your family and I will take the necessary steps to ensure peace in Memphis and on your father’s estate. I am your august grandfather, Ramses the Second, etc., etc.” Sheritra let the scroll roll up with a strangled laugh. None of it mattered anymore. “Bakmut,” she said to the patiently waiting servant, “from now on I do not intend to leave my suite. No one is to enter. I do not wish to speak to anyone. Is that understood?” The girl nodded warily and Sheritra dismissed her. Very good, she thought as she lowered herself onto the couch and drew the sheet up over her shoulders. Bakmut will believe it is a whim until the time goes by, and the time goes by … She relaxed into her pillow and closed her eyes. Gullible, she thought. Scrawny. Virgins bore me …

  With a muffled cry she squeezed her eyes shut and drew her knees up to her small breasts. No one will ever hurt me again, she vowed against the agonizing mental images flooding her brain. No one. Overcome with grief, she slept.

  22

  Behold me as a dog of the street,

  as a sign unto gods and men am I:

  struck down by his hand,

  for I had wrought evil in his sight.

  KHAEMWASET EXISTED in a state of shock as servant after servant came to him to admit that Hori could not be found. The estate was extensive, and searching every nook and cranny took a long time. Nevertheless Khaemwaset was mystified. Hori had been obviously near collapse when escorted to his quarters. He could not imagine that the weak, exhausted youth would have been able to kill one soldier and wound another so grievously that he was not expected to live. Khaemwaset himself had attended the man, but there had been little he could do, and as he worked he had marvelled at the damage inflicted. Hori must have been desperate, he thought, but to do what? Not to burst into Tbubui’s suite with whatever knife he used on the first guard, for no one had caught so much as a glimpse of him near the concubines’ house. In fact, no one had seen him at all.

  Khaemwaset had gone to Sheritra’s rooms himself, reasoning that Hori might be hiding there, but the girl’s bod
y servant assured him his daughter was sleeping and there had been no sign of the Prince. Antef likewise had been no help. He had seemed genuinely alarmed and puzzled at the news of his friend’s disappearance, and when Khaemwaset had wanted to interrogate him an hour later, he himself was nowhere to be found.

  Then a report came to him that the skiff was missing. He had the watersteps guard brought to him and the terrified man confessed that, having imbibed too much wine before taking his duty, he had fallen asleep. The Prince could indeed have crept past him. Khaemwaset dismissed him on the spot. I cannot have the whole city searched, he thought wearily. Perhaps Hori has gone north to Nubnofret. That idea gave Khaemwaset some relief. It was good to imagine Hori safely tucked away in the Delta, at least for the time being. Until Tbubui’s baby is born, he thought darkly. Then I will have to act. If Sheritra had not been so clumsy the problem would already be solved, but it does not matter. Father’s court is a populous place, full of intrigue and activity. A poisoning will not be so noticeable there. In the meantime I am free to enjoy my darling in peace. Both the troublemakers have gone. Sheritra will marry Harmin and he will come and occupy Hori’s old quarters. Perhaps Sisenet will decide to move in also, and the eyes of the people around me will no longer be hostile with accusations.

  Later that morning, Ib came to tell him that the raft was also missing, and this time his daughter had been seen making her way along the path from the watersteps. Irritably Khaemwaset sent for her. Shortly after, Ib returned with the message the Princess was refusing to leave her quarters. He merely stood politely waiting, and with a loud oath Khaemwaset swung out of the office where he had been trying to dictate and, with a guard and a herald trotting at his heels, strode to Sheritra’s suite. At the herald’s persistent knocking, Bakmut opened the door.

  “Get out of my way,” Khaemwaset ordered brusquely. “I must talk with my daughter.”