Scroll of Saqqara

by Pauline Gedge

  “Many of the women have their food prepared separately, as they like it,” the Keeper replied readily. “This girl eats from the harem kitchens and I assure you, Prince, that the meals are the finest and freshest quality.” Khaemwaset indicated to Penbuy that the taking of notes was not necessary. “Of course it is,” he said more sharply than he had intended, suddenly not willing to ease the man’s anxiety with tact. “The rash is simply treated. Make a balm of equal parts of Cyperus-of-the-Meadow, onion meal, incense and wild date juice. Have the slave smear it all over her twice a day, and the itching and redness should be gone in a week. Send for me if not.” He was about to turn away when he felt a hand tug at his kilt. He looked down. “Do I not need a spell also, great Prince?” the dancer’s heavily accented, light voice inquired. “Will you not make magic over me?”

  Khaemwaset met those alert black eyes with a smile, and taking her supple fingers in his, he sank onto the couch. “No, my dear, it is not necessary,” he assured her. “The evidence of demon-induced illness is lacking. You have perhaps taken too much sun, or been swimming in dirty water, or you may have even brushed against a plant that your body does not like. Don’t worry. The recipe I gave your Keeper was found many years ago among the proven remedies in the temple of Osiris at Abydos and cannot fail.”

  For answer she suddenly pressed his hand to her mouth, and the shock of the touch took him unaware. He withdrew hastily and stood. “See that she is anointed at once so that she can sleep,” was his last command before retiring into the passage, and he hurried out the doors, across the gardens and onto his litter, his mind full of the need for his delayed massage and then a deep sleep.

  With Penbuy and the soldiers dismissed and himself at last behind the closed and guarded doors of his own inner chamber, he allowed Kasa to remove his shoulder-length black wig, unscrew the turquoise earrings he favoured and rid his arms and hands of rings and bracelets. The kilt was unwrapped and laid aside. With a gusty sigh of weariness and pleasure, Khaemwaset lowered himself onto his couch, face down among the soft pillows, and felt the warm scented olive oil drip from Kasa’s dish onto his back. He closed his eyes. For a long time he gave himself up to the contentment of Kasa’s strong hands kneading away the muscle knots of the day’s tensions and sliding firmly over his buttocks and legs. Then Kasa said, “Your pardon, Prince, but you neither look nor feel well. Your skin has the consistency of goat’s cheese tonight. The underlying muscles are becoming flabby and unsightly. May I prescribe for you?”

  With mouth buried in cushions, Khaemwaset chuckled. “The physician should take some of his own advice?” he said. “Prescribe if you wish, my friend, and then I will tell you if I have the time or the inclination to obey. I am, as you know, thirty-seven years old. Nubnofret also nags me about my aging body but truly, as long as it serves to carry me through my duties and does not interfere with my pleasures, I prefer not to inconvenience it.” Kasa’s stiff fingers suddenly dug into his muscles and Khaemwaset could feel the man’s disapproval.

  “Scrambling in and out of old tombs and climbing pyramids requires a level of fitness in a man that your Highness is fast losing,” he objected sententiously. “I who love you beg you to order Amek to give you regular wrestling bouts, archery practice and swimming time. Your Highness knows that he is neglecting a fine constitution.”

  Khaemwaset was about to formulate a brisk reply when his mind all at once filled with a vision of his little dancer patient. He had not consciously evaluated her body, only her complaint, but now he remembered her flat, taut belly, the smooth delineation of muscles under the skin of her thighs, the economical swell of hips over which no fat was laid. The picture made him feel old and melancholy and vaguely empty. I’m tired, he told himself. “Thank you Kasa,” he managed. “Put the oil away. Remove the paint from my face and hands and bring the night lamp. And please tell Ib that I am not to be disturbed by any sounds of packing tomorrow.” He submitted to his body servant’s quiet expert ministrations until at last he saw the door close and he was alone with the friendly flicker of the tiny flame imprisoned in its alabaster jar, and the room’s thick, slow-moving shadows.

  Pushing the pillows to the floor he reached for the ebony headrest—Situ holding up the sky—and set it under his neck. He again closed his eyes and began to drift, still in the grip of the curious sadness that had come with the memory of his father’s tiny concubine and her perfect body. Why is it troubling me? he wondered dimly. What was it about that girl, seen for such a brief moment, that has tapped a well of such reflection in me tonight?

  Then he knew, and was wide awake. Of course. She had somehow reminded him of the first woman he had ever had, a girl actually, no more than thirteen years old, with long, quick legs and the beginnings of firm breasts that had been at the time all dusky nipples that had hardened intriguingly under his questing tongue. He could taste her now as though he had possessed her not an hour ago. She had been one of the many little slaves employed in various easy ways by Pharaoh’s more august servants. Khaemwaset, himself barely fifteen, had walked into the palace’s reception hall to dine with some three hundred of his father’s guests. He remembered the pungent odour of the melting, perfumed head cones, the waft of massive bunches of lotus flowers everywhere, the din of laughter that overpowered the musician’s polite ripples.

  The girl had approached and bowed, slipping a wreath of cornflowers over his head, standing on tiptoe to do it, and Khaemwaset had felt her naked breasts brush his chest, her warm, scentless breath envelop his face, before she retired and bowed again. Later, slightly drunk and flushed with the heat of the night and good food and his father’s especial attention, he had seen her flitting among the guests with golden party favours on a tray. He had walked up to her, taken the tray, handed it to a passing boy and ushered her impatiently into the garden.

  The night had been very close and very black, like her eyes, like the triangle of coarse hair his fumbling fingers had been desperate to explore under her flimsy kilt linen. They had copulated behind a bush, just out of sound of a Shardana soldier standing guard, then she had giggled, re-tied her clothes and sprinted away.

  They had not exchanged a single word, Khaemwaset remembered, gazing into the silent shadows of his ceiling and groaning softly as the memory unfolded. Doubtless she had known who he was, but he had neither known nor cared about her. Sensation had been his goal that night, and now his brain played back to him the movement of her muscles under his hands, his mouth, the slightly tart taste of her tongue against his, her black, black eyes becoming heavy-lidded with passion and staring into his before he gave himself over to his own lust.

  He had forgotten her until now. Other girls were taken—in the evenings by the river, in the heat of drugged summer afternoons behind the granaries, in his own rooms on impulse—then at sixteen he had married Nubnofret and four years later been appointed sem-priest of Ptah at Memphis. His life’s work began, and the urgent messages of his senses became fewer and weaker as stronger passions superseded them. Sadness for what is gone, yes I understand that, he thought, as once more he composed himself for sleep. But the emptiness? The loss? Why? The only hole I truly thirst to fill is the one that waits for the Scroll of Thoth, and if the gods will it, that I will find and the power that goes with it. Poor little Hurrian dancer. How many times has my father woken desire in that exquisite body of yours? Do you hunger for him day after day, or do you whirl away the fire? He slipped into unconsciousness, and the memories did not follow.

  2

  How beloved is he, our victorious ruler!

  How great is our King among the gods!

  How fortunate is he, the commanding Lord!

  HE WOKE LATE the following morning. Ib, true to his orders, had kept the fuss and bustle of the impending journey away from his door so that he was able to eat his habitual light breakfast of fruit bread and beer and wander to the bath house undisturbed. Already resentment was filling him as he stepped off the stone pedestal and held out hi
s arms so that Kasa could dry him. He did not want to go north, did not want to tread daintily and warily through the eggshell maze of negotiation, did not really want to see his father, but he told himself sternly that his mother at least would greet him effusively, and he would make time to visit Ramses’ splendid libraries.

  Back in his quarters he sat so that his cosmetician, under Kasa’s wary eye, could paint the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands with henna, and while the orange paint dried he listened to Penbuy give him the messages for the day. There were few. A letter had come from his cattle steward in the Delta to tell him that twenty calves had been born and recorded. The scroll that made his mouth water, though, was of a massive bulk that Penbuy laid reverently on the table by his couch. “The plans for the burial place of succeeding Apis bulls are finished and await your approval, Prince,” he said, smiling at Khaemwaset’s obvious delight, but Khaemwaset, after running a hand over the warm papyrus, regretfully left it unread. It would be a treat to look forward to when he came home.

  The henna was dry, and the cosmetician began to slide the black kohl around Khaemwaset’s eyes while his jeweller opened the box containing his necklaces. Khaemwaset picked up a copper mirror and surveyed the man’s handiwork critically, his eyes straying to the contours of his own face. What he saw reassured him. I may be a trifle flabby, he thought, and having slept on it I will take Kasa’s advice, but I am still a handsome man. He ran a reflective forefinger along the line of his tight jaw and the cosmetician exclaimed in annoyance. My nose resembles my father’s. It is thin and straight. Nubnofret still remarks on my nose. My mouth is perhaps a trifle uncompromising but full, thanks to my mother. Good clear eyes. Yes, I could still attract any woman at court …

  Amused and perplexed, he set down the mirror with a snap. Such odd thoughts, he smiled to himself. Khaemwaset, mighty prince of Egypt, the boy in you is clamouring for attention today. You have not heard his voice in a long time. Then he forgot his juvenile self as his jeweller approached and he selected electrum bracelets, a pectoral of precious silver and blue faience work and several gold rings. The man was slipping the last of the rings onto his fingers when Ramose, his herald, called sonorously from the door, “The Princess Sheritra.” Khaemwaset turned with a smile as his daughter hurried across the floor.

  “I missed you last night, Father,” Sheritra said as she gave him a quick, ungainly hug and, blushing, put her hands behind her back. “Mother said you probably wouldn’t be able to say goodnight to me but I waited up for a while anyway. How is the concubine?”

  Khaemwaset returned her embrace, hiding the mild stab of dismay he often felt when he had not seen her recently. She was all gawky bones and graceless lines, his fifteen-yearold treasure. Her legs were too long for her small frame and she often inadvertently tripped over her own feet. The servants had laughed endearingly at her unconscious antics when she was small but, out of affection for her, they laughed no more. Her fleshless hip bones jutted painfully sharply against the form-fitting linen sheaths she stubbornly wore, even though Nubnofret had time and again tried to persuade her to don more fashionable and certainly more flattering pleats and flounces. It was as though, knowing her many physical deficiencies, she had decided out of sheer pride not to try to compete in the world of feminine vanities, because to do so would cheapen who she was.

  Nubnofret was continually telling her to stand up straight, for her shoulders curved over a chest almost as flat as the stomach below it, and she did try to walk with more height and grace to deflect her mother’s often waspish aim, but it did no good. Her face was a pleasing oval, with an expressive, generous mouth and large, lustrous eyes, but the Ramessid nose had run riot and dominated her features.

  A more impudent, outgoing girl might have turned such handicaps into triumphs, but Sheritra was shy, sensitive and withdrawn. Those who knew her well—her father, Hori, her servant and companion Bakmut, the other members of the household staff and a few lifelong family friends—loved her for her intelligence and generosity, her kindness and gentleness. But oh Amun! Khaemwaset thought as he submerged the dismay and kissed her forehead under the wealth of waving brown hair, she blushes at everything, my sweet misfit. Where is the prince who will take her?

  “I don’t know how the girl is today,” he answered, “but as I have not heard from the Keeper of the Door I must presume she is better. Have you decided to come with me to visit your grandfather and investigate the markets of Pi-Ramses?”

  Sheritra shook her head once, a sharp denial. “I don’t think so, Father. Bakmut and I will enjoy having the house to ourselves. I will sleep very late and have all my favourite scrolls from the library read to me while I eat, and I shall swim and poke about in the flower beds with the gardeners.” She was speaking too quickly, looking away. Khaemwaset took her chin and turned her head, meeting her anxious brown eyes.

  “It would do no harm to spend a few hours at court,” he said softly. “If you faced those whom you fear your shyness would begin to fade, darling one. Soon your mother will begin to do more than just talk about a betrothal for you, and you should at least know what the young bloods look like before names are laid before you.”

  She pulled away from his warm fingers. “It is not necessary,” she replied steadily. “You know you will have to pay a larger than usual dowry to be rid of me, Prince, and it is a matter of complete indifference to me whether I marry or not. No one is going to love me, therefore I do not care in whose bed I ultimately lie.”

  Her painful honesty was distressing to hear. “Hori is coming,” Khaemwaset pressed, still wanting to persuade her, unwilling to sail away and leave this wound behind. She grinned.

  “Of course he is! The women will ogle him but he won’t notice. The young men will whisper about him behind his back, but he will be oblivious. He and Antef will scour the markets for new and marvellous foreign inventions to pick apart, and after chatting with Grandfather, who dotes on him, he will disappear into the House of Life as you will disappear into the House of Books, and will only emerge to buy me a very expensive gift.” Her eyes were sparkling, but behind their gleam Khaemwaset saw the disappointment in herself that he read there so often. He kissed her again.

  “I am sorry, Little Sun,” he apologized. “I do not want to push you into anything that causes you discomfort.”

  She grimaced. “Mother does enough pushing for both of you. Have a lovely time in Pharaoh’s magic city, Father. I believe that Hori is already on board Amun-is-Lord so you had better hurry.” She straightened and left the room, and Khaemwaset, his heart aching, opened his shrine to Thoth, charged the censer himself and began his morning prayers.

  His flotilla cast off from the watersteps an hour after noon. Amun-is-Lord carried Khaemwaset, Nubnofret and Hori, while ahead went their bodyguards and behind, the household servants. A suite of rooms was always available to Khaemwaset in the palace House of Ramses Great in Victories, and of course a full complement of palace slaves, but he preferred to be waited on by his own staff.

  The day was hot and clear. Khaemwaset stood on the deck, leaning over the rail, and regretfully watched the palm groves with their backdrop of yellow sand and the sharp silhouettes of the Saqqara pyramids slide out of sight. Nubnofret was already settled under an awning that had been attached to the small cabin amidships, reclining on a mountain of cushions with a cup of water in one hand and a fan in the other. Hori stood beside his father, elbow resting against Khaemwaset’s own, his hands loosely clasped. “Memphis is a fine sight, is it not?” he said. “Sometimes I wish that Grandfather had not moved the capital of the country north. I can see the strategic advantage in a seat of government close to our eastern border and located on a river that empties into the Great Green for good trade, but Memphis has the dignity and beauty of the rulers of old.”

  Khaemwaset’s eyes remained on the riverbank as the green confusion of spring glided by. Beyond the fecund, brilliant life of the bank with its choked river growth, its darting, piping
birds, its busy insects and occasionally its sleepy, grinning crocodiles, was a wealth of rich black soil in which the fellahin were struggling, knee-deep, to strew the fresh seed. Drainage canals were full of still water that reflected the intense blue of the sky and were dappled in the shade of the tall palms lining the cuttings. The villages, once the city was out of sight, were the drowsy mud and whitewashed figments of a pleasant dream, shimmering sometimes in the afternoon heat, usually deserted but for two or three donkeys standing idly flicking flies with their tails, and the odd small child running after a flock of white geese or squatting naked in the dirt.

  “I would hate to see the Nile choked from the Delta to Memphis with the ships and boats of merchants and diplomats,” he answered Hori, “and Memphis itself would become increasingly filthy, noisy and sprawling, as imperial Thebes used to be in the days of the last Thothmesids. No, Hori. Let Memphis be a city of peace to fuel my vision.” The two men smiled at one another.

  For the rest of the afternoon they drifted happily with the strong current of late spring, passing Ra’s home, the city of On where Khaemwaset also sometimes served as a priest, and then turning into the Nile’s eastern stream.

  Just beyond On, the river ceased to be one mighty force and began to meander in three large ribbons and two or three lesser tributaries towards the Great Green. The western stream bordered the desert. At its northernmost point it fed the most famous vineyards in Egypt, where the coveted Good Wine of the Western River was fermented. Khaemwaset’s storerooms held a large supply of it, and while his compatriots were often seduced into tasting exotic wines that came at great cost from places like Keftiu or Alashia, he remained faithful to the dark red bounty of the Delta.

  Through its centre flowed the great river, past that most ancient of capitals, Buto, now nothing more than a temple and a small town, and thence to Tjeb-nuter and out into the Great Green. Khaemwaset and his boats ran north-east, into the Waters of Ra that would take them to their destination.