Scroll of Saqqara

by Pauline Gedge

  Around them the feast swirled. The musicians kept up a loud harmony of harp, lute and drums, whose rhythms shook through the tiled floor. The revellers shrieked and danced. But around the two men, standing half in the shadows sweeping through the doors, there hung an aura of timelessness.

  “What is it?” Khaemwaset asked.

  The old man coughed again. “It is a thing of danger, Prince,” he said. “Danger to my ka, danger to you. You are a lover of wisdom, a great and well-respected man, devotee of Thoth, god of all wisdom and knowledge. I beg you to perform a task that I in my arrogance and stupidity am not allowed to accomplish.” His eyes had gone very dark, and Khaemwaset could see a pleading in them that was almost painful. “I am running out of time,” the man urged. “Destroy the scroll on my behalf, and in the next world I will prostrate myself before mighty Thoth a thousand thousand times for a thousand thousand years on your behalf. Please, Khaemwaset! Burn it! Burn it for both our sakes! I can say no more.”

  Khaemwaset looked from the agonized face to the wound scroll in his hands, and when he glanced up again the man had gone. Annoyed yet oddly feverish, he hunted through the people with his eyes but caught no glimpse of a naked, freckled skull, a bowed chest. He became conscious of Wennufer at his elbow. “Khaemwaset, what are you doing?” the priest asked testily. “You are too drunk to go on discussing, perhaps?” But Khaemwaset muttered a quick apology and walked away, out the doors, past the surprised salute of the guards and onto the dew-soft darkness of the lawn.

  The uproar behind him slowly receded until he was pacing the dim greyness of the path that doubled back along the north wall of the palace to a place where he could reach his quarters quickly. As he went he held the scroll gingerly, afraid that it might crumble if he tightened his grip.

  Such nonsense, he thought. An old man is dying and wishes for a few moments of recognition before he goes. He plays a silly game with me, knowing that I, even with holy blood in my veins, am the most approachable of my family. The scroll is probably no more than the names of his servants and what they are paid. A joke? Hori’s joke? No. Wennufer perhaps? Of course not. Is it some kind of a test my father has prepared for me? He considered that possibility for a few moments, his gaze on the indistinct path blurring beneath his feet. Ramses did test the loyalty of his subordinates at unexpected times and in odd ways. He had done so periodically every since the top echelon of the army had been dismissed following the debacle of Kadesh. Khaemwaset, however, had never been the object of such a trial. Neither had any other members of the family.

  But would we know? he wondered as he turned the corner into the full glare of a dozen torches lining the approach to the eastern door. What if we have been repeatedly tested and repeatedly passed without ever being aware of such a calculated thing? But if a test for me tonight, what kind? What for? Am I to burn the scroll without reading it and thus prove that my higher loyalty is to my king over my love of learning? Supposing that I read it and then disposed of it. No one would know that I had unrolled it first. He glanced swiftly behind him but the gardens lay in a perfumed darkness, the shrubs uneven smudges against the bulk of the wall, the trees black-armed and impenetrable. No, he thought, feeling foolish. Father would not have me followed and watched. I am being ridiculous. Then … what?

  He was coming up to the first torches and his steps slowed, then stopped. He was directly under a torch, if he had raised a hand he would have been able to touch the leaping orange flames that danced and guttered in the night air. Taking the scroll in his fingertips he held it up to the light with a confused idea that he might be able to read it without unrolling it, but of course it remained opaque, only paling a little in the torch glow. He held it higher. This is insane, he told himself. The whole episode smacks of madness. He could feel the heat of the torch on his face, his quivering hand. The papyrus began imperceptibly to blacken and he could sense it pull inward and curl. It is very old, he thought. There is a small chance that it is indeed a thing of value. Hastily he pulled it away from the fire and looked it over. One corner was singed and even as he held it a tiny portion broke away and drifted to the ground. Very lucky or horribly unlucky, depending on my actions tonight, he told himself, thinking of his horoscope. But which action, burning or saving, will bring fortune? For he was all at once certain that this was the moment of which the horoscope spoke and there would be grave consequences either way.

  For a long time he stood irresolute, remembering the old man, his begging eyes, his urgent words. He wanted to get rid of this burden thus placed upon him, yet at the same time he was assuring himself that his judgment was impaired by wine and the lateness of the hour, that he was stretching a meaningless encounter into something portentous and fateful. Groaning quietly, he tucked the scroll into his voluminously pleated waist and walked slowly out of the circle of torchlight, through the succeeding band of deep shadow, and on to the palace entrance, where two guards sprang to attention and made an obeisance. He wished them a good night, and was soon being admitted into the family’s suite. Ib and Kasa came hurrying to meet him.

  “Where have you been, Highness?” Ib asked, impatience and relief written all over his face. “One minute you were talking with the High Priest and the next you had vanished. Amek rushed away immediately to find you and presumably he is still looking. You make our tasks difficult.”

  “I am not a prisoner of my servants, Ib,” Khaemwaset retorted testily. “I came through the garden and entered by the east gate. I expect my bodyguard to be aware of my movements at all times.” And that is not entirely fair, he thought as he saw Ib flush, but he was suddenly so exhausted that he could hardly stand. “Kasa, bring hot water and wash the henna from my hands and feet,” he ordered, “and please hurry. I want to go to bed. Am I alone here?” Kasa bowed shortly and went out, and Ib answered.

  “Her Highness is not back, and neither is Prince Hori. Nor is any of their staff.”

  I am gently and suitably rebuked, Khaemwaset thought with an inward smile. He placed a placatory hand on Ib’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “You may retire, Ib.” The man bowed his departure and Khaemwaset strode through into his bedroom.

  Fresh flowers bad been placed in vases in the four corners. Two lamps burned, one in a tall golden holder in the middle of the floor and a smaller one by the couch, whose sheets had been turned down invitingly. The room murmured of quiet, undisturbed rest. Khaemwaset sank into his chair with a sigh and felt for the scroll. It was not there. He checked his belt, felt among his linens, looked about on the floor, but there was no sign of it. Kasa knocked and entered, a boy bearing a basin of steaming water behind him, and Khaemwaset rose.

  “Did either of you see a scroll lying on the floor by the door or in the hall?” he asked. The lad, eyes downcast, shook his head and, hurriedly setting the bowl on its waiting stand, he backed out. Kasa also shook his head.

  “No, Highness,” he answered.

  “Well go and look,” Khaemwaset snapped, his fatigue evaporating. “Look carefully.”

  A few moments later his bodyservant was back. “There is no sign of any scroll.”

  Khaemwaset pushed his feet back into the sandals he had so recently removed. “Come with me,” he said, and rushed out into the hall, his eyes searching the floor as he went. Indeed, there was nothing. He left the suite, Kasa behind him, and retraced his steps with infinite care, but Pharaoh’s gleaming and now empty passages lay unsullied under the dim light of torches nearly spent.

  Khaemwaset went out onto the path. The same two guards were leaning sleepily on their spears. Both scrambled to attention. “Do either of you remember seeing a scroll in my belt as I passed you earlier?” he asked them peremptorily. They both denied it. “But would you have noticed?” he pressed them. “Are you sure?”

  The taller of the pair spoke up. “We are trained to be observant, Prince,” he said. “No one enters the palace with anything suspicious on their person. We would not, of course, suspect you, but our eyes travel
everyone automatically and I can assure you that you stepped through our salute without any scroll.” It was true, Khaemwaset thought angrily. The Shardana were quick of eye and would stop anyone they even suspected of harbouring a weapon.

  Nodding his thanks, he reached down a torch from the lintel and, bent almost double, scoured every inch of his short journey from the garden to the passage doors. There was nothing. Kneeling, he scanned the stone for the tiny charred piece of papyrus that had broken loose under the torch, but it was nowhere to be found. Swearing under his breath he investigated the grass to either side of the path, parting it carefully while Kasa watched in obvious bewilderment, but came up empty.

  In the end he strode back to his suite. His heart was racing.

  “Rouse Ramose,” he told Kasa. “Bring him without delay.” Kasa opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again and slipped away.

  Khaemwaset began to pace. It is not possible, he thought. I passed no one. I thrust it into my belt, took five paces to the door, and came here directly. Not possible. A dread began to steal over him but he fought it down. Danger, the old man had said. To me. To you. Have I failed? Or have I passed some mysterious test? He put a hand to his chest and felt the frantic action of his heart. Sweat had broken out along his spine. He could feel it begin to trickle into his kilt.

  When Ramose, sleepy and slightly dishevelled, bowed before him, he almost ran to the man. “I have lost a valuable scroll,” he said. “It is somewhere in the palace or perhaps in the gardens. I will give three pieces of gold to anyone who finds it and brings it directly to me. Spread the word, Herald, begin now, to anyone still wandering the palace.” All sleep had left Ramose’s eyes. He bowed his understanding and hurried out, straightening his linens as he went. He had scarcely closed the door when it opened again and Nubnofret came into the room. An odour of stale wine and crushed lotus blooms preceded her.

  “Whatever is going on, Khaemwaset?” she queried. “I almost bumped into Ramose as he was rushing out of the suite. Are you ill?” She came closer and peered at him, then exclaimed, “You certainly look ill! Oh my dear, you are white. Sit down.” He allowed her to push him into his chair. He felt her cool hand steal over his forehead. “Khaemwaset, you have a fever,” she pronounced. “You really hate Pi-Ramses, don’t you, and the city hates you, for its demons always make you mildly sick. I will call for a priest. You need a spell that will drive them forth.”

  Khaemwaset caught her arm. Fevers were indeed a matter for magic, being caused by the possession of demons, but he knew that he had brought this illness upon himself and no evil power inhabited his body. Or does it? he wondered suddenly, confusedly. Was my decision to keep the scroll the wrong one, giving it the power to quietly transform itself and enter me? Am I now harbouring something evil, something destructive? Nubnofret was waiting, her arm still resting in his grip, her expression questioning. He shuddered, then began to shiver uncontrollably.

  “Khaemwaset, you are frightening me.” Nubnofret’s voice came to him from far away. “Please let me go.” He came to himself and mumbled a stiff-lipped apology, withdrawing his hand. His wife kneaded her arm. “Kasa!” she shouted. “Put him to bed. Look at him.” Kasa came running, and with a glance at Nubnofret, helped Khaemwaset out of the chair and onto the couch.

  “But no priest,” Khaemwaset muttered. He lay on the couch, still trembling, and drew up his knees. “I am sorry, Nubnofret. Go to bed and don’t worry. All I need is a good sleep. I have lost a valuable scroll, that is all.” Nubnofret visibly relaxed. “In that case I quite understand,” she said scornfully. “Other men might suffer so at the loss of a child but you, my dear brother, sweat and quiver over bits of papyrus.”

  “I know,” he answered, clenching his teeth against the shivering. “I am a fool. Goodnight, Nubnofret.”

  “Goodnight, Prince.” She sailed out of the room without another word. “Is there anything you require, Highness?” Kasa asked uncertainly.

  Khaemwaset lifted his cheek from the pillow and peered up at the anxious face of his servant. The effort was almost too much. A great heaviness was on him now, so that his eyelids drooped and closed of their own accord. “No,” he managed in a whisper. “Do not wake me early, Kasa.” The man bowed and left quietly, at least, Khaemwaset thought that he did. If Ptah had decreed the end of the world at that moment, Khaemwaset would not have been able to force his eyes open. He heard the pause for Kasa’s bow, the light sound of his footsteps across the floor, the polite click as the door closed, but those things came to him from far away, from the other side of the city, from another world. He fell into sleep like a man who loses his footing and goes sliding down the edge of a dark pit, and immediately he began to dream.

  It was noon, a summer noon of intense, merciless heat that stung his nostrils and rendered him almost blind. He was walking, head downcast, along a road of white dust that reflected up at him the sun’s cruel bite. Just ahead of him a woman strode. He could see no more of her than her naked ankles powdered with little puffs of the fine sand her progress stirred, and the rhythmic revealing and concealing of her strong brown calves as the scarlet linen she wore flowed with her stride.

  For a while, in spite of his growing exhaustion and the sweat that continually ran into his eyes, he was content to watch the slow, almost relentless way her muscles flexed and loosened and her toes gripped, splayed, then flung back tiny showers of dust, but soon a need to see the rest of her took hold. He tried to lift his head, and found that he could not. Straining, he contracted the muscles of his neck, pushing, compelling, but his gaze remained fixed on the road gliding ponderously beneath that graceful tread.

  He began to wish that she would stop. He was gasping from the heat and began to stumble with fatigue. He called out, but his words were nothing more than tiny wisps of burning air on his lips. Stop! he thought desperately, please stop! But her pace did not vary. In spite of the sense of hypnotic compulsion growing around him, he attempted to veer into the grass he dimly knew lay to either side of the track, there where trees cast a shade for which he would have died, but his legs kept marching, marching, drawn into the woman’s oblivious confidence.

  Khaemwaset finally woke with the first hesitant light of dawn and the early chorus of birds. His room was shrouded, calm. His night lamp had long since gone out, and he smelled the faint, stale odour of the used-up wick mingled with the rank smell of his own body. He was trembling with the aftermath of his nightmare and his sheets were sticky. Fever dream, he thought, as he struggled to sit up. Nothing more. He reached for his night table, the frame of his couch, the delineations of his face, in an unconscious need to reassure himself that he was now awake, in a world of substance and sanity. As he did so he realized that his penis was engorged and fully erect, and he was overflowing with a kind of sexual excitement he had not felt in years.

  He lay quietly, stilling his breath and his mind, then he called softly for Kasa and ordered his morning bath and food. Already the palace was stirring around him, but distantly. His suite was always relatively silent.

  Kasa was tying Khaemwaset’s sandals when Ramose was admitted. Khaemwaset bade him speak, his heart suddenly tripping, but the Herald had no news. “My assistants report that no one approached has seen or heard of the scroll, Highness,” he admitted. “But we will keep spreading your request and the promise of a reward. I am sorry.”

  “It is not your fault, Ramose.” Khaemwaset stood and waved him out, sending for Amek at the same time. While he waited for his bodyguard he could not resist a rapid search of his floor, his reception room, the entrance hall of his suite, but he came up empty. Amek appeared and saluted. “Get out my litter,” Khaemwaset ordered. “This morning I want to go in person to the House of Ra and say my prayers with the other priests.” He did not know what he wanted to say, or why he felt such a strong urge to stand in the temple and breathe the incense; the aura of power and peace, but he knew he would regret any change of mind.

  He spent his remaining
few days in Pi-Ramses in discussions with the Viziers of the North and South, several foreign ambassadors, temple administrators and his father. He visited his mother once more, took an afternoon stroll, suitably guarded, through the colorful markets of the city in search of the perfect gift for Sheritra, and went hunting in the marshes with the Khatti ambassador, whose feathers turned out to be less ruffled than the hapless ducks he brought down with the throwing stick.

  Nubnofret had, as always, forgotten her ire. Khaemwaset saw little of her and Hori until the day when they embarked for Memphis and home. He himself seemed fully recovered from the strange fit that had overtaken him on the night he lost the scroll. To his chagrin, it had not been recovered. He did not think that it would. Deeply hidden was the growing conviction that spirits had been abroad, that for some reason of their own they had for a moment dissolved the barrier between the living and themselves, and he had been the point at which the wall wavered. The old man was either a great magician in communication with unseen powers, which Khaemwaset doubted, or he was a spirit himself and his scroll a thing of smoke and air that had faded into nothing with the approach of dawn.

  The warnings of his horoscope, the vivid memory of the edge of the scroll curling and blackening under the torch, the old man’s urgent plea, were thrust to the back of Khaemwaset’s mind. He would go home, look at the plans for the Apis burials, begin digging again at Saqqara, and recover his strong sense of self. Only the dream truly continued to haunt him. He forgot none of its details, and for a long time a woman’s bare feet in the dust could give him an inadvertent pang of fatigue and lust.

  He and the rest of the family sailed home laden with purchases for the house and gifts for Sheritra and friends in Memphis. The river had shrunk even further in the time they had been away, and now was flowing with a turgid slowness. The return journey took longer in spite of a steady breeze from the north because the current was against the craft and the oars had to be used.