Scroll of Saqqara

by Pauline Gedge

  She was gracious, slightly shamed, her undeniable magnetism subdued by a pretty anxiety to be forgiven and understood. Khaemwaset wanted to stroke the hands that had fallen and were clasped in her lap, to soothe and reassure her.

  “I would like to make up for my insensitivity,” he said. “I invite you to dine with my family in two weeks’ time. Please say you will come. Bring Harmin, and of course your husband.” Her eyes narrowed in a smile though her mouth remained still.

  “I am a widow,” she explained, and Khaemwaset fought an urge to swallow. “My husband died some years ago. Harmin and I live with my brother, Sisenet. He went into the city earlier but should be back by now. Would your Highness care to meet him?” Khaemwaset nodded. Tbubui looked towards the door. “Harmin, find your uncle,” she asked, and Khaemwaset realized that the beautiful young man had at some time noiselessly re-entered the room and was standing just inside, arms folded and feet apart in the stance of a guardian. Khaemwaset wondered a little uncomfortably how long he had been there and what he had heard.

  Harmin slipped away at once. Khaemwaset sipped his wine, enjoying the excellent vintage. He commented on it to Tbubui and she smiled.

  “Your Highness has a discriminating palate,” she observed. “It is Good Wine of the Western River, year five.”

  “Of my father’s reign?”

  She hesitated. “Indeed.”

  That made the wine twenty-eight years old. It must have cost Tbubui or her brother a small fortune in gold, unless they had had it stored somewhere since Ramses’ fifth year. That was the more likely explanation. Good Wine was still the best and most popular among the nobles, even, he supposed, in faraway Koptos. He savoured it carefully.

  Before long Harmin returned. With him was a short, spare man, thin of face and with his sister’s grace of movement. Unlike his nephew, Sisenet’s head had been shaved and he wore a simple wig trailing one white ribbon.

  Khaemwaset, sitting waiting for the man’s reverence, had the distinct impression that they had met before somewhere. It was not that he and Tbubui shared the same shape to their dark eyes or the same pleasing quirk to their mouths. Khaemwaset, watching Sisenet approach with body bent and arms outstretched in the traditional gesture of submission and respect, thought that the feeling of recognition came from some entirely different occasion, then dismissed it. He bade the man straighten, and met his cautious gaze. His whole mien, though welcoming, projected a mildly suspicious reserve that Khaemwaset believed he must carry with him at all times. Khaemwaset spoke first, as was customary given his higher rank.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Sisenet. I admire your house very much, and envy you its singular calm. Please sit.”

  The man sank into a cross-legged position facing him and Tbubui. He smiled slowly. “Thank you, Highness. We prefer our privacy to the excitement of the city, though we sometimes take the skiff across the river. May I ask how my sister’s injury is progressing?”

  They talked for a while until Khaemwaset had finished the wine, then he rose to leave. Sisenet immediately came to his feet. “I shall expect all of you at dinner in two weeks,” Khaemwaset repeated, “but before then I shall return and check on your wound, Tbubui. Thank you for your hospitality.” Harmin showed him out, walking beside him through the now dusky palms to the watersteps and bidding him an affable good night.

  He was shocked to see how much time had gone by since he had climbed this same stair. The sun had already set behind Memphis and was limning the pyramids that crowded the high plain of Saqqara in blade-sharp relief. The Nile’s surface had lost depth and now reflected a dark blue, almost black sky. Dinner would already be under way at home. “Have the sailors light the torches,” he ordered Amek, and stood leaning against the deck rails as the barge cleared the watersteps and beaded for the western bank. He was all at once very tired in mind as well as body. He felt as though he had run a dozen miles under a hot sun in the cloying sand of the desert, or had spent the afternoon reading a long and particularly difficult scroll.

  I have found her, he told himself, but he was too fatigued to conjure the triumph that should have accompanied the thought. She is no disappointment. She is not loud-mouthed and common, or arrogant and cold, but an intelligent and polite noblewoman. In some ways she reminds me of Sheritra. The sound of his daughter’s voice came back to him, plaintive and appealing, but now it seemed to embody a curious wildness, as though, while she sang gently, Sheritra had been gyrating and writhing in a courtesan’s dance. Khaemwaset leaned more heavily against the gilded handrail and wanted to go to sleep.

  He strode into his dining room full of apologies, but Nubnofret waved him to his table with an imperious gesture. The three of them had finished two courses and were beginning the third, while Khaemwaset’s harpist played. His wife put down the fish she had been raising to her mouth and swirled her fingers in the waterbowl.

  “Don’t be silly, dearest,” she expostulated. “Ib told me that you had been called out to see a patient. You look terribly tired. Sit down and eat.” Suddenly he was ravenous. Swiftly he pulled his table against his knees, pushed aside the wreath of blooms waiting for him to wear and signalled for food.

  “Well?” Nubnofret prompted as he began to pull his salad apart. “Was the case interesting?”

  “They seldom are anymore, are they, Father?” Hori broke in. “I think you have examined every disease and variety of accident possible in Egypt.”

  “That’s true,” Khaemwaset admitted. “No, Nubnofret, the case was not interesting, a wounded foot, but the people were.” He concentrated on the food, chewing it and manipulating his bowl so that he had an excuse not to look at her. “The man, his sister and her son have recently moved here from Koptos of all places. They are obviously of noble birth; in fact they trace their line beyond the time of Osiris Hatshepsut. The sister has an interest in history and I have invited them to dine with us in a couple of weeks.” All at once he realized that Tbubui had chatted to him and her brother without the slightest indication of the pain she must have been in following the surgery. She had smiled, even laughed, her foot motionless on the stool and swathed in fresh linen. She either felt little, as she had told him, or she was able to hide it extremely well, knowing that good manners dictated the full entertainment of a guest of his lineage. You fool, he told himself, contrite. You should have taken your leave immediately, not stayed to slurp wine, however fine, and make polite conversation. It was up to you to walk away, not them to dismiss you.

  “To dine?” Nubnofret echoed him. “That is not like you, Khaemwaset. They must have made an impression indeed, to be accorded such an honour.”

  He now trusted himself to look up. “They did.”

  “In that case, give me three days’ warning. Sheritra, sit straight! Your back is as hunched as a monkey’s.”

  The girl obeyed automatically. Her eyes were on her father, and Khaemwaset felt their keenness before she dropped her gaze to her plate once more.

  Hori began a conversation to do with the plans for his tomb. He had begun to design it early as every Egyptian should. Nubnofret, after a time, changed the subject to the renovation of the kitchens. Khaemwaset joined in easily and the meal ended cheerfully. Nubnofret excused herself. Hori went to seek Antef. Sheritra, who had said little, stirred on her cushions but made no move to leave. The servants removed her table and Khaemwaset’s and he, seeing her abstract mood, signalled that the harpist should continue to play.

  “Have you had a happy day?” he asked her.

  “Certainly, Father,” she replied. “I have been particularly lazy though. Bakmut went into the city to run some errands for me and I fell asleep in the garden, then I had a swim. Who was your patient today?”

  Khaemwaset inwardly cursed her question. Fleetingly he begun to compose a lie, then discarded it. “I think you can guess,” he answered quietly.

  She uncrossed her legs and rearranged her linens, then fell to playing with her gold earring, twisting it round and round,
her head on one side. “Really?” she said. “How extraordinary! The woman you seek is placed at your feet like an unexpected gift.”

  Her choice of words made Khaemwaset uncomfortable, guilty. “It was indeed a strange occurrence,” he responded awkwardly.

  “And were you disappointed?” She could not disguise the hope in her voice.

  “Not at all,” Khaemwaset said grimly. “She is lovely, gracious, and well-bred.”

  “And coming to dinner.” Sheritra let go the earring. “Is that wise?” Then when he did not reply she burst out, “Oh Father, I wish you wouldn’t! I really wish you wouldn’t!”

  It would do no good, Khaemwaset knew, to pretend that he did not know what she meant, and to do so would be insulting. Her homely face was flushed, her eyes unnaturally bright with concern. “I do not think you have anything to fear,” he said deliberately, kindly. “I do not deny to you, Sheritra, that I am almost irresistibly drawn to her, but between a wish and its fulfillment are many decisions, many choices. I have already done the right thing in the eyes of the gods and within the confines of Ma’at. I shall doubtless do so this time.” He did not realize for a moment that he was lying on both counts.

  “Is she married?” Sheritra asked a little more calmly, though her colour remained high.

  “She is a widow.” Khaemwaset found it very difficult to hold her gaze. “You know that I could offer her a contract of marriage if I wished, my dearest, and put her in separate quarters on the estate with her son, but I don’t think she is the kind of woman who would resign herself to the position of Second Wife. Whatever happens, your mother’s wellbeing is my first concern.”

  “So you feel that strongly about her?”

  He was immediately irritated. “I have seen her four times and only talked with her once! How do I know?”

  She looked away, her hands now restless. “I have upset you, Father,” she said. “I am sorry.”

  He was silent. Presently she got up clumsily, shook back her hair and walked out with as much dignity as she could muster. The music of the harp continued to trill and flutter through the lamplit room.

  He gave Nubnofret her three days’ notice and was standing above the watersteps with Ib and Amek in plenty of time to greet his guests when they arrived. He wondered if they would disembark hesitantly, climb the stair with the reluctance of the momentarily overawed, but their small craft hove into sight, was challenged by his river guard, tied up, and they emerged and walked towards him without a trace of self-consciousness. Sisenet was simply clad in a plain kilt and leather sandals, but several strands of gold hung with ankhs and miniature crouching baboons lay on his chest, and gold bracelets hugged both his arms. He was carefully painted and wore a gold-and-malachite scarab ring on the index finger of each hand. Harmin was similarly dressed. A gold circlet passed around his high forehead and held down his gleaming black hair just about his ears, and from it a single gold ankh rested against his brow giving startling emphasis to his kohled grey eyes.

  But Khaemwaset’s gaze was drawn to Tbubui. She too was in white. He had wondered if for this occasion she might adopt more fashionable dress—flounces and hundreds of tiny pleats, intricate borders and fussy jewellery—and was irrationally relieved when he saw the tight linen sheath that gripped her lithe body from ankles to breasts. She, like Harmin, wore a circlet, but hers was wide silver, though the ankh on her forehead was as plain. A silver necklace with a red jasper pendant descending into her cleavage and a loose girdle of silver net with a red tassle swinging between her hidden knees were the only acknowledgement of formality. Khaemwaset was glad to see the white sandals on her feet. She followed his gaze and laughed. Her perfect, somewhat feline teeth shone against her hennaed mouth and brown skin.

  “Yes, Prince, I have learned my lesson,” she smiled. “Though I am sure that once I am fully healed I will forget it. I cannot abide too restrictive a mode of dress.” Khaemwaset had a mental picture of her wriggling out of the tight, slitted sheath, bending over to lift it past her feet so that her breasts swung free, turning towards him naked, one knee flexed as it had been while she talked to Amek on the dusty river road.

  “I see the bandages are gone,” he commented. “Are you still in pain?”

  She shook her head and they began to move along the paved path, around the house towards the garden. “The sole is a little tender, but that is all,” she replied. “You do fine work, Highness. And that reminds me.” She signalled, and the servant who had accompanied them came forward and handed Khaemwaset a jar. “Good Wine of the Western River, year one,” Tbubui said. “My payment for your time and trouble.”

  Khaemwaset thanked her, careful not to be effusive, and passed the jar to Ib. By then the group had left the path and were walking on soft grass towards the family. Nubnofret stood waiting, Hori and Sheritra behind her. The visitors at once bowed to them. Nubnofret bade them rise, and Khaemwaset made the introductions and indicated chairs. Hori at once engaged Harmin in conversation, the pair of them sinking to the reed mat and the cushions face to face, arms curling about their knees. Sheritra, as was her custom, sought refuge behind Khaemwaset’s chair. He had expected Nubnofret to begin to chatter to Tbubui while wine and delicacies were being offered by an attentive Ib and his underlings, and, indeed, he saw his wife, lean towards the woman, but Sisenet forestalled her even as she took a breath.

  “Highness, perhaps the Prince has told you that my sister and I moved here only two months ago,” he began, “and since then we have had a great deal of trouble finding suitable staff. We left many of our servants in Koptos to maintain the estate there and we have tried to replace them, but Memphis servants seem sloppy and deceitful. Have you any advice?”

  Khaemwaset saw Nubnofret’s green-shaded, large eyes light up. She swung from Tbubui to Sisenet. “You are right,” she said, waving Ib away. Nubnofret always kept a clear head when guests were present. “Untrained, the common people here do have a tendency to laziness and lying. I can give you the address of a couple who recruit and partially train servants, and who will be answerable for their behaviour until they have been fully integrated into your household routines. They do not operate cheaply, of course, but then …”

  Khaemwaset felt a hand on his arm, at once withdrawn, but the touch had been cool. “Some of our new servants simply left us,” Tbubui remarked to him as he inclined in her direction. “I think the silence overwhelmed them, despite the good wages we offered. Slaves might be a better proposition.”

  He watched her take a slow, long swallow of wine, her throat working, her hair falling back, and was aware that Sheritra’s eyes were fixed on him from slightly behind his chair.

  “I do not approve of slaves serving the household directly,” he said, “though I did buy a few for the kitchens and stables. Loyalty appears to go hand in hand with dignity.”

  “An old-fashioned but agreeable philosophy,” Tbubui smiled. “Pharaoh does not agree with you, though. The population of slaves allowed to multiply, foreigners serving Egyptians and other foreign noblemen, is frighteningly extensive.”

  “Why frightening?” Khaemwaset asked, intrigued He noted that Sheritra had hitched a little closer so that she might hear better.

  “Because one day the slaves might realize that they outnumber the free and might take steps to wrench that freedom from us,” Tbubui said simply. Her expression was serious, sober, a student of human nature discussing that nature with another student. Her gaze was direct.

  “Such a wish would be foolish,” Khaemwaset objected. Privately he was thinking, one does not talk to women in this way. Women run households and handle their businesses, practical things, but they do not play with theories. He could not imagine this kind of talk with Nubnofret. But with Sheritra … A hand appeared beside him, slid a spicy pastry from the plate on the table, and retired. So she had relaxed enough to be nibbling. That was good, a surprising sign. “Our army is powerful, swift, and well armed,” he went on. “No uprising of slaves, no matter h
ow strong, could withstand my father’s soldiers.”

  “The army itself contains thousands of foreign mercenaries.” Startled, Khaemwaset looked around. The voice was Sheritra’s. “Imagine, Father, if they decided that their loyalties lay with blood ties, not with Grandfather’s gold!”

  “You are right, Sheritra,” Tbubui replied, nodding at the girl, “and surely your father will agree with us. Egypt needs purifying.”

  He did agree, and had been arguing for the sake of arguing, but now he found himself left out of the conversation. Sheritra, her shyness forgotten for some reason known only to herself, was answering their guest without a trace of diffidence, and Tbubui was replying with all her attention. Most people did not take the trouble to draw Sheritra out. After the exchange of obligatory pleasantries they would turn their minds and faces to the gorgeous Hori and the rest of the family, and Sheritra would retire into the shadows, eating nothing, drinking little and escaping as soon after dinner as she was permitted.

  But Tbubui had somehow drawn out the girl, put her at ease without ostentatiously trying, a ploy that had failed many times when well-meaning guests tried it. Khaemwaset realized that he had been deep in his own thoughts. He came to himself in time to hear Tbubui say, “But Princess, think of the expense such a policy would entail! What pharaoh could afford it? Even Ramses the Lord of All could not.”

  Khaemwaset blinked. Sheritra was now at Tbubui’s feet, wiping crumbs from her mouth, her colour high not with embarrassment but with enjoyment, even though Tbubui was actually disagreeing with her, something Sheritra all too often took personally. “Why not?” his daughter objected heatedly. “Let him put a tax on each one first! The gods know, Tbubui, that there are plenty of dirt-poor Egyptian fellahin who would welcome a chance …” Khaemwaset let his glance wander. Harmin was now talking to Nubnofret. He was on his feet, one hand on his slanted, trim hip, head bent over her while gesturing with the wine cup held in his other hand. She was looking up at him attentively, absorbed, perhaps even admiringly. Sisenet was sitting in silence, his eyes on the fountain, his expression closed.