Scroll of Saqqara

by Pauline Gedge

  “I think I have hated this place from the moment Penbuy came to us with news of its discovery,” he said in a low voice. “I still do not know why. Have the workmen begin to rebuild this wall, Hori. There is nothing more to be gained by leaving it down. I am going home. I cannot bear the stench of this water, and it has fouled my kilt.”

  Hori watched him rub at a grey splatter as he moved quickly towards the glow of sunlight filtering along the passage. Then he was gone. The Overseer of Works and Khaemwaset’s Master Mason stood politely with eyes downcast, waiting for instructions. Hori left the stool. “You had better begin the reconstruction,” he told them. “I cannot be here today but you have my authority to make any decisions necessary regarding the wall. I shall be back tomorrow morning.”

  I hope Father can bring himself to examine the scroll again, he thought as he negotiated the steps with his servant’s discreet assistance and collapsed, with a curse at his swollen knee, onto his litter. I hardly considered it as a factor when I was chewing on the tough problems of the water and the baboons and now the walled-off room, but I am now beginning to believe that it holds the key to this aggravating excavation. Nothing else does, and the inscriptions and scenes Penbuy’s assistants have so painstakingly transcribed are pretty but useless. “To the watersteps,” he commanded with a thrill of pleasure. The earring lay wrapped under the little cushions. He intended to visit Tbubui, with it and his adventures yesterday as the excuse. Had she not, after all, begged him to let her know what transpired? She would commiserate with him over his knee. She would ply him with good wine, make him comfortable, her sympathy would shine from those huge black eyes. Now that his father’s somewhat cursory examination of the find was over without so much as one sharp word, the rest of the day stretched ahead full of latent possibilities. Hori closed his eyes and smiled.

  Although he would have preferred to walk, he was carried from the skiff along the winding path under the tall palms. The house was as he remembered it, low and freshly whitewashed, rambling and silent. He felt he had left it years ago. The front garden was deserted and for the first time Hori wondered if his appearance might be inconvenient, but as he alighted and told his bearers to wait for him under the trees by the riverbank, a servant came out, bowed and stood stoically. He was entirely black, a pure Nubian, Hori conjectured, with powerful shoulders and a blunt face. He reminded the young man of the shawabtis in the tomb, black, ebony with gold collars, each deaf and dumb until the moment when their master called them to perform their duties in the next world. “Tell the lady Tbubui that Prince Hori is here and wishes to speak with her,” he ordered. The man bowed again, still with head lowered, indicated that Hori should precede him into the entrance hall, then vanished. Hori sank onto a chair. In spite of his rapid heartbeat, his anticipation, the almost stultifying peace of the house began to settle over him.

  He did not have long to wait. Tbubui herself came gliding towards him, reverencing him several times as she did so, a welcoming smile lighting her features. She was barefoot, as usual, one golden anklet tinkling as she moved, her wrists imprisoned by two thick, plain gold bracelets. Beneath the thin white body-hugging linen of her sheath her brown skin could be glimpsed, and this time Hori made no attempt to wrench his gaze from the clean curves of her hips and thighs, the slight quiver of her breasts. Her hair had been imprisoned in a dozen braids, exposing the noble length of aristocratic neck and her pure, uncluttered chin. Green eye-paint gave her eyes a lustrous sheen, and her mouth was hennaed orange.

  “Highness!” she exclaimed as she came up to him. “Your knee! Whatever have you been doing?”

  She might be talking to a child, Hori thought a little mutinously. That is how she sees me. As a child to be condescended to and indulged. He realized that she had not waited for him to speak first as she should have done and he pushed himself to his feet.

  “Greetings, Tbubui,” he said coolly. “I took your advice and opened the false wall in the tomb yesterday. Today I come to tell you what transpired.”

  Her smile widened. “Wonderful! But you look drawn, Prince. Are you in pain? Would you like wine? I do not suggest the garden today. It is too hot. Let us retire to my suite where there is a comfortable chair and some cushions.”

  Hori’s rebellious moment melted away. He followed her awkwardly into the rear passage and turned right, away from Harmin’s quarters. Presently she entered a room and held the door for him. A female servant rose from the corner and bowed.

  “Your Highness should take the chain by the couch,” Tbubui said. “I can testify to its comfort for I spent much time in it when my foot was injured. You!” She addressed the servant. “Bring a footstool and cushions and a jar of wine.” The girl inclined her head and turned away. Are all the servants here forbidden to open their mouths? Hori wondered, taking the chair. I have not heard one of them speak.

  The footstool was brought and piled with cushions. The quiet girl lifted his leg with the lightest of touches and settled it on the softness, then went away, came back with wine, poured and was dismissed. Tbubui sat on the edge of the couch. Out of the corner of his eye Hori noticed a tiring chest with lid flung back and a scarlet sheath spilling over its side. A vanity table covered in neatly aligned pots and jars stood next to the chest, and on the floor, as though flung there, was a scarlet ostrich fan.

  “It is so wonderfully cool in here,” ‘he said slowly, picking up the silver wine cup. “To you, Tbubui. Life, Prosperity, and Happiness!”

  “Thank you, Prince,” she smiled. “An old wish and a very welcome one. Now please tell me what happened to you yesterday. And what did Khaemwaset say when you told him what you had done?”

  The couch behind her was neatly made, the shine of the linen subdued by the half-light. An ivory headrest stood beneath it. She was looking at him expectantly, leaning forward, her mouth slightly parted, her small teeth glimpsed within. It would be so easy to sully that perfectly made couch, Hori thought. One lunge and I would have her on her back, out of breath, disarmed by surprise. Would she cry out? I do not think so. Gasp? Perhaps. In either case I could have my lips against hers before she could recover her aplomb. The savagery and vividness of the scene that had burst into his mind horrified him and he forced a deep breath. “Father was very angry,” he said with an effort, “but he concealed it well. Today he inspected what I had done but made no comment.”

  She nodded, and he went on describing the events of the previous day—his tension, his feelings of trepidation and excitement. She listened attentively but, when Hori began to talk of the tunnel, he sensed an increasing agitation, though she did not stir. She seemed all eyes, intent and alert. But how mysterious!” she interrupted him. “Did you explore this place?”

  “Yes,” he said triumphantly. “I did. And I found this.” He extracted the earring from the pouch at his belt and handed it to her. “That is what tore my knee, but it was worthwhile, do you not think so? Such lovely old turquoise and such fine goldwork to hold it.” It lay on her hennaed palm like a drop of limpid Nile water, blue and green, and Hori, eagerly searching her face for approval, saw a most peculiar expression flit across it. Greed, satisfaction, anger, he could not decide which. “Put it on,” he offered, and she smiled very slowly.

  “Will I not enrage the ka of the lady who once owned it?” she asked with a trace of mockery, and Hori smiled back.

  “That lady’s ka must know that I intend to put it back in the tomb unharmed,” he stated, “and besides, how could she be offended to see her precious thing adorning so much beauty?”

  For answer she pushed a braid behind her ear and screwed the earring into her lobe. It swung gracefully to and fro beside the long sweep of her neck and did indeed look as though it had been made for her. “Hori, fetch me a mirror,” she asked, then she laughed. “I was forgetting about your poor knee. I will get it myself.” Sliding off the couch she swayed to her vanity table, and to Hori there was something dreamlike about her motion, something private, as thoug
h for a moment she believed herself alone.

  Grasping the copper mirror lying face down on the table she held it up like a votive candle in both hands, chin raised, eyes half closed, back arched, tilting her glossy head this way and that and murmuring gently. Hori could not catch what she was saying. Then she returned the mirror with a snap and came back to him. “I wonder what happened to its mate?” she said. “Perhaps thieves made off with it, as you have surmised. A pity.” She regained the couch, this time sliding back on it languidly. One foot remained on the floor, the white sheath parting at the slit to reveal the long, brown strength of thigh and calf. “Would I be permitted to wear it for a little while?” she asked, and at her tone of pretty submission Hori’s heart once more began to thud. He nodded, not trusting his voice.

  Her movements had stirred the air and her perfume was suddenly in his nostrils, the myrrh of sex and worship and that other fragrance, elusive and tantalizing. She was stroking the earring with the fingers of one elegant hennaed hand. “You have told me of your escapade yesterday and of Khaemwaset’s response,” she went on. “But Highness, you have not yet spoken of any conclusions to be drawn from the new discovery. Does the small chamber shed any light on the rest of the tomb or its inhabitants?”

  “Not really,” Hori admitted. “Having seen the tomb, Tbubui, you and your brother know as much about it as we do. A shameful admission! Father and I are supposed to be the historians.”

  “But so is Sisenet,” Tbubui added. “He and I have often discussed the nature of the water, the baboons, the lids, to no avail. Tell me,” she went on, her fingers still absently fondling the earring. “What happened to the scroll Khaemwaset cut from the dead hand? You do not mention it at all.”

  “Father still has it in safekeeping,” Hori answered. “He does not look at it anymore. He tried to decipher it, you know, and was defeated. Strange that you should mention it, Tbubui, for it came into my mind quite forcibly today that it may well hold the key to all the irritating mysteries of the place. I intend to ask Father if I may inspect it.” She cast him a smile of indulgent sweetness as if to say, If the greatest historian in Egypt cannot decipher it, how can you? and Hori was mortified. “Of course such an inspection on my part will be all but futile,” he hastened to say, “but who knows? I may thus prompt him to attempt another translation. My workmen are even now re-sealing the second burial chamber and soon the whole tomb will be closed. Time is short.”

  Her hand left her ear and drifted down to rest on her thigh. Hori’s gaze went with it. “I would very much like to see it also,” she said with a charming diffidence, all superiority gone. “But my interest would seem entirely frivolous to your august father. However, my brother has some skills in the matter of the translation of ancient scripts. He might possibly be able to help.”

  Now it was Hori’s turn to feel a secret scorn. “Your pardon, Tbubui, but your brother is surely no more than a clever amateur,” he replied loftily. “The scroll is fragile and irreplaceable and unskilled hands might damage it.”

  “Oh, I think there is no fear of that,” she countered softly, her eyes huge in the dim light of the chamber. “Sisenet is used to handling valuable scrolls. He has deciphered all the records left by Osiris Hatshepsut’s caravan overseers who were, as you may remember, our ancestors.”

  “No, I did not know that,” Hori answered. “Then if you like I will ask my father’s permission on your brother’s behalf, to try to read the scroll. Will he be interested in it?”

  “Oh yes,” Tbubui said slowly, emphatically. “He will be very interested indeed. More wine, Prince?”

  When he nodded, she rose from the couch in one fluid movement, took up the jar and bent to pour for him. It seemed to Hori that she came closer than was entirely necessary. He inhaled the gush of perfume and warmth rising from her cleavage, and seeing her braids fall forward he gently pushed them back. Her shoulder was inches from his mouth, satin smooth and gleaming. Unable to resist any longer, he learned forward, closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her flesh. It was cool and tasted of lotus water. Still with eyes tightly shut he moved his tongue towards her neck and down, seeking the delicious hollow of her collarbone, then up, up and over her chin. At last her mouth was there, slightly parted, her lips soft and yielding. She had not stirred. Thrusting his tongue between them he kissed her ardently, trying to salve the wound of lust, his hands going blindly to cup her breasts that were fuller, heavier than he had first supposed. But when he broke away, dazed and breathing hard, he found the wound throbbing more fiercely than before.

  “Well, young Prince,” she murmured. “That was flattering.”

  “Flattering?” he burst out. “I am besotted with you, Tbubui! I cannot eat or sleep for desiring you. Now I know why the gorgeous little girls of my grandfather’s court left me lonely and wanting something I did not recognize until now. I was aloof, self-sufficient. I was asleep!” His voice was coarse and ragged, his expression strained. “Let me woo you, persuade you that I am more than a youth. You could do worse than be betrothed into the most powerful family in Egypt!”

  Her eyebrows rose. “But my dear Hori, you do not really know me at all. How can I be anything but a body blending with a fantasy to you? Explore my character and you may find yourself disappointed.” She stroked his hair with a gentle maternal touch. “This is infatuation. Nothing more.”

  He struck her hand away then snatched it up and kissed it fervently, licking the tips of her fingers. “I have never been a young man with a light heart,” he groaned. “This is not infatuation Tbubui. It will last.”

  She made no move to withdraw her hand. “You would be the laughing-stock of every noble in Egypt,” she warned him. “My blood may be aristocratic, but it is not the blood of full grandeur required of a prince’s wife. I am too old for you.”

  He laid her fingers between both his palms and managed a wan smile.

  “And how old are you?”

  There was a pause. Then she chuckled. “The gods have given me thirty-five years.”

  “I don’t care!”

  “But I do. I cannot bind a man so young.” She pulled from his grasp and he at last sat back. His head was drumming and he felt a little sick. Suddenly he became aware of the pain in his knee.

  “Do you feel nothing for me, then?” he asked.

  “Whatever would your father say?” she countered. “Hori, you are an attractive man and I am not immune to your magnetism. No one in Egypt is immune. But I must regard you as a dear young friend. You may visit me whenever you wish, providing you keep your feelings a secret from your family and other friends. Is it agreed?”

  “Agreed,” he whispered. His poise had deserted him long ago, replaced by the need to prove himself as a man that her perhaps unconsciously patronizing attitude made worse. “But you did not answer my question.”

  “Yes, Prince,” she said pointedly. “I did. Now would you like something to eat? A fresh dressing for your wound?”

  No dressing can heal my wound, he wanted to shout. Everything in him demanded that the conversation be continued, that she be forced to admit a desire for him equal to his own, but a new wisdom advised a temporary retreat. Frontal attack would not work. Tbubui must be won with stealth, with a patience barbed in small thorns of aggression

  “Thank you, no,” he replied briskly. “I must go home. I have business waiting. Your hospitality was boundless as usual, Tbubui.” He did his best to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. She rose, unscrewed the earring and handed it back to him with obvious reluctance.

  “We in this family revere ancient turquoise,” she said. “This piece is of incomparable delicacy and beauty, and I shall perhaps try to have it copied. I appreciate being allowed to wear it, Prince.” Hori wrapped it and returned it to the pouch. Clumsily he pushed himself out of the chair and without another word she followed him into the passage.

  The afternoon was far advanced, a blazing furnace of heat and light that shocked him after the coolness of her
bedchamber. He took his leave with some of his accustomed dignity and she smiled wryly into his eyes, bidding him to come back at his earliest convenience. His litter was waiting. Grunting he reclined on the cushions, gave his command and twitched the curtains closed.

  Some moments later, something made him lift the heavy covering and glance back at the house. Tbubui was standing in the shadow of the entrance, gazing expressionlessly after him, and she was not alone. Her brother stood beside her, one arm across her shoulders, his sombre face as blank as hers. Quickly Hori withdrew and let the curtain fall, but the vision of those two frozen and somehow ominous sentinels stayed with him, clouding the otherwise burning day.

  KHAEMWASET’S MOOD was still uncertain when the rest of the family gathered to dine just after sunset. Accustomed to a father of even temper, Sheritra prattled on about Harmin during the first two courses and was shocked into silence when Khaemwaset told her sharply to be quiet. For once Nubnofret defended her, saying, “Really Khaemwaset, there is no need to be rude!” But he did not answer, lifting food to his mouth that he hardly tasted and not hearing at all the pleasant music filling the hall. He was aware of Hori’s unusual withdrawal, his monosyllabic answers to his mother’s casual questions, and made a mental note to inspect his son’s knee the following day, but forgot the thought as soon as it was complete. When he had returned from the tomb to his office, Penbuy had read him a scroll from Wennufer, his priestly friend, setting out the retort to an amicable argument the two had been engaged in, now, for months, regarding the true burial place of the head of Osiris, and Khaemwaset had found himself profoundly bored with the whole question. Huy, Mayor of Memphis, had sent a note inviting him to dine and he had told Penbuy to decline on his behalf. Si-Montu had written in his own hieratic scrawl to let his brother know that the grapes were recovering from their blight and filling apace. The mention of disease had made him think of the message from his mother’s scribe, but he thrust the guilt of his inaction regarding her failing health to the back of his mind. He would dictate a cheerful letter to her soon. From the Delta had come the reports of the men detailed to measure the steadily shrinking level of the Nile, and his scribe’s voice, monotonously reeling off the list of figures, had given Khaemwaset a sudden lancing pain in the gut that he did not even bother to treat.