Khaemwaset fought back an absurd desire to cry. He wanted to lower himself to her couch and pour it all into her understanding ears like a child. But he recognized the urge for what it was, a reverting to the state of an infant, and besides, there were the servants, and Nubnofret’s task only just begun.
“You are right,” he said at last, “and I will indeed tell you about it, but not now. Enjoy yourself this afternoon, Nubnofret.”
She shrugged, dropped her gaze and turned back into the room, but as he reached the doorway she called, “I cannot find Penbuy. Send him to me later, Khaemwaset. The amount of linen must be measured exactly and paid for.” Her own scribe could have done such a small task and they both knew it. She is either asserting her authority or letting me know she suspects that I have sent Penbuy away, Khaemwaset thought as he paced the passage, absently receiving the salute of his guards. Could it be that Nubnofret, my calm, firm Nubnofret, is losing command of herself? The idea of a wild scene between himself and his wife plunged him into gloom and he ordered out the staff of the barge with a sinking heart.
The bright, hot day and his pleasant errand soon restored his spirits and he disembarked, waited for his canopy to be unfolded and strode along the path to Tbubui’s house with deep contentment The call of iridescent birds echoed in the palms and his feet sank satisfyingly into the light sand. He remembered the last time he had walked here, the dreamlike quality of the night and his encounter with Tbubui, and was tempted to burst into song. As he rounded the last, now dearly familiar corner he saw Sheritra standing in the shade cast by the front wall of the house, her arms full of white water-lilies that were dripping moisture down the front of her glistening sheath. She recognized him and took one step, but then she stood and waited, her face solemn. Odd, he thought. She usually runs to greet me. Then he realized with a pang that it had been some time since she had flung herself at him with abandon. He smiled as he came and embraced her. The damp lilies were cold against his belly. His servants bowed to her and withdrew under the trees, and she pulled away.
“Father, how lovely to see you!” she said, and there was no mistaking the pleasure in her voice, though Khaemwaset, glancing into her eyes, thought them strangely guarded. “How is everyone at home?”
“Much the same,” he replied. “I took Hori’s stitches out, and today your mother is reorganizing her tiring boxes or she would have come with me.”
“Hmm,” was her response. “Come into the house. Tbubui is beyond, in the kitchen compound, trying to teach a dish to her cook, and Sisenet is closeted in his own rooms as usual. Harmin is out on the desert, practising with his spear.” They linked arms and moved towards the door. “I feel as though I have been away forever,” she went on, and Khaemwaset squeezed her slim forearm.
“It seems that way to me, too,” he said simply. We are awkward with each other, he thought dismally. In three days we have grown even farther apart. Bakmut was doing him homage from just inside the entrance hall, her coarse linen fluttering in the draught, and Khaemwaset saw with approval that one of his soldiers stood stiffly against the far wall where the rear passage ran.
“Sit down if you like,” Sheritra offered, and clapping her hands she said brusquely to the black servant of the house who had appeared, “Bring wine and buttered bread. Tell your mistress that the Prince Khaemwaset is here.”
“Are you happy here?” Khaemwaset asked cautiously. She grinned, but beneath the humour there was a faint strain.
“I am just beginning to get used to it,” she replied. “So very, very quiet, and no guests so far, and hardly any music at dinner. But I am not shy here, Father. Only Sisenet still makes me a little uncomfortable and that is because I see him so much less than the others.” She blushed and, relieved, Khaemwaset saw in the creeping flush and the momentarily working hands the Sheritra he knew. “Harmin and I spend the afternoons together, after the sleep. Tbubui goes into her chamber. Harmin, Bakmut, a guard and I take over the garden and stroll under the palms. I have twice been poled on the river but none of them will join me. In the evening we talk or Sisenet reads to us.”
“And the mornings?” Khaemwaset asked as the rich red wine was placed to his hand together with a silver platter containing bread, butter, garlic and honey. The servant had been uncannily quiet. Khaemwaset had not even heard the rustle of starched linen.
“In the morning Tbubui and I keep each other company and talk of purely vain and silly feminine things.” Sheritra laughed. “Can you imagine that, Father? Me, talking of vain and silly things?”
She is speaking too quickly, Khaemwaset thought as he raised his cup to his mouth. This also comes between us, her excitement or anxiety, I cannot tell which, and she will not tell me honestly what she is feeling. “I am sure it is doing you good,” he replied. “There is nothing wrong with frivolity, my dear, particularly for you. You have always been too serious.”
“Speak for yourself!” she laughed back. “Oh. Here comes Tbubui.”
As royalty, Khaemwaset did not need to rise, but he did, reaching for Tbubui’s hand as she swept towards him and bending to kiss her on the cheek. Immediately he realized that his gesture had been too familiar in front of Sheritra and he drew back and resumed his seat. Tbubui, cool and glittering in a semi-transparent white sheath fringed in silver tassels, sank in one practised motion to a large cushion opposite him. “I decided to come and see if my Little Sun was homesick yet,” he began, “and also to have a word with your brother, Tbubui. But Sheritra is not in the least homesick; in fact she looks in the rudest of health. I am grateful.”
He felt everything in him, the tight muscles of his belly, the tense attitude of his shoulders, the lineaments of his face, relax as he looked at her. Oh Tbubui, he said silently to the wide forehead across which a thin band of silver held back her thick hair, the black, kohled eyes fixed on him warmly, the graceful indolence of the arms resting languidly against her knees. The rise and fall of her barely glimpsed breasts was light and fast. She feels it also, he thought happily. I know she does.
“I am the one to be grateful,” she answered, smiling. She had painted her lips with red henna and her mouth reminded Khaemwaset of the vast statue of the goddess Hathor that stood in the temple in the south district of Memphis. Hathor’s faint, sensuous smite was also red, a glistening moist red … “Sheritra is delightful company. She makes me feel like a girl again. I hope, however, that we do not bore her.” She turned with affection towards the girl and Sheritra smiled back. Why, they behave like sisters, Khaemwaset thought, the tide of well-being coursing through him. They will not be enemies when Tbubui moves in.
“Bore me?” Sheritra expostulated. “Certainly not!”
“So you do not want to come home?” Khaemwaset teased her. “You are not pining for your mother’s discipline?”
A shadow crossed Sheritra’s flushed face, and Khaemwaset was aware of the disloyalty in his words. Is there something in this wine? he wondered. “Another excellent vintage,” he commented hastily, holding up his cup, and Tbubui inclined her head.
“Thank you, Prince. We do not care for gaudy clothes or constant entertainment but we are fussy about our wine.”
Khaemwaset had the uncomfortable impression that his daughter was included in the “we,” and for a fleeting second it seemed as though she was not his at all but Tbubui’s, as though by some unknown alchemy she had always been Tbubui’s. He was saved from further comment by Harmin. The young man entered, handing his spear to the nearest servant and advancing into the hall. He was drenched in sweat and his hair, nostrils and calves were filthy with sand. Smiling affably he bowed to Khaemwaset, but his eyes were all for Sheritra. Better and better, Khaemwaset thought. “Greetings, Harmin,” he said. “I hope the improving of your aim made the heat and dirt worthwhile.”
Harmin raised his eyebrows and ran a hand through his sticky hair. “I think I am throwing straighter and farther,” he said, “but certainly not today. If you will excuse me, Prince, I will bathe. S
heritra, bring Bakmut and come with me. You can have a canopy erected in the garden while I am being washed. If you do not mind, Prince. If you have concluded your visit with the Princess.”
Khaemwaset was taken aback, both at the arrogant familiarity with which Harmin had addressed Sheritra and the presumption that the visit was less important than his own wishes. Neither had he missed the swift glance that had passed between mother and son while Harmin had been speaking, and he wondered what it might mean. Sheritra was rising. “Are you going to stay long, Father?” she inquired. “Because if not I want to sit and talk with you.”
“But you would rather do something else at the moment,” he finished for her. “I am not offended, Little Sun, and I will be here all afternoon.” Harmin was already disappearing into the greyness of the passage, and with an apologetic smile to her father Sheritra followed.
Khaemwaset watched her with pleasure. Her whole mien had changed. Her shoulders were straight, her carriage more assured. There was even the suggestion of a slight seductive sway in her sharply boned hips. “You have been doing her good,” he said softly. Tbubui stirred on her cushion, her hand sliding down her gleaming calf to the silver anklet with its pendant baboons.
“I think she loves Harmin,” she replied forthrightly, “and love will turn a girl into a woman, a self-conscious, awkward child into a being with the allure of Astarte herself.”
“And what of Harmin?”
“I have not spoken to him directly of the matter,” Tbubui said in an undertone, “but it is obvious that he cares for her a great deal. Do not worry, Prince,” she went on hastily, seeing his expression. “They are never alone together, and Bakmut continues to sleep just inside the Princess’s door.”
He laughed to cover thc moment of mild dislike for Harmin. “I cannot imagine her being anything other than delighted to have you join my family,” he said rather pompously out of the moment of confusion. “I love you Tbubui.”
“I love you also, dear Prince,” she responded, looking up at him steadily. “I also am relieved that the Princess and I have so much affection for one another. Rest assured that I will do my best to gain the respect of Nubnofret also, and young Hori.”
That will be a difficult task, Khaemwaset thought impatiently. Aloud he said, “I am the law, I am Ma’at under my own roof. They will accept you whether they like it or not.” Clapping his hands he shouted, “Ib,” and after a moment his steward approached from the garden and bowed. “Give me the document.” For answer, Ib withdrew a scroll from his belt, handed it to Khaemwaset and smoothly walked away. Khaemwaset handed it to Tbubui.
“The marriage contract,” he said; he could not keep the triumph out of his voice. “Read it at your leisure, and tell me if it is agreeable to you. I have added one clause that is a trifle unusual, for your protection as well as mine.” She had placed the papyrus beside her and was watching him blank-faced. “Pharaoh must approve my choice of a wife if I am to remain in the line of succession in Egypt,” he explained. “Therefore I ask you to add your seal to the scroll with the understanding that the document only becomes legal when Penbuy has returned from Koptos carrying proof of your noble blood.” He had steeled himself to say these words to her, uncertain of her response, and now, as she continued to stare at him, he leaned forward and groped for her hand. It was icy and limp in his grasp. “Do not be offended, I beg you,” he went on urgently. “It is a formality, nothing more.”
“Koptos?” she said tonelessly. “You have sent your scribe to Koptos?” Then she seemed to come to herself. “Of course I understand, Prince,” she assured him. “Love must not overwhelm the demands of state, must it?”
“You have misunderstood,” he cried, as helplessly as a young man in the throes of first infatuation. ‘I will have you anyway, Tbubui, as my brother Si-Montu defied Ramses to obtain Ben-Anath! But how much simpler, how much less anguish for my whole family, if I am able to marry you under my father’s smile.”
“And besides,” she cut in, gently pulling her hand away, “your brother had no family when he won Ben Anath. You have a son who might be disinherited if you are taken from that illustrious succession, who will have had his own chance at the throne removed.” Her chin came up, “I do understand, dearest. I am after all a noblewoman …”
And no mean person, Khaemwaset’s mind supplied immediately, cynically, and he started.
“… and can bow to the demands of state with equanimity.” She was smiling now, a tiny, humorous quirk to her glistening red mouth. But I am not a patient woman. How soon will Penbuy return with the answer to my happiness under his oh-so-correct arm?”
“He left this morning,” Khaemwaset told her. “He will arrive at Koptos in a little less than a week, and who can tell how long his researches will take? Can you contain your impatience for a month, Tbubui?”
For answer she glanced about the hall, rose to her knees and, placing both hands on Khaemwaset’s bare thighs, she reached up and kissed him. Her lips, her tongue, were hot and wet. Her nails dug into his flesh, exciting him. “I will seal the contract today,” she murmured, her mouth moving against his. “Forgive me, Prince, for my moment of chagrin. Have you told Nubnofret yet?”
Dizzily he relinquished her and she sank back onto the cushion. “Not yet,” he managed. “I have not found an opportune time.”
“Do not wait too long,” she advised, and he shook his head, still giddy with desire.
“I plan a sumptuous suite for you, attached to the house,” he said, “but it will not be ready before you move in. Will you accept lodgings with the concubines temporarily?”
She nodded coolly. “Temporarily,” she agreed. “Sisenet will remain here or go back to Koptos, he has not yet decided which,” she went on, “and Harmin is as yet undecided about what he will do.”
Khaemwaset sat back. “You have already told your brother?” he asked, bewildered, and she gave him a level, almost arrogant glance.
“Naturally,” she said. “I do not need his permission, but as he is my closest relative and older brother, I want his approval.”
“And did he give it?” Khaemwaset was annoyed. He felt at an immediate disadvantage to a man who was definitely his social and hereditary inferior, and who should have had no say in the matter whatsoever. But then he was ashamed. Tbubui was a dutiful Egyptian woman, tactful and careful of the feelings of her loved ones.
“Yes, he did,” she replied. “He wants me to be happy, Khaemwaset, and he says that you do us great honour.”
Khaemwaset was mollified. “I must speak to him today,” he said. “I am still getting nowhere with the scroll. Hori tells me that the false wall in the tomb has been rebuilt and the artists are re-creating the paintings. Soon it will be closed again.”
Tbubui stood and smoothed down her linen. Khaemwaset’s eyes followed the slow movement of her hands. “Sisenet is in his room,” she said. “If your Highness wishes, I can summon him.”
“No,” Khaemwaset replied graciously, “I will come.”
She inclined her head and crossed the hall. Khaemwaset followed, turning after her into the passage. She went left, and as he followed he glanced to the right. Sheritra’s laughter drifted to him, coming on the hot breeze funnelled through the permanently opened door to the garden at the far end. In the blaze of white light he saw her kneeling on a reed mat under a flapping canopy, Harmin opposite, their heads almost touching. Before he looked away he saw her fling the knucklebones to the mat and give a cry of delight. Harmin was smiling.
Sisenet looked up, startled, as Khaemwaset entered, then rose from the chair and bowed gravely. This man knows I am insanely in love with his sister, Khaemwaset thought as he strove to meet the other’s quiet gaze. Tbubui excused herself and Sisenet indicated the chair he had just left. Khaemwaset took it. On the table beside him was beer, the remains of a small meal and several loosely rolled scrolls.
“I see you have been reading,” Khaemwaset remarked. “A pleasant occupation on an enervating day
.”
Sisenet sank to the edge of the couch and crossed his legs. For the first time, Khaemwaset noticed that the man’s body was well toned, his calves tight, his stomach flat with no sign of a fold about the waist, though, due to his position, his spine was slightly curved. But he is a sedentary and studious man like myself, Khaemwaset thought jealously. How does he remain so supple?
“These scrolls are my favourite pastimes, Prince,” Sisenet replied. One is the story of Apepa and Seqenenra, and the other is a rather rare and very ancient copy of the Book of the Heavenly Cow. As well as describing man’s rebellion against Ra, his punishment and Ra’s withdrawal into heaven, it contains certain magic spells for the good of those deceased.”
Khaemwaset’s interest was piqued. Unrolling them carefully he cast his eye over the tiny neat hieroglyphs. “They are treasures indeed,” he said admiringly. “Did you buy them, Sisenet? I know many dealers in ancient documents. Who sold them to you?”
Sisenet smiled and Khaemwaset saw his face lose its usually grim aspect and become suddenly youthful. “I did not buy them, Highness,” he said. “They belong to my family. One of my ancestors was a mighty historian and magician, and he must have been overjoyed to find both history and magic in that one precious scroll.”
“Have you approached a magician to try out the spells?” Khaemwaset was intrigued.
Sisenet shook his head. “I myself have some small ability in the field,” he explained. “I did my duty in Koptos as a priest of Thoth.”
“You surprise me,” Khaemwaset said, remembering how seldom he had conversed deeply with this man, how easily he had dismissed him as of no account. “Did any of the spells work? Are they correct?”
“Highness, as they are concerned with the well-being of the deceased, I have no way of knowing,” Sisenet answered lightly, and Khaemwaset clapped a hand to his linen-helmeted forehead.
“Of course! How stupid of me! But tell me, who is the High Priest of Thoth in Koptos, and what is the temple like? I myself am a devotee of the god.”
Scroll of Saqqara Page 29