His lusty enjoyment of the pastime was both repulsive and mesmerizing. It showed her a side of him she had not suspected, and she found it difficult to reconcile the civilized, well-mannered man who read her inmost thoughts with such ease and the Harmin who could scream obscenities at an escaping prey, or shout with savage triumph as an animal fell with his spear in its shoulder.
On the evenings when he had made a kill his lovemaking was always forceful and passionate, even slightly brutal, as though she too were prey to be stalked, struggled with, gored through. More bewildering to her was her response. Something primitive in her answered his mild savagery with an equal abandonment, so that she looked back on the days of her virginity such a short time ago in amazement. Does my mother know the things that I know? she wondered. Does Father ever demand from her the acts Harmin demands from me? And even if he wants them does she respond? But the thought of her father brought shame, and she turned from it quickly.
One evening she had arranged to meet Harmin beyond the servants’ compound and the wall that separated the small estate from the desert beyond. She was late, having dictated yet another letter to an undeserving Hori, and she decided to cut through the servants’ domain directly to the rear gate. The wide yard was empty. Sparrows hopped about the compacted dirt, pecking at the remains of the debris that was carried from the house to be thrown onto the desert over the far wall. She and her guard quickly crossed to the gate, and Sheritra slipped through while he held it open.
She had never before taken notice of the mounds of refuse to either side. It did not lie for long. The purifying heat of the sun soon burned away odours, and the jackals and desert dogs dragged off all that was edible. But today she caught a glint of something unusual lying in the sand and paused to give it a second look. The light was glittering on a broken pen case. Sheritra picked it up. Its jagged edge was snared in a piece of coarse linen that unrolled as she tugged, spilling numerous pieces of smashed pottery at her feet. Something else remained hidden in the folds, and with a grimace of distaste she shook it out and let the cloth flutter onto the garbage.
It was a wax figurine, crudely fashioned but with a certain primeval strength to the square shoulders and thick neck. Both arms had broken off and one foot was missing, but uneasily Sheritra saw that the head had at one time been pierced several times. Tiny holes gritty with sand felt rough under her thumb. Holes also peppered the area of the heart. Rough hieroglyphs had been incised into the soft brown beeswax and she peered closer, trying to decipher them, her unease slowly mounting to a pang of fear. She was the daughter of a magician and she knew what she was seeing. It was a hex doll. Someone had made it, cut it with the name of an enemy, then, muttering spells of evil and malediction, had driven copper pins into the head and heart. The litter under which it had lain had scored and compressed it so that she could not make out the letters. “Do not touch it, Highness!” her guard warned, and at the sound of his voice she tossed it away with a cry.
The pen case was a fine piece of work, delicately ornamented with granulated goldwork and having a cloisonnéand-blue-faience likeness of the ibis-headed Thoth, god of scribes, along its length. Sheritra frowned over it for a moment. Somewhere she had seen it before, but try as she might she could not remember where or when.
In the end she laid it reverently in the sand by the refuse heap, and squatting, she fingered through the small sharp pieces of what had obviously been a large clay pot. She recognized its use also and she could even make out a few disconnected words of the death spell that would have been inked all over it before a hating hand had brought the hammer down. “His heart … burst … daggers … pain … neither day … terror …”
Someone in this house is harbouring a dreadful hatred, she thought. The spell has been spoken, the ritual performed, and the tools of this unknown person’s destruction have been thrown away. I wonder if the curse was successful, or if the victim knew of it and made a counter-incantation in time. She shuddered, then shrieked as a shadow fell across her.
“Highness, what are you doing?”
Sheritra pushed herself to her feet to find Harmin at her back. She indicated her find. “The sun flashing on the pen case caught my attention,” she explained. Inwardly she was shaking. “Someone has tried to kill someone else by this, Harmin.”
He shrugged. “The servants are always squabbling and carrying grudges and becoming embroiled in petty jealousies,” he replied. “They are the same everywhere, are they not? This spell must have originated in their quarters.”
“So your servants do have voices?” she half teased, half baited him, and he grunted.
“I suppose they are voluble enough when they are alone. Think no more of it, Princess. Would you like to drive the horse this time?”
She nodded absently and, side by side, they walked to the waiting chariot. But the feeling of familiarity that had stolen over her when she grasped the pen case would not leave her. It returned often in the days that followed, to taunt her with a memory just out of reach. Sometimes she wondered if it had been Sisenet himself, a diligent scholar, who had made the wax figure. Sometimes she considered Tbubui, a dabbler in medicine and perhaps in magic as well, but she could not imagine either of them closeted in the darkness coercing demons to do their will.
Tbubui no longer came to the bath house in the mornings to examine the state of the Princess’s skin. I suppose the visits have served their purpose, Sheritra thought, but the knowledge did not distress her. She felt as though she and Harmin had already signed a marriage contract, that by some strange alchemy she could not remember the occasion, but they were already man and wife, and she was a permanent and legitimate member of the household.
They still spent the mornings together, often crossing the river and strolling the choked streets of Memphis, a pastime they had not undertaken before Harmin became Sheritra’s lover. The crowds, the noise, even the smells, increasingly bewildered the girl, and she was always relieved to step onto the barge and be poled back to the safety and quiet of the isolated house.
She was in Tbubui’s room one day, sitting at the vanity table in a loose lounging robe, her face already painted but her long hair not yet dressed. She and Tbubui were examining Tbubui’s jewellery as though they were sisters, or their station in Egypt’s social hierarchy was similar. Sometimes this irritated Sheritra, but she was too much in awe of the mentor who had become her friend to protest and risk insulting her. The collection was one Sheritra admired, for it contained many heavy, simple pieces of ancient craftsmanship of a kind now difficult to obtain.
“My mother was very traditional in her tastes,” Tbubui was explaining as Sheritra’s fingers sifted through the rings, anklets, amulets and pectorals. “She had many pieces that belonged to her ancestors and she regarded them as sacred to the family, passed down to each succeeding generation. I also value them as such. My husband gave me lovely things, but I wear my mother’s jewellery almost every day.” She draped a silver pendant with an onyx Eye of Horus around Sheritra’s neck. “This is a light and airy thing that looks very well on you, Highness,” she said approvingly. “Also it is a powerful protection against evil. Do you like it?”
Sheritra was about to express her delight when her eye caught the glow of turquoise right at the bottom of the ebony chest. Tbubui owned much turquoise, but something about the shape of the thing she was looking at caught Sheritra’s fancy, and she pushed past the other trinkets and fished it out. Tbubui’s hands had gone still on her shoulders. The girl held up a gold-and-turquoise earring. It swung gently in her fingers, and she bit her lip as she peered at it, then she exclaimed, “Tbubui, this is the earring Hori found in the tunnel leading out of the tomb. I would know it anywhere!” Her hand closed over it and she turned on the stool. “What are you doing with it? Oh tell me that Hori did not desecrate that woman’s resting place by giving it to you!”
“Calm yourself, Highness,” Tbubui said, smiling. “Of course your brother would not do such a thing. H
e is much too honest.”
“But he is in love with you!” Sheritra blurted. “His judgment could have deserted him. Love makes us do questionable things sometimes …” Her voice trailed away, and for the first time in weeks she blushed. “I know you are to marry my father,” she finished lamely. “Forgive my tactlessness, Tbubui.”
“You are forgiven, dear Sheritra,” Tbubui rejoined lightly. “I am aware of Hori’s infatuation with me. I have been kind to him, do not fear, and it will pass. As for the earring …” She reached down and deftly removed the piece from Sheritra’s grip. “Hori showed me the original, and loving turquoise as I do I was determined to have it copied. I drew its likeness as soon as Hori left, and my favourite jeweller made up a pair for me.”
“Oh.” Sheritra was covered with confusion. “But where is its mate?”
Tbubui sighed. “I have lost it. The fastening was not as secure as it should have been, but I did not want to wait for it to be fixed. I was too happy wearing it. Before I could bring myself to part with it, it parted from me. The servants have scoured the house and grounds, even the skiff and the barge, but it must have fallen from my ear somewhere in the city. One day I will have another one made.” She dropped the earring carelessly back into the chest. “Would your Highness like spiced wine? A snack?”
Tbubui’s explanation had been perfectly reasonable, but something in Sheritra’s intuition warned her that she had not heard the truth. At one time Hori would not have dreamed of desecrating a tomb by giving away someone else’s property, but that had been a free, honourable young man. Was the moody, irritable Hori, in the throes of an unreturned love, capable in fact of doing such a thing? Sheritra thought it possible. It took time, too, for a well-crafted piece of jewellery to be made, and the one Sheritra had dangled did not even seem new. The goldwork was finely scratched and pitted here and there. It was not an unusual practice for a craftsman to deliberately age a piece of furniture or jewellery, but Tbubui’s turquoise had glowed with the milky greenness of genuine antiquity, and the gold had been dark, spidered through with purple. It was entirely possible that Tbubui had used a turquoise already in her possession to form a pear-shaped stone like the original. It was also possible that her jeweller was able to take the extra time to reproduce Mittanni’s purple gold, but Sheritra had the uneasy feeling that none of these speculations were correct. Hori had pressed the beautiful thing into the hands of the woman he burned for and she had accepted it.
Sheritra made another uncomfortable mental connection. The discarded paraphernalia of the spell—could it have been conjured by Tbubui in an effort to avert the jealous anger of a dead woman? Yet it was the remains of a cursing spell, I am sure, Sheritra told herself as she lay sleepless on her couch or walked the garden or sat while Bakmut painted the soles of her feet with henna. One does not avert the rage of an ancient ka by insulting it yet again. I must go home for a day or two. I cannot put it off any longer.
She told Harmin that night as they lay tumbled in each other’s arms, and he nuzzled her cheek, saying, “I will let you go, providing you promise to come back in two days. You bring me hunting luck, Little Sun, and besides, you have made this house a happy place.” Later Tbubui quickly agreed that Sheritra’s decision was a wise one. “I can understand your worry,” she said sympathetically. “Scold that brother of yours for ignoring us both, and invite him for dinner when you return. Give my greetings to your illustrious mother.”
Sheritra had the few things she would need packed and said a casual farewell to Harmin and his mother. There was no need for formal leave-taking. She intended to return to the place she now considered her real home on the following afternoon.
But as she left the house and set off slowly towards the watersteps in the pale, early sunlight, a mixture of depression and reluctance fell heavily on her. She no longer carried reality with her wherever she went. Its immediacy, its focus, seemed to pale and blur the more distance she put between herself and the low, white house baking in its shield of silence. She moved up the ramp into the barge with the odd conviction that neither the outside world nor she herself had any substance.
Bakmut was clearly jubilant. Even the guards seemed to move and speak with a brisk sparkle. They are all happy but me, Sheritra thought resentfully as the vessel glided away from the bank. Well, they will not be happy for long because no matter what happens I am ordering them all back with me tomorrow. She stifled an urge to snap at Bakmut who was humming under her breath, and she stared ahead at the unfolding city with a glum determination.
Her father’s watersteps looked huge and new to her as the barge bumped them and the ramp was run out. The tethering poles sunk in the Nile flew spotless flags of blue and white, the imperial colours. The steps themselves, scoured daily of every stain, seemed to mount dazzlingly to infinity, and Sheritra breasted them in a kind of horror. At the top, the household guards saluted her one by one and several servants, impeccably attired, as spotless as the watersteps, came hurrying to reverence her. One of them, a herald, ran towards the house to announce her. A parasol was quickly unfolded and an escort formed.
Sheritra started along the paved path that seemed as wide as a city street. Tamed shrubs and weedless beds of exotic blooms passed slowly by on either side. Among them three gardeners laboured, bare backs to the sky. The multicoloured pillars of the front entrance came into view, each sheltering a watchful soldier, and beyond them the customary herald, steward and scribe sat just outside the double doors in the event of visitors. Sheritra nodded to their obeisance as she passed on her way to the rear.
Now the sound of the fountain assaulted her ears, and the cultivated laughter of female body servants. Was it always like this? she wondered dazedly. Like a miniature palace, always murmurous, always so opulent? Was I always treated with so much distant respect, and simply took it for granted?
But she did not have the time to exploit her bewilderment, for Ib was coming, almost running, his face solemn. She stopped and waited and he slowed, bowed from the waist with arms outstretched, his whole body registering apprehension.
“Ib,” she said.
He straightened. Why, he is not so very old after all, Sheritra thought in amazement, staring into his square, beautifully painted face framed by the short black wig. And he has a good body, compact, muscular. He is an attractive man. “Highness, it is remarkable that you should choose to return home today,” he replied. “Your father the Prince was just issuing instructions for your presence.”
“Why?” she said sharply. “What is it?”
“I think he had better tell you himself,” the steward said apologetically. “He is with your mother. I will escort you.”
At his brusque command her retinue fell away and she, Bakmut and the parasol-bearer went on, through the capacious garden, past the fountain and the blue fish-pond, between the clustering sycamores, to the rear entrance. From there, it was a short distance to Nubnofret’s quarters, and Sheritra, her anxiety rising, fought against the sense of foreignness that threatened to bring her to a faltering halt.
Ib waved Bakmut to one of the stools in the passage and pushed through the doors. Sheritra heard his voice announcing her, then went past him. The doors were firmly closed behind her. Khaemwaset held out a hand and she took it. Her mother was sitting on the couch. She barely acknowledged Sheritra’s entrance and the girl turned to her father. He gave her a perfunctory kiss.
“What is going on?” she asked, aware of the slight echo of her voice in the high, dusky ceiling, the gleam of the blueand-white tiles stretching away beneath her feet, the cluster of Nubnofret’s female attendants far away in one corner. Why, this room is huge, she thought. We are dwarves in it.
“Ramses’ Chief Herald arrived early this morning,” Khaemwaset was saying. “Your grandmother died five days ago.” He did not mention the other letters, angry letters, that Ramses’ herald had brought. “We are now in mourning, Little Sun.”
Don’t call me that! she thought indignantly
. But her second thought filled her with panic. Mourning. Seventy days imprisoned here, away from Harmin, away from Tbubui, no desert sunsets feeding honeyed dates to the yellow dog, no board games played lazily under the palms, no Harmin in my bed. A return to Mother’s nagging, to the constant feeling of inadequacy that used to pursue me.
Then she had the grace to feel ashamed. Grandmother is dead. She was always patient and kindly towards me and my first reaction on hearing of her death is annoyance. I am selfish.
“Oh Father, how terrible,” she said, “but a good thing also. Astnofert was suffering so much, for so long, was she not? Now she is with the gods and at peace. Will we go to Thebes for the funeral?”
“Of course.” The matter-of-fact voice was Nubnofret’s. “And I must confess, Sheritra, that the prospect of a trip anywhere, for any reason, fills me with delight. Are you enjoying your stay with Tbubui?”
Her mother’s remarks were so brittle that Sheritra turned to her, alarmed. “Yes, more than I can say,” she answered, and Nubnofret lifted a blank face.
“Good,” she said indifferently. “I will go and order your rooms prepared for you.” She got up and glided out. Once more the doors thudded shut.
“Is Mother ill?” Sheritra enquired, and at that Khaemwaset’s shoulders slumped. He sighed.
“I do not think so, but she is deeply outraged. The truth is, Sheritra …” He hesitated. “I have decided to take a second wife, and your mother is not pleased, although of course it is within my rights. I have signed a contract with Tbubui.” He searched her eyes anxiously. “I had not meant to tell you so abruptly. I am sorry. Are you surprised?”
“No,” she replied, and all at once she wanted very much to sit down. “From the first moment you saw her, when we were together on the litters, do you remember, Father? I had a suspicion it would come to this.” She decided not to tell him that she knew about the contract already. It did not matter anyway. “Give Mother time to become used to the idea and she will accept Tbubui,” she went on. “Mother is after all a princess, and will do her duty.”
Scroll of Saqqara Page 34