Scroll of Saqqara

by Pauline Gedge

  “I see you have progressed into the area of myth and folklore,” a voice spoke at his elbow, and Hori jumped, but it was only the librarian. “Such stories always spring up around tragic and mysterious family events, and there has never been much else to do here on hot summer nights but recount legends. At least among the commoners.” Hori stared up at him, disoriented. It cannot be, his mind was saying over and over again. It cannot be, cannot be, cannot be … But in his imagination he saw his father raise the knife and callously cut away a scroll from a dead man’s hand … saw the drops of Khaemwaset’s blood fall on the desiccated hand and one sully the scroll itself as he hurriedly plied the needle, panic making his fingers shake. It must not be, Hori thought, for if it is, we have entered a realm of nightmare where we are worse than impotent, where death cannot be contained but stalks among us masquerading as life, and we are tainted and corrupted beyond the power of any god to save us.

  “The workmen are already at the site,” the librarian was saying. “I have assigned two temple guards to oversee them and have promised them a generous amount of food and beer for their labours. I trust your Highness will see to it.”

  Hori came to his feet. The action seemed to take a long time. “Of course,” he said, amazed that he sounded so normal. “I have read all I need. I want to take these scrolls back to Memphis with me.”

  But the librarian bowed and refused. “I am deeply sorry, Highness. Such a thing is completely forbidden. Have your scribe come and copy them during your stay.”

  That will not do, Hori thought. I do not want to show my father something written in Antef’s hand. I will not be believed. I still find it difficult to believe myself. But one look at the librarian’s pleasant but adamant face convinced him that the man would not be bribed or persuaded. He is correct, Hori told himself. My father would never allow such a thing either. “In that case, my scribe will appear tomorrow to attempt the task,” he said. “I thank you for your assistance here, and for re-sealing the tomb when I am done. I will meet you here at sunset and you will take me to the place.”

  He spent a few moments more talking to the man, but later could not remember what had been said. Then he left, walking out into the blinding afternoon. How long did it take you to arrive at the conclusion that is now threatening my own reason? he silently asked Penbuy as he got on the litter waiting for him. You had almost finished the task, and I reap the benefits of your meticulous digging. What did you think, little scribe? Were you as unbelieving, yet as terrified as I am?

  He tried to smile, and at that moment the first pain hit him without warning, ripping through his abdomen so that he doubled over on the cushions, gasping, sweat springing from his forehead. No! he whispered, knees pressed to his chin, fists crammed against his stomach. Thoth, have mercy, I cannot take this agony, help me, help me! Then the spasm abated and he went limp, lying behind the curtains with eyes closed, panting. Tbubui, he cried out silently. Have pity on me. If you must slay me then wait. Do it with a knife, a poisoned cup, have me strangled in my bed, but do not subject me to this filthy, evil thing.

  Another wave of pain came and he could not help tensing against it until his muscles themselves became a source of anguish, quivering and locked. She does not need to kill me, he thought, teeth jammed together, lips drawn back in a rictus of uncontrollable pain. It does not matter what I bring back from here. She will deny everything, make up a lie, and Father will believe her. No. She wants to kill me. She wants me to die.

  The pain slowly lessened but it did not go away. The pin stays in the figure, he thought hysterically. Stab it in with a sure hand, then grind it into the wax and leave it there to weaken and debilitate the victim. Carefully he straightened, wincing with every movement, and cupped his hands over his throbbing abdomen. It will get no better, he told himself grimly. It will keep throbbing but it will not go away. He felt for his amulet, the one he sometimes wore as a counterweight for his pectoral and sometimes affixed to a bracelet, but his groping fingers found the earring instead and he did not have the strength to let it go.

  He went directly to his room in the mayor’s house, and collapsing onto the couch he managed to drift into an uneasy sleep. He woke some time later to find Antef bending over him, a worried look on his face. Reaching out, Hori grasped his friend’s hand. “Bring the mayor’s physician, Antef,” he begged. Antef, after one horrified word Hori could not catch, ran out the door. While he waited, Hori sank and rose in and out of a drowse, his consciousness geared to the ebb and flow of the pain. He struggled to sit up when the physician approached the couch with the mayor and Antef behind him

  “I am Prince Hori, son of the physician Prince Khaemwaset,” he whispered. “I do not need to be examined. I am suffering from a disease of the abdomen that cannot be treated, but I beseech you to brew me a strong infusion of poppy, enough for several weeks.”

  “Your Highness,” the physician objected, “if I do this without examining you, and I put it into your hands, you may drink too much of it at once and die. I do not wish to take that responsibility.”

  And neither does the mayor, Hori thought, seeing the man’s expression as he hovered beside Antef. “Then place it in the hands of my servant,” he suggested, gathering all his strength to simply spit out the words. “I have work to do here, and if I am prostrate with pain I cannot do it. I will dictate a scroll absolving both you and the mayor from any responsibility regarding my condition if you wish.”

  Both men looked relieved, then ashamed. “Highness, if you had told me about this I would have appointed my physician to be with you day and night,” the mayor expostulated. “I have been lax in my duty. I apologize.”

  “It is not your fault!” Hori cried out with the last of his energy. “Just do as I ask! Antef, see to it!” He closed his eyes and rolled over, away from them. He heard Antef usher them out, and then he must have lost consciousness, for his next awareness was of his friend raising his head and pressing a cup to his mouth. The poppy smelled rank. He sipped at it as cautiously as he could, and when it had gone he motioned for Antef’s arm. “Help me to sit up,” he said. Antef did so, then lowered himself onto the couch. Hori could feel him watching speculatively.

  “What is it, Hori?” he asked soberly.

  Hori had never heard Antef use his name before, and he felt a rush of love for Antef’s reliability, his unquestioning loyalty. “She is trying to kill me,” he said. “She will succeed, but not before I get home, Antef. I must get home!”

  “You will,” Antef promised grimly. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Go to the House of Life immediately, this evening. Leave me the poppy. I promise I will not drink it all.” It was starting to dull the pain now, but it was dulling his thoughts also, and he fought its soporific effect. “The librarian will have left out some scrolls for you. Copy them as quickly as you can and do not return here until you have done so. I must get to the tomb tonight. Did you learn anything today?”

  “No, only that no one to whom I spoke had ever heard of Tbubui, Sisenet, or Harmin.”

  “I expected nothing else.” Hori pushed himself up and swung his legs to the floor. “Go and do what I have asked, Antef. Get a guard in here to help me. I had thought to be more careful in my research but I am running out of time. We must go home as soon as possible.”

  He sent a servant to decline the mayor’s offer of a feast with entertainment, knowing that he was bewildering and probably disappointing the man and his family. Then, supported by the burly shoulder of one of his guards, he made his way out, through the long, hot shafts of red light cast by the setting sun, to the litter.

  The short journey to the library was uneventful and the effects of the poppy were at their greatest, but every jolt of the swaying vehicle sent a stab of agony through his vitals. He managed a few words with the librarian and then lay dozing, allowing his bearers to follow the librarian’s litter. Time seemed more fluid, less measurable. It seemed to him that he had been carried for many hours, that
his dreams were melting into the reality of the heat and movement of an everlasting present, but the litter was eventually set down and Hori drew the curtains to see the soldier waiting to assist him.

  The Koptos necropolis was like a miniature Saqqara, an arid, sandy plateau dotted with little pyramids, mounds, broken pillars and half-buried causeways leading to nowhere. The librarian, to his credit, did not exclaim over Hori’s condition. He led the way to a pile of dark, damp earth and a mere three steps leading to a half-submerged rock door. The shadows of evening had already gathered around it as though begging to be let in, and in spite of his enforced self-absorption Hori shuddered.

  He stood leaning against his soldier, a slave holding a flaming torch nearby, and watched while the librarian bent over the imprinted circle of mud and wax that held the knotted cord around the metal hooks. Then the man exclaimed and turned to Hori. “This is definitely the seal I imprinted myself when I last inspected the tomb,” he said, “but it has been broken. Look.”

  Hori peered at it as it lay in the man’s palm. Half of it had fallen away and the cord hung precariously from one of the hooks. With a slight tug on the librarian’s part, the rope came away altogether and he dropped it at their feet. “Someone has forced an entry here,” he said roughly. “The Overseer of Workmen told me that the sand was extremely light, not heavy and tamped down at all, and I thought nothing of it. But now …” He put his shoulder against the door and it shifted, swinging inward with a mild groan.

  The depth of earth covering the steps would hardly come up to my knees, Hori thought distantly. Could a man, could a thing, dig upward through it and then turn to push it all back again? My dear librarian, I fear that someone forced an exit, not an entry. He suppressed a desire to burst into wild laughter. The laws of Ma’at have been abrogated, he thought, and we now inhabit a world where anything may happen. Anything at all. He followed the librarian and the slave into the narrow darkness beyond.

  The tomb was not large. It consisted of one room with a raised dais in the centre, on which the coffin rested. The torch flared and steadied, and, light-headed with pain and with the deadening effects of the poppy, Hori looked about him. Water, he thought immediately as the angry red light picked out the wealth of decorations on the walls. Water and more water. Amun, where are you? Thoth, where is your clemency? Oh my poor family, my father, little Sheritra, my good and honourable mother. What have we done to deserve this? The walls seemed to undulate with the slow rippling of a quiet Nile on a hot, sleepy afternoon. Water under the young man’s feet, water under his couch, water in which the many baboons depicted were sporting, water in his cup, spilling into his white lap, pouring out of his mouth, dripping from his black hair.

  The librarian had rushed to the dais and mounted it. He was peering into the coffin and Hori thought wearily, Do not bother. The body is not there. It is in Memphis. It smiles and frowns, it simulates sleep and seeks the sun to heat its icy body. It holds Sheritra … makes love to Sheritra …

  “This is terrible!” the librarian was lamenting. “The corpse has gone! What fiend would steal a princely corpse? And why? There will be an investigation, I promise you, Highness!”

  Hori staggered towards the dais. He did not want to, but he knew that he must see for himself. With an effort he negotiated the stone lip and leaned over the edge of the sarcophagus. It was indeed empty, and at that moment a lance of fire pierced his head. With a scream he fell back. The soldier caught him and he curled into the man’s embrace. “I do not want to die!” he cried out. The sound of his terror echoed off the dim walls and returned to him a hundredfold.

  The soldier did not hesitate. Hori felt himself carried outside and placed gently on the litter. The librarian had hurried over and was peering in at him. He clutched at his temples, moaning softly, but some control was returning and he looked up at the man through eyes blurred with tears of pain.

  “My scribe will pay you for the workmen’s labours,” he slurred, “and I thank you for your tact and helpfulness. Farewell. Re-seal that accursed place, and do not open an investigation. It will be fruitless.” The man bowed, obviously perplexed. Hori gasped an order to the bearers, then fell back and succumbed to his misery. I will get home, he vowed feverishly. Father will see what evidence I have. But I do not want to die! Not yet! My own tomb is not finished, and I have not yet been loved. Thoth, I have not yet been loved!

  He did not remember returning to the mayor’s house or being put to bed. He came to himself much later for a moment, and the room was dark. One night lamp burned by his couch but its small flame did not pierce the midnight darkness of the room. You did this, Father, he woke thinking. You spoke the spell all unwittingly, and unleashed these abominations on us. The Scroll of Thoth is real. It rests in Memphis, sewn to the hand of someone who does not matter at all, but it has done its work. He groped for the cup of poppy on the table by his head and drained it. Suddenly a strange face was looming above him, white and young. “Your Highness has a need?” it asked, and Hori recognized one of the mayor’s slaves detailed to take care of him.

  “No,” he said, his eyes already drifting closed. “Wake me when Antef returns.”

  The rhythmic ebb and flow of his torment rocked him, tossing him this way and that, and he had no choice but to give himself up to it. Under it her face loomed, smiling knowingly, unkindly, so that the paroxysms of pain were also paroxysms of lust, and Hori gave himself up to the madness.

  Full daylight and a pressing heat greeted him when next he opened his eyes. Antef was there, a hand on his forehead. Hori blinked and focused. Antef looked exhausted. “Is it done?” Hori murmured.

  Antef nodded. “Yes, Highness. All of it. I have been absent for two days, but we can go home now.”

  Tears of relief began to flow. Hori beckoned his friend lower. “The tomb was empty, Antef,” he croaked. “I am running out of time. Sheritra … Little Sun …”

  “The barge is waiting, Prince,” Antef soothed him. “I have ordered a bed made for you in the cabin. Do not fear. You will make it home.”

  “I love you, Antef,” Hori said, his voice no more than a slight rush of air over his cracked lips. “You are my brother.”

  “Hush, Prince,” Antef admonished. “Save your strength. I have spoken to the mayor. All is well.”

  The poppy was wearing off. Hori knew that its effect would increasingly diminish and he would need more and more of it as he approached Memphis. I am not strong enough to endure this, he thought as he fought to rise and Antef and a guard struggled to support him. I am a coward at heart. His thoughts trailed away into incoherence as he allowed himself to be transported to the barge and settled onto the camp bed in the cabin. Antef gave him more poppy and he lay in a daze, listening to the blessedly familiar voice of his captain giving the orders to cast off. “I could not give my thanks to the mayor,” he muttered.

  “I did it for you, Hori,” Antef reassured him. “Sleep if you can.”

  “Koptos is a terrible place,” Hori whispered. “So much heat, so much undiluted light. The loneliness, Antef. The unbearable loneliness. Vulnerable, unbearable …” Tbubui sucked the word from his mouth. He could see her chewing on it reflectively, then she swallowed it and smiled at him sympathetically. “Unbearable,” she repeated. “My poor, beautiful Hori. Hot young blood … so hot. Come and make love to me. Warm me, Hori, warm me.” When he next came to himself, Koptos was far behind them. Antef stirred beside him at his movement and held a cup to his mouth.

  “My head is on fire,” Hori said, “and my guts feel as though they have already been burned to ashes. What is this?”

  “Soup,” Antef told him. “Try to keep it down, Prince. You need the nourishment.”

  “Where are the scrolls?” Hori cried, struggling up, but Antef pushed him down gently.

  “They are safe. Drink, Highness. The Inundation has begun and the river is running a little faster than before. The oarsmen are finding their task easier. We will be home in less time tha
n we took to reach Koptos.”

  Obediently Hori drank. His stomach immediately rebelled but he kept the broth down. He felt it inside him, wholesome and comforting. “I want to sit in the chair,” he told Antef. “Help me.”

  Once uptight his head gradually ceased to spin. He smiled weakly at his friend. “I cannot fight the magic of hundreds of years,” he said with a trace of humour. “But royal blood must count for something, Antef. Is there much poppy left?”

  “Yes, Highness,” Antef answered gravely. “There is more than enough poppy left.”

  19

  The Lord of Truth abominates lies:

  beware then of swearing falsely,

  for he that speaketh a lie shall be cast down.

  SHERITRA ALIGHTED from the skiff, drew a deep breath and started along the winding, palm-lined path. The day was breathlessly still, a stifling late summer afternoon, but she disregarded the discomfort. Today, this morning, Father had finally agreed to allow a betrothal. She had given him no rest, approaching him at every opportunity, and her persistence had won. Oddly, it had been at the moment when she told him where Hori had gone that he had capitulated. He had not fretted over-much at his son’s disappearance, it seemed to Sheritra. Having banished Hori from all family gatherings, he had not even missed him for several days. But on the fourth day he had begun to make inquiries and Sheritra had waited, heart in mouth, mindful of her promise to Hori to wait one full week before disclosing his whereabouts. Hori’s servants could shed no light on his disappearance. Khaemwaset had even inquired to Tbubui at one noon meal, but she had replied in the negative.