20
O that I could turn my face to the north wind
on the bank of the river
and could cry out to it to cool the pain in my heart!
THE NIGHT WAS STALE and the odour of the rising river teased her nostrils, a brackish vegetable smell, as Sheritra slipped across the garden, skirted the wall of the compound and approached the concubines’ house. Tbubui was due to move into her own apartments in four days, where the tighter security of the main house would envelop her, and as Sheritra picked her way cautiously through the shrubs screening the entrance, she was able to be grateful for this small advantage.
Turning over in her mind just how she would be able to enter the house, she was startled by soft rustlings and low voices. She halted, heart pounding, until she realized that she was hearing the women who had climbed onto the roof to escape the worst of the heat and were passing the night hours in sleep or gaming or intermittent gossip. Is Tbubui up there? Sheritra wondered anxiously. If all the women elected to have their bedding carried out, the guards will be watching the one stair on the other side and all I have to worry about is the Keeper.
She crept between the pillars and slipped through the entrance, then paused to listen. There was no sound but a distant, low snoring from the Keeper’s room. In trepidation, Sheritra went on. If Tbubui was asleep in her quarters there would be a servant at the door. Cautiously, Sheritra peered around the corner to the passage running past the woman’s domain. It was empty, and lit only by a shaft of thin moonlight falling through a clerestory window between the ceiling and wall.
A spirit of reckless haste took hold of Sheritra then. She did not know how long Tbubui would stay on the roof but it certainly would not be beyond sunrise. Hori was dying and the night was almost over. Running to Tbubui’s door she inched it open. Silence reigned within. Greatly daring, she pushed it wide and stepped inside. The same moonlight lit the stuffy ante-room and showed it vacant, the shapes of the few pieces of furniture humping grey around her. Dim though it was, there was enough light to see by.
Hurriedly Sheritra began to search, lifting cushions, pulling aside discarded linen, flicking through vases of flowers, even opening Tbubui’s golden shrine to Thoth and, with a murmured prayer of apology, feeling behind the statue of the god. She did not expect to find anything in this room and was not surprised to come up empty-handed.
Noiselessly she proceeded into the inner chamber. Its door was open and the couch vacant. Tbubui’s perfume smote her immediately, the myrrh, heavy and jaded, imbuing everything with an aura of incense and love-making. Though the space was limited, the careful placing of the furniture gave Sheritra an impression of quiet vastness in keeping with the woman’s need for simplicity. She began her search anew, this time being careful to leave no corner unexplored. She patted the mattress and ran a hand along the fragrant cedar frame of the couch. She lifted the lids of the tiring chests, the cosmetic boxes, the jewellery chests, her fingers thorough but frantic, but found nothing. She stood for a moment, thinking furiously. If I were Tbubui, where would I hide such a damning thing? she wondered. Then she began to smile. Of course! In the new suite, even now furnished and waiting for blessing and occupancy. No one has been in there for a week, except the servants to sweep it out. Sheritra spun on her heel and ran out of the house.
But her more leisurely hunt proved just as fruitless, and she flung herself into one of Tbubui’s inlaid ebony chairs, biting her lip in frustration. She knew that the doll would not be disposed of until the victim was dead, and the pins themselves would never be pulled out. She could have a thousand secret hiding places, Sheritra thought in despair. A pit in the garden, a hole in the floor, even something sunk in the river by the watersteps.
The watersteps. With a shiver of excitement the girl came to her feet. Tbubui would not dare leave the doll on Khaemwaset’s property, but Sisenet was living in the house she had once occupied, and no one but he was likely to discover it. Sheritra knew in her bones that she was correct. Leaving the suite as quietly as she had come, she made her way to her own apartments. Bakmut admitted her, a finger to her lips, and Antef rose from the stool beside her couch.
“How is he?” she whispered, coming close and peering down at Hori. He looked already dead. His face was pallid, his closed eyes sunken, and he was breathing in shallow, rapid spurts. He must have sensed her presence, for he stirred, then his eyes opened and slowly focused on her. With a worried glance at Antef, she bent near him.
“Did you find it?” he whispered.
“Hori, I am sorry,” she replied. “I think she must have hidden it in the house on the east bank. I will go and look immediately.” In truth, she was terrified of such a task. She was in awe of Sisenet, did not want to encounter Harmin after their last painful meeting, and, though the house itself had been a very pleasant place in which to stay, she did not fancy drifting through it in the dark. It had a certain unnerving atmosphere when the people inhabiting it fell silent.
“There is not enough time,” he objected with agitation. “It could be anywhere. Instead we must see what Father’s scrolls of spells hold. Help me up.”
“No,” she hissed. “I can do it, Hori. Stay here!”
“My dear,” he replied as Antef’s arms went about him and he sat up awkwardly, “I do not know much about magic but I at least know what to look for. You do not. Please stop fussing over me.”
Chastened and alarmed, she helped Antef to take his weight, and together they left Sheritra’s suite. Night still hung in the corridors and brooded in the corners. Slowly, too burdened for any attempt at concealment, they made their way to Khaemwaset’s office. The guards they passed looked at them curiously, but recognizing Hori and Sheritra they held their challenges. Only at the door to the office were they halted. Khaemwaset was particular in protecting his medical supplies.
“As you can see,” Sheritra told the soldier patiently, “my brother is very ill. The Prince has given us permission to retrieve certain herbs from his box.”
The soldier bowed diffidently. “Princess, may I see the permission?” he asked.
Sheritra clucked, annoyed. “We are his children,” she objected. “He does not think it necessary to treat us so formally. I expect he forgot that you would be here doing your duty so zealously.”
The man continued to regard them suspiciously and they continued to stand, Antef and she, with Hori swaying between them. Finally the guard stood aside.
“I do not think the Prince had his own family in mind when he set up this watch,” he said gruffly. “You may pass, Highnesses.”
He opened the door for them and they shuffled past him. Sheritra’s arm was screaming with Hori’s weight. I think it is time Father dismissed his guard and hired Shardanas,” she muttered. “These men have become very lax.”
“Just as well for us,” Antef breathed. They were now at the door to the inner office. Sheritra tried the latch.
“It is locked,” she said in dismay.
“Break it down,” Hori said promptly.
Antef needed no further encouragement Relinquishing Hori’s full weight to Sheritra, he placed his foot on the lock and pushed. It gave with a grind of protest, and the door swung open. Inside there was total darkness.
“Antef,” Sheritra called. Light the lamp on the desk and bring it. Quickly. I cannot hold him for much longer.”
Antef did as he was bid, bringing the lamp and setting it on a shelf behind the door. Its light filled the tiny room, warm and indifferently comforting. Antef pulled a chair towards the chests ranged against the far wall, and he and Sheritra lowered Hori onto it. He sat limply, hands hanging, but his head came up and he tried to smile at them.
“It is that one,” he pointed. “The small one. The others are full of herbs and other physics. It will also be locked. Antef, have you a knife?”
For answer the young man produced a slim blade. He knelt before the chest and began to work at the lock. Sheritra squatted beside him.
&n
bsp; “Antef, you will be banished from this house for tonight’s work, you realize that, don’t you?” she said. “It will all come out, and then Father will order you to leave.”
He glanced at her briefly, his hands and his attention on the stubborn chest. “I know,” he said simply, “but I no longer feel at home here anyway, Highness. Hori will die and my reason for being here will be gone. The Prince may do as he sees fit. I do not care.” The lock gave suddenly and he lifted the lid, looking up at Hori.
“Sheritra, hand me three or four,” Hori ordered. “You and Antef take the same number. I want a spell of undoing and reversing, and if we cannot find that I want a spell of protection to prevent any further damage to me. His tone was businesslike, noncommittal, and Sheritra had a moment of unqualified admiration for his courage. He did not think of himself as brave, she knew, but his unselfconscious fortitude in the face of almost certain death surely gave him an anonymous place with the heroes of Egypt. He was already unrolling a scroll, his hands unsure, his breath harsh and uneven. She pushed away her overwhelming concern and turned to the task at hand.
For some time there was silence. Sheritra sat cross-legged on the floor, trying to make sense of the things she was reading. Not every scroll was titled, and it seemed to her that the language of magic was often deliberately esoteric, requiring a careful translation. Antef was faring better, his pleasant, open face down over his work. Occasionally he would grunt with disappointment and toss the delicate papyrus back into the chest.
Sheritra had finished her sixth scroll, a spell to be said over a patient with pain in his back, to be used in conjunction with a salve, the ingredients of which she did not bother to decipher. With a sigh she reached into the chest and drew out another bundle. The first scroll she raised was stained. A brown, irregular patch of what looked like rust had spread over one corner, and she fingered it with distaste. It seemed very old. “Hori, look at this,” she said, handing it to him. “What has made this mark?”
He took it absently, his own eyes still engaged on the scroll he was reading, but then he gave a startled exclamation and almost dropped it. Retrieving it gingerly from his lap he examined it closely. Sheritra saw any colour that was left in his face drain away. Alarmingly, he was coming to his feet, his whole body tense with agitation. “No,” he whispered. Antef turned. Sheritra got up and went to him.
“Hori, what is it?” she asked, alarmed, and her consternation grew as he suddenly began to laugh, a weak, high-pitched sound. The scroll shook in his grip Then his laughter tuned into tears. He sat down clumsily, the scroll held before him like a grotesque weapon.
“No,” he breathed. “No. Now I know that we are all doomed.”
“Hori, please stop it,” she begged. “You are frightening me.”
For answer he took her hand and forced it onto the scroll. “Feel,” he said. “Look. Can you see them?”
Sheritra looked, but all her attention was on him. “I see tiny marks, like pinpricks,” she said mystified, “and isn’t that a piece of thread hanging from the papyrus?”
“A needle made those marks,” he said dully. “I was there when the papyrus was punctured. The stain is Father’s blood. He pricked his finger when he was sewing this thing onto the hand from which he had torn it. It is the Scroll of Thoth.”
‘You are being fanciful,” Sheritra snapped, more sharply than she had intended. Suddenly she did not want to touch the scroll, and withdrew her hand. Hori stroked it in an ecstasy of fascinated horror.
“No I am not,” he said. “I recognize it without a doubt. Father’s blood, the needle marks, the thread. He ordered the lids placed on the coffins, and then the tomb was closed and sealed and the stairway piled with rubble. Yet it is here. Here.” Antef was watching, motionless, balancing on one knee, his face to his friend. Sheritra did not want to see the expression on Hori’s face, but she too could not look away. She had never seen such raw fear mingled with resignation. “No human hand could have done this,” Hori said, “not even a dead one. Thoth himself took the Scroll from the tomb and placed it here. His divine curse is on Father, and my own pales into insignificance beside the judgment of a god.” He began to laugh again, helplessly and weakly, the Scroll clutched tight to his chest. “He doesn’t even know! Not yet. He doesn’t know!”
“Hori,” Sheritra began, not sure what she should do, but he rallied and gave her a smile.
“Close the chest,” he said. “We must find Father at once and show him this Scroll together with the ones Antef copied in Koptos. He must listen!”
“But what of you?”
He stroked her hair, one long, tender gesture. “I am finished,” he said simply, “but now I do not care. The god has spoken, and Father’s fate will be more terrible than mine. Death is clean compared to that. Go and bring the scrolls, Sheritra. Antef and I will wait for you. Then we will go to Father.”
Even in his physical extremity there was no denying him. Sheritra acceded to his authority and went out. The guard bowed as she rushed by him but she hardly noticed. The scrolls were as she left them, lying in a disordered heap on her couch. Bakmut had gone back to sleep and was breathing deeply on her mat by the door. Quickly Sheritra scooped up the armful of papyrus, aware as she did so that the darkness was thinning; both inside the house and out, the profound hush before the dawn had fallen. Hurrying back to Hori she found Antef standing over him. Hori had fallen asleep, the Scroll hugged to his breast, his head resting against his friend.
“He should not be doing this!” she said fiercely. “He should be on his couch, dying with dignity! All this is madness, Antef, and we are encouraging him.”
At the sound of her voice Hori stirred and pulled himself up on Antef’s arm. “Do you think Father is with Tbubui?” he slurred.
“No,” Sheritra answered as they shambled out of the room and into the passage. “Tbubui is sleeping on the roof of the concubines’ house. Father will be on his couch.” She was dreading this meeting, to her a proof of Hori’s increasing madness, but such was her loyalty that she was determined to support him to the end. She prayed, as they lurched along, that Khaemwaset would understand and be indulgent.
Several times on the way to Khaemwaset’s suite Hori appeared to lose consciousness, but eventually they came to the imposing electrum-plated door behind which Khaemwaset was sleeping. The guard, after one look at the dishevelled trio, knocked, and after a moment a bleary-eyed Kasa answered. One glance at them was enough to chase the sleep from his eyes.
“Highnesses!” he exclaimed. “Whatever has happened?”
“Let us in, Kasa,” Sheritra demanded, “We must speak with Father.”
The body servant bowed and disappeared with alacrity. After what seemed an age he returned. “The Prince is awake and will see you,” he said, standing back, and the three of them staggered through the ante-room and into Khaemwaset’s sleeping room.
He was sitting up and blinking in the light of the fresh lamp Kasa had brought, his expression irritable. At the sight of them he slid from under the sheets and reached for a discarded kilt, wrapping it around his waist and brusquely indicating the chair by the couch. Antef and Sheritra slid Hori onto it.
“So, Hori, you have returned,” Khaemwaset said coldly. “Embroiled in madness and conspiracy, I have no doubt. What is the matter with you?”
“He is very sick,” Sheritra said swiftly before Hori could reply, “but he has things to tell you Father. Oh please listen.”
“Sick?” Khaemwaset echoed without much interest. “I dare say he is. Sick with his own guilt. I had expected more from you, my son, than weak self-indulgence and the petty urge for revenge.”
Hori had managed to retain his hold on the Scroll. Now he thrust it towards Khaemwaset. “Do you recognize this, Father?” he asked. “Sheritra and I found it not an hour ago in the locked chest in your office where you keep your other scrolls. Antef will swear that I am telling the truth.”
“What were you doing in there?” Khaemwas
et said furiously. You have taken leave of your senses, all of you.”
Then he looked down at the Scroll. At first he was obviously not aware of what he was holding, but as he turned it impatiently the bloodstain came into view. He stared at it, his hand began to shake, then with an oath he flung it away. It flew past Hori’s head and landed in the shadows. Quietly Antef stepped back and picked it up. Sheritra, all her attention fixed on her father, saw that he had gone a deathly white.
“I see that you do recognize it,” Hori commented with a wry smile. “Remember how you dug the needle into your finger, Father, and your blood dripped onto the corpse’s hand? Antef, give it back to the Prince. I want him to examine it more carefully. I want him to be sure.”
But Khaemwaset backed away. “It is the Scroll of Thoth, that damnable thing,” he said hoarsely. “I am not denying it. What I refuse to believe is your foolish story. If you have indeed broken into my chest you will all be severely punished.” He was recovering. Sheritra saw the colour creeping back into his cheeks, and with a blaze of controlled anger mixed with cunning. She had never before believed her father capable of sheer animal craftiness, but there was no mistaking its presence on his face. He is not going to listen, she thought with a chill of fear. All his fairness, his reason, has been swallowed up in possessing Tbubui. He is like a cornered animal driven to the extreme of temporary insanity by the need for self-preservation.
He came close to Hori, bending and placing his hands on his own knees, peering into his son’s pain-wracked face without any sign of concern.
“You are a little jackal, Hori,” he said thickly. “Shall I tell you what I believe? I believe that you broke open my chest to put the Scroll in, not take it out. You did not find it there, you stole it from the tomb and mutilated my chest to support your weak story. Now what story is that exactly, Hori? What incredible deceit am I being asked to consider?”
Sheritra pushed forward with the scrolls Hori had brought back from Koptos. “Read these, Father,” she begged. “Hori is too ill to talk. They will explain everything.”
Scroll of Saqqara Page 49