Khaemwaset felt his mouth dry up and he turned once more to the table, trying to summon up the saliva he would need. She continued to scream and sob, beating on the solid wood with fists and feet, and he could not shut out the vision of her, desperate and suddenly insane with fear. With deliberation he spat on the papyrus and again on the figures, one by one. “Anathema!” he said. The noise from the passage stopped, then she shrieked, “Ah gods, no! That hurt me, Khaemwaset! Please stop!”
With great care he took the dolls and paper, and placing them on the floor he lifted his left foot and slowly ground it into them. This time she began to choke and wail, a horrible gurgling sound that made Kasa clap his hands over his ears and sink to the tiling.
“I will not stay dead, I will not!” she shouted. “I will be back, you grinning jackal, for the Scroll cannot be gainsaid!”
“Oh yes it can,” he whispered. “Anathema, Tbubui. Anathema.” He knelt, and taking his ivory knife, he very gently slid it into the three soft wax shapes, then he drove it hard against the papyrus, which split with a small, distressing sound. Khaemwaset took the bowl that had held the water, poured the remains away, wiped it out, and, laying all the mutilated pieces of his work in it, he took the lamp and a spill and set the whole alight. The papyrus caught at once and the wax began to melt.
“Anathema,” he breathed for the last time.
Tbubui was screaming now, a high-pitched, inhuman note, and he could hear her writhing at the edge of the door, her fists and heels drumming madly. The wax was puddling in the bottom of the bowl and the papyrus had crisped and blackened to a few feathery ashes. None of the dolls was recognizable anymore.
Khaemwaset began to cry. I have been fortunate, he thought, his eyes watering from the incense and the tart tang of the burnt papyrus in his nostrils. My spell has not failed. Set bowed to my will, but he is already straightening again, and regarding me with his black, cruel wolf’s eye. I do not think that he will ever look away from me again.
Gradually he became aware that a deep peace had fallen, and with it the first shy intimations of dawn. Wiping his face on the linen, he unwound it and let it fall, putting on the crumpled kilt he had shed at the beginning. Someone would surely have heard that insane screaming. Soon the passage would be full of guards and they would find … find what? He looked about. The office was a shambles, and it stank of stale incense, sweat and the myrrh with which he had anointed himself. The lamp at that moment sparked, guttered and went out, but Khaemwaset could still see his body servant, white and leaning against the wall.
“Kasa, open the door,” he said. The man stared at him.
“Highness,” he breathed, “what has happened here? What have you done?”
“I have rid myself of a great evil,” Khaemwaset said wearily, “and now I must learn to live with a greater one. Later I will speak to the whole household, but for now, Kasa, open the door.”
On unsteady feet the man went to do as he was told, but as he touched the lock he paused. “Highness,” he said without turning around. “The secret name of Set …”
“It is as I have said it,” Khaemwaset broke in. “But do not think to use it, old friend. Even an apprentice of magic is not, for his own safety, told such a thing. I congratulate you on your courage.”
Kasa opened the door.
She was lying curled up, her face to the room, one hand against the foot of the door. Her fingers, knees and feet had broken open but the flesh beneath was purple and dry and there was no blood on the door. The stench of putrefaction in the passage was overpowering, and Kasa began to retch. Khaemwaset ignored it. Kneeling, he pushed her hair away from her face. The eyes were glassy and expressionless, the lips drawn back over the little teeth. It seemed to him that the body was already bloating, and he knew he did not have much time. Soldiers were running towards him and he could hear shouting somewhere in the house. He stood. The men came to a halt and saluted, bewildered, but Khaemwaset did not want to explain, not then. There is more than my damnation for a legacy, he thought, watching their faces, for I still love and long for her. It is an unnatural desire, compulsive and terrible, and no power I know will ever rid me of that burden.
“Carry her into the garden,” he commanded tersely. “Amek, are you there?”
The captain of his guard emerged and bowed. “Highness?”
“Take six men and go to the house of Sisenet on the east bank. In it you will find two bodies, Sisenet and his son. Bring them here. Make a pyre, then report to me.” The men began to murmur but Amek merely bowed, snapped an order of his own and wheeled away.
Khaemwaset spared Tbubui’s body one more look as his guard bent and gingerly began to raise her, then he grabbed for Kasa’s shoulder and, leaning on him, made his way to his apartments. On the way he passed the new entrance that led to Tbubui’s beautiful north suite, and he averted his eyes.
Once inside the safety of his own rooms he told Kasa to go away and rest, and he himself approached the couch. The cup from which she had drunk such a short time ago still sat on the table. He picked it up and the dregs oozed like oil. The couch still bore the imprint of her body and the pillow was dented where her head had lain. Khaemwaset sat down heavily and pulled the pillow into his arms. He remained there, rocking and weeping, while the light around him strengthened and warmed and birds began to twitter and fight in the trees beyond the window.
Three hours later Amek sought admittance, and Khaemwaset, in a daze of mental fatigue, laid the pillow aside and went out to meet the captain. “It is done,” Amek said. “The bodies were there as you said. The man Sisenet was slumped over the table in his room and, Highness, he had a cursing doll in one hand and the husk of a scorpion in the other. The boy Harmin had died on his couch.” Khaemwaset nodded, but Amek had not finished. “Highness,” he went on hesitantly, “I have seen many dead bodies in my career as a soldier. These people did not seem freshly dead They are swollen and they stink, yet their limbs are rigid. I do not understand it.”
“I do,” Khaemwaset said. “They died a very long time ago, Amek. Put them on the pyre. Try not to touch them over-much.”
‘But Highness,” Amek protested, shocked. “If you burn them, if you do not let them be beautified, the gods will not be able to find them. Only their names will ensure their immortality, and names are a slender clue for the Divine Ones to follow.”
“They are indeed,” Khaemwaset agreed, wanting both to laugh and weep. “But trust me, Amek. What I have asked you to do is a matter of magic. Do not be concerned.”
Amek made a silent gesture of obeisance and left to carry out his orders. Khaemwaset made his way to Sheritra’s rooms. This time he did not seek permission to enter. Pushing past Bakmut he strode through the ante-room and straight into Sheritra’s sleeping quarters. She was awake but not yet up. The shutters had not been raised and she blinked at him through the dimness, then she jerked upright.
“You are not welcome here, Father,” she began icily, then he saw her eyes travel him more slowly. He knew what she saw. He was covered in oil, his neck smudged with the natron he had placed behind his ears, his naked chest smeared with grey unguent, his palms gritty, and the whole made worse by his copious sweat. Warily she swung her feet to the floor.
“You have been conjuring,” she said. “Oh Father, what is it?”
“Hori is dead,” he replied, a lump in his throat, and she nodded.
“I know. Why are you so surprised?” Then her face closed. “I will not speak to you about it anymore. I will go into mourning. I at least loved him.” Her voice shook. “If that bitch pretends to a sorrow I know she does not feel, I shall kill her myself.”
For answer he held out her cloak. “Put this on, Sheritra,” he said. “This is a command, and if you refuse I shall carry you outside myself. I promise you that this is the last time, apart from Hori’s funeral, that you will have to see my face.”
She regarded him suspiciously for a moment, then, tearing the cloak from his hand, she pul
led it about herself.
He walked her out into the garden, now filled with a mellow early light. He knew what she would see but he did not spare her, stepping aside as she passed between the pillars so that her view would not be impeded. For a while she obviously could not grasp the sight. Khaemwaset simply let his gaze play over the pile of dry, twisted wood in the middle of grass, topped by three stiff, distorted bodies. Sheritra drew in her breath and moved towards them like a sleep-walker. Khaemwaset followed. Twice she stalked around the pyre, pausing only to peer into Merhu’s yellowing, empty face, then she planted herself before her father.
“You did this,” she said.
“I did,” he said. “Hori was right all the time. I order you to stay and watch them burn.”
Her expression had not changed. It was hard and indifferent. “Well it is too late for Hori,” she retorted. “If you had believed him and conjured on his behalf he would still be alive.”
“If I had believed him, if I had not broken into that tomb, if I had not stolen the thing to which I had no right, if I had not pursued the mysterious Tbubui …” He signalled to Amek. “Fire them,” he said.
Khaemwaset welcomed the discomfort of the gathering flames, his self-hate and his loathing for the gods too deep for coherent thought. The bodies hissed and crackled as the flames reached them, but still Sheritra made no move and said nothing. The only time she reacted, drawing in her breath, was when the old tendons began to tighten with the heat and, one by one, the bodies began to jerk, to sit up, to draw up their knees in a grotesque parody of life. She and he remained where they were until the fire collapsed and died, and there was nothing left but a glowing heart in which a few blackened bones had collected. Then Sheritra came up to him.
“Never forget that all this is your doing,” she said, and her eyes held neither pity nor accusation. “From now on, you will respect my isolation or I will leave this house. The choice is yours, Prince.” She did not wait for an argument. She glided away, somehow dignified, even regal with her straight back and floating white linen, and Khaemwaset watched her go. The servants had gathered in a frightened huddle at the far end of the garden, all their chores forgotten, but Khaemwaset could not face them. Not yet.
He turned towards the house, sitting brightly sunlit, and he was sure that he could hear the Nile running strongly, lapping and gurgling its joy as it sped towards the Delta. He had considered throwing the Scroll onto the fire, but he had known in his heart that such a gesture would be pointless. It would simply have reappeared, light and innocuous, in his chest. I am at last the proud owner of the Scroll of Thoth, he thought bitterly as he passed under the shade of the pillars. My boyhood dream has come true. I was cursed from the day of my birth, and I did not know it. My son is dead, my wife estranged, my daughter a prisoner of herself. What shall I do with the long years stretching ahead? How shall I fill the pitiless chasms of the reception hall, the empty, torchlit passages, the white sepulchre of my couch? What shall I think when I wake alone in the night and lie sleepless in the silence, the brooding, accusing silence? He gestured to Kasa and crossed the threshold.
EPILOGUE
Praise to Thoth …
the Vizier who gives judgment,
who vanquishes crime,
who recalls all that is forgotten,
the remembrancer of time and eternity …
whose words abide forever.
HE TURNED HIS HEAD with difficulty, seeking water. His room was very dark beyond the tiny glimmer cast by the night lamp, but someone was breathing harshly, irregularly, the sound primitive and frightening. It was some time before he realized that the noise was coming from himself. Of course, he thought peacefully. At last I am dying. My lungs have rotted from inhaling so much ancient air. Too many tombs opened in the enthusiasm of my younger days, too many dusty coffins examined. But I have not violated the dead for twenty years. Not since … not since that place at Saqqara. He felt his chest constrict, and for a moment he struggled to get his breath, mouth open, hands clutched to his throat. But then the tension eased and he heard his breathing settle once again. Where are they? he thought petulantly. Kasa, Nubnofret, they should be here with the priests, with water and soothing medicines, but the room is dark, the room is empty. I am alone. Nubnofret does not care, of course, but Kasa … It is his business to care. “Kasa!” he croaked. “I need water!”
No one answered him. Only the shadows moved, deep and slow, like glimpses of a river bottom under the moon’s cold gleam. Moon, he thought. Moon, moon. The moon belongs to Thoth, but I do not. For a long time now I have belonged to Set, and where is he in my extremity? For a moment he concentrated on the sound of his breathing, echoing against the invisible walls and the spangled ceiling shrouded in night, but soon other sounds began to intrude and he forgot his lungs and stared into the darkness, frowning. There were shapes out there, animal shapes, vague and furry, curved animal spines.
Suddenly the light caught an eye, round and stupid, and he realized that there were baboons in his room, gibbering softly. He could see them now, scratching themselves in that idiotic, serious way baboons had, their paws going to their genitals. They were fondling themselves and staring at him incuriously. He was angry. What were baboons doing in his suite? Why did Kasa not chase them away? Then he saw that they had golden chains about their necks, and the chains, dull brown in the faint light, all led to the same place.
Suddenly Khaemwaset was afraid. His breath stopped, hitched, and he clawed for more air. “They are mine, Khaemwaset,” a voice came out of the darkness. “They help the sun to rise. They herald the dawn. But there will be no dawn for you. You will die tonight.” All at once his breathing was freed. He gulped at the air, the blessed, life-giving air, and sat up. “Who are you?” he demanded sharply. “Show yourself.” But something in him did not want the owner of the sibilant, somehow inhuman voice to show itself, and he watched in trepidation as the blackness shifted, coalesced, became the figure of a man stepping out of the shadows and approaching the couch. With a cry Khaemwaset shrank back, for the man had the long, curved beak and tiny eyes of an ibis.
“It is time to remember, Khaemwaset,” the figure, the man, the god said, leaning over him. “Not that you have forgotten, although you have tried. Set and I, we have had many conversations about you. You have been his obedient servant for long enough. Now it is my turn to claim your fealty again.”
“So I am not forgiven,” Khaemwaset said dully. “It has been over twenty years since I gave myself into the hands of Set on that dreadful day. Twenty years, and Sheritra still drifts about the house like a quiet, timid ghost. Nubnofret moves amid a panopoly of royal duties so rigid and complex that I cannot pierce it. She has forgiven but she cannot forget. Every summer at the Beautiful Feast of the Valley the three of us make offerings at Hori’s tomb and say the prayers for the dead, but even that sad ritual does not unite us.” A wave of dizziness made him close his eyes, and when he opened them again Thoth had not stirred. He seemed to be waiting. “As for myself,” Khaemwaset went on in a harsh whisper, “for years I have been Set’s champion. I have poured gold into his treasuries. I have bowed before him every day in adoration. I have given him the dark sacrifices he most desires. His presence has been in my food, my nostrils, the folds of my linen, like the taste and odour of some rotting beast lying undiscovered within my walls. Yet I have not complained. My worship has been unstinting. Every day I asked myself, Is the debt discharged? And every day I would know in my heart that it was not.” He looked across at the calm face of the god. “Is such a debt ever discharged?”
An expression of mild disappointment flitted across Thoth’s ibis face. “Are you asking me if you are forgiven for calling upon Set, or for stealing the Scroll, or for wreaking such a terrible vengeance on the magician Prince and his family?” he asked.
“For all of them!” Khaemwaset almost shouted, the effort sending spasms of fiery pain through his lungs. “I called upon Set because you had betrayed me.
I stole the Scroll out of a little greed and a monstrous ignorance for which, surely, I am not responsible! And my vengeance … my vengeance …” He struggled up. “Of what use was my vengeance when the lust for her has never died? When every night, though I know she has vanished from this world and the next as though she had never been born, I sweat and groan and cannot sleep for wanting the feel of her skin under my fingers, the touch of her hair brushing my face, the sound of her laughter as she turns towards me? That is your vengeance, O god of Wisdom! I hate you!” He was afraid, yet full of fury. “All my life I worshipped and served you, and you rewarded me by tearing apart my life and the lives of those who were dear to me. I did what had to be done, and I am not ashamed!”
Scroll of Saqqara Page 55