Scroll of Saqqara(11)
They had not exchanged a single word, Khaemwaset remembered, gazing into the silent shadows of his ceiling and groaning softly as the memory unfolded. Doubtless she had known who he was, but he had neither known nor cared about her. Sensation had been his goal that night, and now his brain played back to him the movement of her muscles under his hands, his mouth, the slightly tart taste of her tongue against his, her black, black eyes becoming heavy-lidded with passion and staring into his before he gave himself over to his own lust.
He had forgotten her until now. Other girls were taken—in the evenings by the river, in the heat of drugged summer afternoons behind the granaries, in his own rooms on impulse—then at sixteen he had married Nubnofret and four years later been appointed sem-priest of Ptah at Memphis. His life’s work began, and the urgent messages of his senses became fewer and weaker as stronger passions superseded them. Sadness for what is gone, yes I understand that, he thought, as once more he composed himself for sleep. But the emptiness? The loss? Why? The only hole I truly thirst to fill is the one that waits for the Scroll of Thoth, and if the gods will it, that I will find and the power that goes with it. Poor little Hurrian dancer. How many times has my father woken desire in that exquisite body of yours? Do you hunger for him day after day, or do you whirl away the fire? He slipped into unconsciousness, and the memories did not follow.
2
How beloved is he, our victorious ruler!
How great is our King among the gods!
How fortunate is he, the commanding Lord!
HE WOKE LATE the following morning. Ib, true to his orders, had kept the fuss and bustle of the impending journey away from his door so that he was able to eat his habitual light breakfast of fruit bread and beer and wander to the bath house undisturbed. Already resentment was filling him as he stepped off the stone pedestal and held out his arms so that Kasa could dry him. He did not want to go north, did not want to tread daintily and warily through the eggshell maze of negotiation, did not really want to see his father, but he told himself sternly that his mother at least would greet him effusively, and he would make time to visit Ramses’ splendid libraries.
Back in his quarters he sat so that his cosmetician, under Kasa’s wary eye, could paint the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands with henna, and while the orange paint dried he listened to Penbuy give him the messages for the day. There were few. A letter had come from his cattle steward in the Delta to tell him that twenty calves had been born and recorded. The scroll that made his mouth water, though, was of a massive bulk that Penbuy laid reverently on the table by his couch. “The plans for the burial place of succeeding Apis bulls are finished and await your approval, Prince,” he said, smiling at Khaemwaset’s obvious delight, but Khaemwaset, after running a hand over the warm papyrus, regretfully left it unread. It would be a treat to look forward to when he came home.
The henna was dry, and the cosmetician began to slide the black kohl around Khaemwaset’s eyes while his jeweller opened the box containing his necklaces. Khaemwaset picked up a copper mirror and surveyed the man’s handiwork critically, his eyes straying to the contours of his own face. What he saw reassured him. I may be a trifle flabby, he thought, and having slept on it I will take Kasa’s advice, but I am still a handsome man. He ran a reflective forefinger along the line of his tight jaw and the cosmetician exclaimed in annoyance. My nose resembles my father’s. It is thin and straight. Nubnofret still remarks on my nose. My mouth is perhaps a trifle uncompromising but full, thanks to my mother. Good clear eyes. Yes, I could still attract any woman at court …
Amused and perplexed, he set down the mirror with a snap. Such odd thoughts, he smiled to himself. Khaemwaset, mighty prince of Egypt, the boy in you is clamouring for attention today. You have not heard his voice in a long time. Then he forgot his juvenile self as his jeweller approached and he selected electrum bracelets, a pectoral of precious silver and blue faience work and several gold rings. The man was slipping the last of the rings onto his fingers when Ramose, his herald, called sonorously from the door, “The Princess Sheritra.” Khaemwaset turned with a smile as his daughter hurried across the floor.
“I missed you last night, Father,” Sheritra said as she gave him a quick, ungainly hug and, blushing, put her hands behind her back. “Mother said you probably wouldn’t be able to say goodnight to me but I waited up for a while anyway. How is the concubine?”
Khaemwaset returned her embrace, hiding the mild stab of dismay he often felt when he had not seen her recently. She was all gawky bones and graceless lines, his fifteen-yearold treasure. Her legs were too long for her small frame and she often inadvertently tripped over her own feet. The servants had laughed endearingly at her unconscious antics when she was small but, out of affection for her, they laughed no more. Her fleshless hip bones jutted painfully sharply against the form-fitting linen sheaths she stubbornly wore, even though Nubnofret had time and again tried to persuade her to don more fashionable and certainly more flattering pleats and flounces. It was as though, knowing her many physical deficiencies, she had decided out of sheer pride not to try to compete in the world of feminine vanities, because to do so would cheapen who she was.