Hori caught up with Khaemwaset as he was on his way to the reception hall for the noon meal, Tbubui on his arm. He greeted his son amicably, but his eyes darted to Ptah-Seankh and the scroll Hori was gripping, and his smile died. “What is it?” he snapped.
“I need to speak with you immediately, alone,” Hori said. “Come out into the garden.”
“Can it not wait until we have eaten?” Khaemwaset objected. “Tbubui is hungry.”
“Then Tbubui can go and eat,” Hori said loudly. “This will not wait.” He saw the swift, worried glance that passed between the two before Khaemwaset gave her a kiss and she withdrew her arm. “Ask Nubnofret to hold the meal,” he said, and she turned into the shade of the entrance pillars and was gone.
Khaemwaset pushed past Hori, who followed him, Ptah-Seankh behind, until they reached a secluded spot by the thick bushes screening the path to the watersteps. Here Khaemwaset halted and rounded on his son. “Well,” he barked. “What is it?”
For answer Hori thrust the scroll under his chin. “You recognize this?’ he asked, his voice quivering with rage. “Explain to me how you are able to destroy my life and Sheritra’s future and still have an appetite for your food!”
Khaemwaset turned slowly to the scribe. “You are unworthy of my trust,” he said coldly. “You are dismissed.”
Ptah-Seankh paled. He bowed, speechless, and began to retreat, but Hori roughly grasped his arm.
“Not so fast,” he said. “You may change your mind, Father, when you hear everything your scribe has to say. It is not Ptah-Seankh who is unworthy of trust, it is your precious Tbubui. Tell him, Ptah-Seankh!”
The man fell abjectly to his knees. Haltingly, with many glances up at Hori’s glowering face and the Prince’s first angry and then disbelieving expression, he told the story of his downfall. But by the time he had finished, the Prince was no longer impaling him with his relentless gaze. He was watching his son.
Ptah-Seankh fell silent. Khaemwaset went on staring at Hori. Then he began to clench and unclench his fists, the muscles of his forearms knotting ominously.
“That is the most cruelly imaginative story I have ever heard,” he said heavily. “But I would like to hear it once more, this time in Tbubui’s presence. You!” he shouted over the shrubbery to the guard always stationed on the path. “Fetch the lady Tbubui! She is in the hall eating.” His attention returned to the two young men. “I knew you disliked her,” he said to Hori, “but I would not have believed you capable of this kind of animosity. As for you …” he bent, and with shocking suddenness the flat of his hand connected with Ptah-Seankh’s cheek. “The story you will presently retell will be the last words you speak in this house.”
“You have already judged us, haven’t you, Father?” Hori whispered. He was stunned, all scorn gone. “It is impossible for you to believe us. You think that I compelled Ptah-Seankh to lie, that he and I are engaged in a conspiracy against Tbubui. You are totally in her power.”
“Be silent!” Khaemwaset roared, and Hori obeyed, biting his lip. He shot a sympathetic glance at the scribe, then stared at the ground.
Before long the bushes rustled and Tbubui appeared, smiling, her red linen pasted tight to her swaying hips, the hot sun gleaming in the smooth blackness of her hair. She went straight up to her husband and bowed. “You sent for me, Khaemwaset?” she smiled. For answer he poked a rigid finger at Ptah-Seankh, still on his knees. “Say it,” he commanded. Ptah-Seankh did as he was bid, his voice now choked, his skin the colour of death. Hori, watching the woman closely, had to admire her perfect control. From polite interest her expression deepened to incomprehension, then to concern. Her mouth began to pucker, and by the time Ptah-Seankh fell silent for the last time, tears were glittering on her cheeks.
“Oh Hori, how could you?” she wept, turning to him beseechingly. “I would have said nothing, I would have remained your friend. Could you not have forced away your jealousy and rejoiced for your father and me? You are as dear to me as my own son. Why have you tried to hurt me so badly?” Her face descended into her two palms and Khaemwaset enfolded her in his embrace.
In the midst of his numbing shock, Hori found himself admiring the greatest performance he had ever seen in his life. He wanted to applaud. Like a naïve child he had played right into her hands, and he had only himself to blame. Khaemwaset had released her and was frowning. “What do you mean, you would have said nothing?” he demanded of her, forcing her chin up. The tears spilled down her neck and shone against the healthy brown of her collar-bones.