“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.”