Scroll of Saqqara(182)

“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.