Scroll of Saqqara(184)

Khaemwaset straightened and took them with an indifferent glance for her. He unrolled the first and then began to smile gently. “Ah,” he said. “Why am I not surprised to find this in Antef’s broad hand? So my son has suborned you also, young man?” Antef said nothing, and Khaemwaset’s eyes moved to Sheritra. “I am deeply disturbed by your participation in this fraud,” he accused her. “I had thought you would have more sense, Little Sun. Did you connive in these forgeries?”

“They are not forgeries,” she contradicted him swiftly. “They are copies of documents residing in the library at Koptos. Antef made them under the librarian’s supervision. The man will surely swear to the truth. Please just read them, Father.”

“A man will swear to any truth if he is paid enough gold,” Khaemwaset said darkly. “Nevertheless, because you ask me, Sheritra, I will read.”

He sat down on the edge of the couch and, with an ostentatious contempt began to scan the papyrus. Hori was swaying dangerously on the chair and moaning softly but his father paid him no attention. Antef took the flask of poppy from his belt and unstoppered it, holding it to Hori’s mouth so that he could drink, then he knelt and pulled Hori’s head onto his shoulder. Sheritra stood—tired, aching and scared—while slowly the contents of the room began to acquire coherent shapes and the lamplight faded to a dirty yellow. Dawn was at hand.

At last Khaemwaset tossed the final scroll onto the couch behind him and looked directly at his daughter. “Do you believe this rubbish, Sheritra?” he demanded. It was the worst question he could have asked her. She hesitated, and he jumped in. “You do not. Neither do I. It is unfortunate that Hori has squandered so much energy preparing his vile little hoax. If he had hoarded a little for himself he might not have become ill.”

“I am ill because she cursed me,” Hori broke in with an agonizing slowness. “She told me to my face that she would do so. She is a living corpse, Father, like her husband Nenefer-ka-Ptah and her son Merhu, and they will destroy us all. You brought it on yourself when you gave tongue to the first spell on the Scroll.” He tried to laugh. “Only the gods know what would have happened if you had spoken the second as well.”

Khaemwaset rose and strode to the door. In spite of his assurance, Sheritra thought she detected an underlying unease. “I have heard enough,” he said loudly. “Tbubui warned me that you were jealous enough and insane enough with thwarted desire to actually attempt to kill her and her baby, and I supposed that her words stemmed from hysteria because of her pregnancy. But no more. You are a threat to both.” He hauled on the door. “Guards!” he yelled.

“No, Father!” Sheritra screamed, flinging herself across the room and clutching his arm. “No, you cannot! He is dying, can’t you see that? Have pity on him!”

“Did he have any pity on Tbubui? On me?” he said hotly. Two guards were even now hurrying into the room, and Khaemwaset nodded curtly in Hori’s direction. “My son is under close arrest,” he told them curtly. “Take him to his quarters and do not let him out.” Sheritra screamed again but he firmly plucked her fingers from his arm. The soldiers were pulling Hori to his feet, and Antef was hurriedly pushing the flask into his hand. Hori looked at Sheritra.

“You know what you must do now,” he said. “Please try, Sheritra. I do not want to die just yet.” Then he was being half dragged, half carried across the room and out the door. Khaemwaset swung to her.

“As for you,” he snapped, “I am ashamed of you. For the moment you are free until I decide a fitting punishment.” He turned to Antef. “You are a good young man at heart,” he said more kindly, “and I prefer to believe that you have been my son’s unwitting tool. You also will be disciplined and I will probably expel you from my household, but today I will be lenient. You may go.”

“You were not as indulgent towards Ptah-Seankh,” Sheritra said in a trembling voice when Antef had bowed and left, and Khaemwaset agreed with her readily.

“Of course not,” he said. “Ptah-Seankh was my servant. He owed me his loyalty, not Hori. He betrayed me. But Antef is Hori’s servant, and he at least remembered where his duty lay. I admire him for that.”

“And why can you not admire Hori for his loyalty to you?” Sheritra urged. “You cannot seriously think that Hori would have been able to dig through the rubble to the tomb entrance, force the door and raise the lid on that one coffin. Read the scrolls again, Father. For neither can you seriously believe that Hori could have contrived such an involved story. Please, at least give him the benefit of your doubt.”