Scroll of Saqqara(187)
“Give it to me,” Khaemwaset demanded, and Sheritra, hiding and listening, closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. Oh surely not! she thought, aghast. Father would not stoop to such a heinous thing! “I want to talk to him, Antef, therefore I will take him his nourishment,” Khaemwaset was saying. “You may go.” After a moment the young man handed the tray to Khaemwaset and, unwillingly, turned on his heel.
When he was out of sight, Khaemwaset set the tray on the floor, glanced up and down the passage, then pulled the stopper from the vial. Sheritra saw a stream of what looked like black granules go toppling into the thin soup. He is making sure Hori will die, she thought, appalled. He is leaving nothing to chance, and if someone orders an inquiry, Grandfather perhaps, he will pin the blame on Antef who carried the meal all the way from the kitchens.
Khaemwaset was stirring the gruel with one shaking finger, his face implacable, absorbed, and in that moment Sheritra knew that her father’s reason had gone. Do something! her mind shrieked. Stop this! She pushed herself away from the wall and almost fell, then she was running around the corner and full tilt down the corridor. Colliding with her father she made as if to grab at him and the tray teetered, the bowl slid, and the gruel went splashing to the floor.
“Sheritra!” he shouted, rubbing at his calf where the hot soup had burned him. “What are you doing?” He glowered at her, and Sheritra could have sworn she saw a murderous fury in those eyes.
“Father, I am so sorry,” she gasped. “I wanted to see Hori. I was in a hurry because Bakmut is waiting to bathe me. I did not realize …”
“It does not matter,” he muttered. “I wanted to see him myself, but I will wait. Order him more gruel, please.” He did not wait for an answer. He set off along the passage like a drunkard, his step unsteady, and Sheritra folded for a moment weak with relief. Hori was temporarily safe, but she had no doubt that her farther would make another attempt on Hori’s life. If he does not die in the meantime, she thought, a bubble of hysterical laughter rising to her throat. Poor Hori! If Tbubui doesn’t put paid to you, Father will. Then she felt the hot tears pricking behind her eyelids and with a strangled cry she ran after Khaemwaset, past the short embrasure containing Hori’s door, where a guard lounged, and into the broader main corridor running the length of the house. Her father had gone, but far ahead she saw Antef about to step out into the garden.
“Antef!” she shouted, and he paused, waiting for her until she came up to him, breathless. “Antef,” she repeated, her chest tight. “I was not going to ask for your help again but I must. We have to get Hori out of the house, and if possible, send him to the Delta. I am sorry,” she apologized, seeing his expression, “but I have no one else to turn to. Will you help me?”
“I do not know how such a thing can be done,” he said doubtfully. “His Highness is guarded closely, and frankly, Princess, if I defy your father it could mean my death.”
“I do not know how we can do it either,” Sheritra admitted, “but we have to try. Come to my quarters in an hour. That will give me time to be bathed and dressed and then we will make some kind of plan.” He bowed and they parted.
Sheritra returned to her rooms. She did not realize until she stepped through and Bakmut came hurrying to serve her how much on edge she was, but in the familiar quiet of her chambers with the smell of her perfume rising to meet her and the sight of her own possessions around her, her control broke down. Shivering so violently that she could hardly move, she allowed the servant to shepherd her to a chair. “Wine,” she muttered through clenched teeth, and Bakmut brought her a jar and a cup, pouring and folding her fingers around the stem without comment. Sheritra drained the cup, held it out for more, then sipped it slowly. The shuddering began to subside. I will kill Hori’s guard if I have to, she thought coldly. Kill Tbubui too. Kill them all if only Hori may survive. “Wash me,” she commanded Bakmut, “and let us be quick. I have terrible work to do today.”
21
He who is at rest cannot hear thy complaint,
and he who is in the tomb cannot understand
thy weeping.
THE GUARDS HAD LAID HORI on his couch and withdrawn, and he had fallen into a sodden, drugged dream in which Tbubui, clad in pure white linen, sat in the garden under the dappling shade of a sycamore tree with one round breast exposed. A tiny wax doll, with copper pins driven into its head and abdomen, was sucking from her puckered nipple, its malformed, lipless mouth working in a grotesque rhythm. “It will not be long now, dear Hori,” Tbubui was saying sweetly. “He is almost full.” Hori woke with a soundless scream in his throat, the now familiar throbbing in his head and gut giving him a moment of panic. He scrabbled against the sheets until his control reasserted itself. Then he lay still trying to accept the pain, to absorb it.