Scroll of Saqqara(195)

Later that morning, Ib came to tell him that the raft was also missing, and this time his daughter had been seen making her way along the path from the watersteps. Irritably Khaemwaset sent for her. Shortly after, Ib returned with the message the Princess was refusing to leave her quarters. He merely stood politely waiting, and with a loud oath Khaemwaset swung out of the office where he had been trying to dictate and, with a guard and a herald trotting at his heels, strode to Sheritra’s suite. At the herald’s persistent knocking, Bakmut opened the door.

“Get out of my way,” Khaemwaset ordered brusquely. “I must talk with my daughter.”

Bakmut bowed but stood her ground. “I am sorry, Highness, but the Princess will see no one,” she said obstinately. Khaemwaset did not waste time arguing. He grasped her arm and pulled her aside, going to stand in the middle of the ante-room.

“Sheritra!” he called. “Come out at once. I wish to ask you a question.”

For a long time there was no answer, and Khaemwaset was preparing to force the inner door when he heard her stirring. The door was unlatched but she did not appear. Instead her voice floated to him from somewhere in the dimness beyond.

“You may ask and I will answer, Father,” she said, “but it will be the last time. I wish no more commerce with anyone, particularly with you.”

“You are disrespectful,” he began furiously, but she broke in: “Ask your question and do not tire me too far, or I may not answer you at all.” There was something dead about her tone, Khaemwaset realized, checking the flood of invective hovering on his tongue. So even, so indifferent, as though she were past caring about anything. His bluster died.

“Very well,” he said thickly. “Did you take the raft out last night?”

She responded immediately. “Yes I did.”

He waited for more but the silence went on until he was forced to continue.

“Did you bring it back?”

“Yes, I did.”

Again the silence. Khaemwaset felt his exasperation begin to build afresh.

“Well where is it now?” he growled.

She sighed. He could hear the soft gust of her breath and he thought he caught a glimpse of her linen within the shelter of the half-light within.

“Hori took the skiff and went to talk to Sisenet about your wife,” she said woodenly. “Antef and I took the raft and went after him. We brought him home. I got off, but Hori has gone north with his friend. You will not see him again.”

“He just could not let go!” Khaemwaset exploded. “He actually killed because he could not let go! Good riddance to him! I hope he stays in the Delta until he rots!”

“He will not reach the Delta,” that cold, disembodied voice came drifting. “He will be dead by tomorrow night. Sisenet told him so. Sisenet wielded the pins, Father, but you decreed that Hori should die. Think of that tomorrow night when you gaze into your mirror.”

“Well what of you?” Khaemwaset said uneasily, her tone more than her words making him suddenly chill. “What nonsense are you playing out, Sheritra? Harmin will be here this afternoon to visit his mother. Will you refuse him entry also?”

“I have decided not to marry Harmin after all,” she replied, and now her voice wavered. “In fact, Father I have decided to remain a single woman. Now go away.”

He waited for some moments after the door had been firmly closed, expostulating, swearing, even pleading, but no sound came from the other side. It was as though he stood at the sealed entrance to some tomb, and in the end he grew afraid and went away.

That afternoon Harmin did indeed come to visit Tbubui, and the three of them, Khaemwaset, his wife and her son, sat in the garden while servants passed damp cloths over their limbs and fed them fruit and beer. Harmin was unusually attentive to Tbubui, stroking her face, rearranging her pillows, meeting her glance with a warm smile when she had a joke to share. How unlike Hori he is, Khaemwaset thought nostalgically. Here is genuine concern and respect, a son knowing his place and keeping it out of love for his parent. Whatever devil has entered Sheritra, the little fool, to refuse this gracious young man?

As if in answer to his musing, Harmin rose and bowed. “With your permission, Prince, I should like to spend some time with Sheritra now,” he said. Khaemwaset looked up at him with embarrassment.

“Dear Harmin,” he said. “I am afraid that Sheritra is indisposed and is seeing no one today. She sends you her apologies and, of course, her love.”

A glance of swift understanding passed between mother and son. Harmin’s face fell. “I am devastated,” he said, “but tell her that she has my sympathy. In that case I shall go home and sleep.” He bent and kissed Tbubui, bowed again to Khaemwaset and glided away, kilt swinging against sturdy, shapely legs, his black hair bouncing on his shoulders.