Scroll of Saqqara(197)

She came to his suite much later, wafting to the couch on a cloud of her perfume and a ripple of loose, seductive linen. Without a word she shed the linen and spread his legs, easing herself down on him in practised motions, and with a groan he gave himself up to the exquisite sensations only she could tease from him. But long after she was asleep, breathing evenly in the crook of his arm, he lay wide awake in the grip of premonition. He dared not look at her. He had done so once, after she had slipped into unconsciousness, and there had been something about the glitter of her eyes under half-closed lids, the sight of her small, animal teeth between parted lips, that had struck him with fear.

He clung to the sounds of sanity. He heard the guard sighing outside the suite. He heard Kasa snoring in the other room. Jackals howled far away on the desert, and much closer in, an owl hooted in the garden. The lamp spat and the shadows gyrated for a moment. These things are real, he thought. These things arc comfort and sanity. Hold them close, for they are infinitely precious.

He was still awake to hear whispering outside. He lay quietly, waiting, until Ib approached the couch. The man was naked, obviously roused precipitously from his mat in the passage. “Speak,” Khaemwaset said, and at the word Tbubui stirred beside him and her cool flesh disengaged from his. She turned over.

“Highness, you had better get up,” Ib whispered. “Antef has returned with the raft and your son. Please come.”

Hori is dead, Khaemwaset said to himself as he nodded, waved Ib away and slipped carefully from the couch. That is the aura of desolation that has been slowly filling the house. Hori is dead. Wrapping a kilt around his waist and feeling for his sandals, he left the room and went through into the passage. Antef was waiting, his face pale, his whole attitude one of exhaustion, but his eyes met Khaemwaset’s with the clear, straight stare of a pure conscience. “Speak,” Khaemwaset said again, acknowledging the young man’s bow.

“Prince, your son is dead,” Antef said bluntly. “His body lies on the raft at the watersteps. He died in terrible pain but he did not rail against the gods or you. His judging will surely be favourable.”

“I do not understand,” Khaemwaset said haltingly. “Hori was ill, certainly, when I detained him, but I thought he had contracted some sickness in Koptos. He would recover … he would get well …”

“He told your Highness exactly what was wrong with him,” Antef said bluntly, “but your Highness refused to listen. Regret is vain. He wanted me to tell you that, though his end is terrible, it is not as terrible as your fate. Also that he loved you.”

For answer Khaemwaset turned on his heel and began to run along the torchlit corridor. Through the house he sped, and as he ran he was thinking, Hori! My son! My flesh! It was a game, it was a dangerous foolishness, I never meant to do you any harm, I would not really have poisoned you, I love you, oh Hori, why? Why? He heard Antef, Ib and Kasa pounding after him. Though he ran as fast as he could, he was unable to put distance between himself and the growing guilt and remorse already snapping at his heels so that by the time he almost fell down the water-steps and stood looking down onto the raft he was weeping with self-loathing.

Hori lay in a huddle under a blanket, rocking imperceptibly on the Nile’s swell. He looked like nothing better than a pile of dirty linen waiting to be laundered. Khaemwaset stepped from the stone onto the raft, and kneeling, he turned back the covering. He was a setem-priest, and his first thought on seeing the curled body was that the embalmers would have difficulty in straightening him out, for Hori was lying with his knees jammed up under his chin. But then he saw the matted hair, the beautiful face that had been the talk of the whole of Egypt loose and empty in death, one hand lying palm up in a gesture of supplication, and all thought fled. Bowing over the body Khaemwaset began to keen, great wails of love and loss that echoed from the far, unseen bank of the river and returned with a mocking hollowness. His hands moved gently, clumsily, over his son, touching the cold, already putrefying flesh, the lifeless tresses, the strong nose and unresponsive mouth. He was aware of the little group standing helplessly on the watersteps, but he did not care. “I meant you no harm!” he groaned, the knowledge of the lie sending another dagger into his heart. “I was deluded, blinded, forgive me, Hori!” But Hori did not move, did not smile his forgiveness, did not understand, and now it was too late.

Khaemwaset stood. “Ib,” he said unsteadily, “take his body to the House of the Dead. His beautification must begin at once for he is already rotting.” His voice broke and he could not go on.