Scroll of Saqqara(22)
The family’s private suite was empty. Khaemwaset did not bother to summon Kasa to undress him. He stripped off his clothes, took a long drink of water from the large jar always standing full in the airy hallway and collapsed onto his couch with relief.
An hour after sunset he, Nubnofret and Hori were announced and walked together with their train into Ramses’ largest reception hall. At the striking of the Chief Herald’s staff upon the floor, all conversation had ceased until Khaemwaset’s titles were called, but as he and the others proceeded into the room the din began again, and Khaemwaset felt as though he were wading in noise.
Hundreds of people stood in brightly clad groups, or milled about, wine in their hands, talking and laughing, their voices fusing to echo off the many papyrus pillars and the silver star-dusted ceiling in mighty waves of sound.
A slave girl, naked but for a blue-and-white ribbon about her waist, came up to them bowing, and placed garlands of pink lotus and blue cornflowers over their heads. Another offered scented wax cones to be tied on their wigs. Khaemwaset bent good-humouredly, feeling the soft hands of the girl fumble with the ribbon, his eyes already scanning the crowd.
Bint-Anath was approaching, her many-pleated, floor-length sheath floating scarlet around her, her slim shoulders visible under a billowing white flounced cloak, and the long black ringlets of her wig already glistening with melted wax. The slave girl walked away and Khaemwaset bowed to Egypt’s Chief Wife. “Greetings, brother,” Bint-Anath said cheerfully. “I would stay and talk to you but it is really Nubnofret with whom I want to gossip. I have not seen her in a very long time. Do excuse me.” She was like a goddess, like Hathor herself, moving lightly in the circle of reverence the guests had provided, her pair of massive Shardana guards towering beside her and her exquisitely gowned and painted retinue behind.
“You are more beautiful every time I see you, Bint-Anath,” Khaemwaset said gravely. “Of course I excuse you. Write me a letter instead.”
She gave him a dazzling smile and turned to Nubnofret. Her female attendants were no longer chattering among themselves. Their glances flickered furtively over Hori, away, then back to the young man’s matchless face and brown, well-muscled body. He grinned at them engagingly and Khaemwaset, catching Antef’s eye, winked at him.
One girl, bolder than the rest, came up and, after bowing to Khaemwaset, addressed Hori directly. “It may be that having been in Pi-Ramses only two days, you lack a dinner partner, Prince,” she suggested. “I am Nefert-khay, daughter of Pharaoh’s architect, May. I would be pleased to entertain you while you eat and perhaps sing for you afterwards.”
Khaemwaset, amused, noted Hori’s preliminary quick assessment turn to slow interest as he took in Nefert-khay’s high breasts and supple waist under the yellow sheath, her dusky kohled eyes and moist mouth. Hori inclined his head.
“As May’s daughter you must also enjoy the privilege of dining in the first row next to the dais,” he said, “so lead me there, Nefert-khay, and we will be ready for the food as soon as Pharaoh is announced. I’m hungry.”
They wandered away, threading easily through the crowd, and Khaemwaset watched them go. Antef had tactfully vanished but Khaemwaset knew that though Hori might dine cheerfully with the girl, get drunk with her, kiss and compliment her and perhaps even essay more urgent caresses in the privacy of the sprawling gardens, he would end his evening lounging by the river or in his suite with Antef.
Khaemwaset knew that his son was not attracted to men, though rarely a man might be sexually drawn to him. He liked and appreciated the young women who flocked around him, but his emotions, and therefore his body, remained unengaged. For Hori, the one could not operate without the other.
Khaemwaset spared a moment of pity for May’s forward little daughter, then went to seek out his own small table on the dais where already the members of Ramses’ immediate family were gathering. Lowering himself to the cushions provided, he exchanged a few polite, cool words with his brother, the Crown Prince Ramses, already deep into his cups, and with Second Wife and Queen Meryet-Amun, before the Chief Herald’s staff hit the floor with three resounding booms and the hundreds of voices trailed away. “Exalter of Thebes, Son of Set, Son of Amun, Son of Temu, Son of Ptah-Tenen, Vivifier of the Two Lands, Mighty of Twofold Strength, Valiant Warrior, Smiter of the Vile Asiatics …” The Herald’s voice droned, and here Khaemwaset smiled a trifle grimly. “… Lord of Festivals, King of Kings, Bull of Princes …” Khaemwaset ceased to listen. Every forehead in the hall was resting on the floor and his own was buried in the cushions he had been sitting on a moment before.