The Herald at last fell silent. Khaemwaset heard the crisp slap of his father’s sandals on the dais by his ear, followed by the lighter tread of his sister. Bint-Anath settled herself beside him with a wriggle and a sigh, Ramses bade the crowd rise, and Khaemwaset resumed his cushions and pulled the low table towards him.
Pharaoh leaned past his daughter-wife, resplendent in his blue-and-white-striped helmet surmounted by the golden cobra and vulture, his sharp eyes heavily kohled, his eyelids lustrously green. Rings glittered on each of his fingers, and ankhs and Eyes of Horus tinkled on his concave chest. “I drank some of the potion you prescribed for me, Khaemwaset,” he said. “It was disgusting and I don’t think it has done me any good, unless it is responsible for my vast appetite tonight.” At the foot of the dais the symbols of his divine royalty—the crook, flail and scimitar—were being set in their holders by their Keeper, and a contingent of Shardana guards was lining up between the dais and the crowd. At a signal from Ashahebsed, standing discreetly behind the royal table, food-laden servants began to pour from the shadows and a mouth-watering aroma stole through the mingled odours of scented wax, flowers and perfume. Ashahebsed began to serve Ramses.
“You expect miracles from all those around you, including me,” Khaemwaset answered warmly. “Give the medicine a chance, Father. You might try going to bed earlier, too.”
Ashahebsed was tasting the food. Ramses watched impatiently. “I am just as busy in bed as out of it,” he said wickedly. “My women are killing me, Khaemwaset. So many of them, and they all demand satisfaction! What am I to do?”
“Stop acquiring so many,” Bint-Anath broke in, laughing. “Listen more closely to Suty when he tries to tell you how much gold your harems are draining from the royal treasury every day. Then you might be deterred from further purchases and contracts.”
“Hmm,” was all the reply. Ramses began to eat steadily, though with a delicate grace.
Khaemwaset’s table servant had filled his plate also, and he ate and drank with appreciation for the excellence of his father’s cooks. He saw Nubnofret close to the dais, sitting with a few of her female friends among the nobility, and not far from her he spotted Hori and Nefert-khay. She had both hands resting on his bare shoulder and was nuzzling his ear as he ate. With a pang, Khaemwaset thought of his Sheritra. What was she doing at this moment? Saying her prayers, walking in the torch-lit garden with Bakmut’s undemanding company? Perhaps she was sitting in her room, knees drawn up to chin, wondering what he was doing and castigating herself for the shyness that prevented her from plunging into life. He would have liked to have seen her here, eyes aglow with wine and excitement, her fingers drawn to some young noble’s shoulder and her mouth pressed against some adoring ear. Pharaoh was directing another comment in his direction. His brother Ramses was slumped over his food and humming tunelessly to himself. Khaemwaset gave himself over to the pleasures of the evening.
Several hours later, full of stuffed goose, cucumber salad and various pastries, slightly inebriated, Khaemwaset found himself near the north doors of the hall talking to his friend Wennufer, High Priest of Osiris at Abydos. The noise had not abated. If anything, the crowd had become more raucous as the wine jugs emptied and the entertainment had begun. Shouts and snatches of song erupted here and there as guests expressed their approval of the fire-eaters, the jugglers and acrobats, the sinuously naked dancers whose hair brushed the floor and whose golden finger-cymbals clicked out a taunting invitation together with their sweat-slicked hips.
Khaemwaset and Wennufer had retired to a relatively quiet place where they could both talk undisturbed and enjoy the night wind wafting through the open double doors from the dark garden beyond. Pharaoh had left some time before. There was no sign of Hori, and Nubnofret had come to Khaemwaset earlier to let him know that she would be spending the greater part of the rest of the night in Bint-Anath’s suite. He had kissed her absently and turned his attention back to Wennufer’s argument with regard to the proper origins of the heb-sed festival, and both men were soon oblivious to the uproar around them.
Khaemwaset was engaged in making a strong point, his face thrust close to Wennufer’s and his wine cup extended so that the nearest slave could fill it, when he felt a touch on his arm. He ignored it, dimly presuming that someone had jostled him, but it was repeated. Irritated, he turned.
An old man stood before him, coughing with an attempt at the polite control Khaemwaset had come to recognize in those with chronic lung conditions. He was slightly bent, and the hand that had importuned Khaemwaset was already returning to clutch an amulet of Thoth that hung on his wrinkled chest. He wore no other ornament. His shaved head was bare, as were his yellowed feet. He might have been ugly with his seamed jowls and unhealthily puffy features, but for his eyes. They were alert and fixed Khaemwaset with a steady gaze. The man wore an old fashioned thigh-high winding kilt over which his belly sagged, and tucked into its belt was a scroll.