Scroll of Saqqara(25)

But would we know? he wondered as he turned the corner into the full glare of a dozen torches lining the approach to the eastern door. What if we have been repeatedly tested and repeatedly passed without ever being aware of such a calculated thing? But if a test for me tonight, what kind? What for? Am I to burn the scroll without reading it and thus prove that my higher loyalty is to my king over my love of learning? Supposing that I read it and then disposed of it. No one would know that I had unrolled it first. He glanced swiftly behind him but the gardens lay in a perfumed darkness, the shrubs uneven smudges against the bulk of the wall, the trees black-armed and impenetrable. No, he thought, feeling foolish. Father would not have me followed and watched. I am being ridiculous. Then … what?

He was coming up to the first torches and his steps slowed, then stopped. He was directly under a torch, if he had raised a hand he would have been able to touch the leaping orange flames that danced and guttered in the night air. Taking the scroll in his fingertips he held it up to the light with a confused idea that he might be able to read it without unrolling it, but of course it remained opaque, only paling a little in the torch glow. He held it higher. This is insane, he told himself. The whole episode smacks of madness. He could feel the heat of the torch on his face, his quivering hand. The papyrus began imperceptibly to blacken and he could sense it pull inward and curl. It is very old, he thought. There is a small chance that it is indeed a thing of value. Hastily he pulled it away from the fire and looked it over. One corner was singed and even as he held it a tiny portion broke away and drifted to the ground. Very lucky or horribly unlucky, depending on my actions tonight, he told himself, thinking of his horoscope. But which action, burning or saving, will bring fortune? For he was all at once certain that this was the moment of which the horoscope spoke and there would be grave consequences either way.

For a long time he stood irresolute, remembering the old man, his begging eyes, his urgent words. He wanted to get rid of this burden thus placed upon him, yet at the same time he was assuring himself that his judgment was impaired by wine and the lateness of the hour, that he was stretching a meaningless encounter into something portentous and fateful. Groaning quietly, he tucked the scroll into his voluminously pleated waist and walked slowly out of the circle of torchlight, through the succeeding band of deep shadow, and on to the palace entrance, where two guards sprang to attention and made an obeisance. He wished them a good night, and was soon being admitted into the family’s suite. Ib and Kasa came hurrying to meet him.

“Where have you been, Highness?” Ib asked, impatience and relief written all over his face. “One minute you were talking with the High Priest and the next you had vanished. Amek rushed away immediately to find you and presumably he is still looking. You make our tasks difficult.”

“I am not a prisoner of my servants, Ib,” Khaemwaset retorted testily. “I came through the garden and entered by the east gate. I expect my bodyguard to be aware of my movements at all times.” And that is not entirely fair, he thought as he saw Ib flush, but he was suddenly so exhausted that he could hardly stand. “Kasa, bring hot water and wash the henna from my hands and feet,” he ordered, “and please hurry. I want to go to bed. Am I alone here?” Kasa bowed shortly and went out, and Ib answered.

“Her Highness is not back, and neither is Prince Hori. Nor is any of their staff.”

I am gently and suitably rebuked, Khaemwaset thought with an inward smile. He placed a placatory hand on Ib’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “You may retire, Ib.” The man bowed his departure and Khaemwaset strode through into his bedroom.

Fresh flowers bad been placed in vases in the four corners. Two lamps burned, one in a tall golden holder in the middle of the floor and a smaller one by the couch, whose sheets had been turned down invitingly. The room murmured of quiet, undisturbed rest. Khaemwaset sank into his chair with a sigh and felt for the scroll. It was not there. He checked his belt, felt among his linens, looked about on the floor, but there was no sign of it. Kasa knocked and entered, a boy bearing a basin of steaming water behind him, and Khaemwaset rose.

“Did either of you see a scroll lying on the floor by the door or in the hall?” he asked. The lad, eyes downcast, shook his head and, hurriedly setting the bowl on its waiting stand, he backed out. Kasa also shook his head.

“No, Highness,” he answered.

“Well go and look,” Khaemwaset snapped, his fatigue evaporating. “Look carefully.”

A few moments later his bodyservant was back. “There is no sign of any scroll.”