Scroll of Saqqara(26)

Khaemwaset pushed his feet back into the sandals he had so recently removed. “Come with me,” he said, and rushed out into the hall, his eyes searching the floor as he went. Indeed, there was nothing. He left the suite, Kasa behind him, and retraced his steps with infinite care, but Pharaoh’s gleaming and now empty passages lay unsullied under the dim light of torches nearly spent.

Khaemwaset went out onto the path. The same two guards were leaning sleepily on their spears. Both scrambled to attention. “Do either of you remember seeing a scroll in my belt as I passed you earlier?” he asked them peremptorily. They both denied it. “But would you have noticed?” he pressed them. “Are you sure?”

The taller of the pair spoke up. “We are trained to be observant, Prince,” he said. “No one enters the palace with anything suspicious on their person. We would not, of course, suspect you, but our eyes travel everyone automatically and I can assure you that you stepped through our salute without any scroll.” It was true, Khaemwaset thought angrily. The Shardana were quick of eye and would stop anyone they even suspected of harbouring a weapon.

Nodding his thanks, he reached down a torch from the lintel and, bent almost double, scoured every inch of his short journey from the garden to the passage doors. There was nothing. Kneeling, he scanned the stone for the tiny charred piece of papyrus that had broken loose under the torch, but it was nowhere to be found. Swearing under his breath he investigated the grass to either side of the path, parting it carefully while Kasa watched in obvious bewilderment, but came up empty.

In the end he strode back to his suite. His heart was racing.

“Rouse Ramose,” he told Kasa. “Bring him without delay.” Kasa opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again and slipped away.

Khaemwaset began to pace. It is not possible, he thought. I passed no one. I thrust it into my belt, took five paces to the door, and came here directly. Not possible. A dread began to steal over him but he fought it down. Danger, the old man had said. To me. To you. Have I failed? Or have I passed some mysterious test? He put a hand to his chest and felt the frantic action of his heart. Sweat had broken out along his spine. He could feel it begin to trickle into his kilt.

When Ramose, sleepy and slightly dishevelled, bowed before him, he almost ran to the man. “I have lost a valuable scroll,” he said. “It is somewhere in the palace or perhaps in the gardens. I will give three pieces of gold to anyone who finds it and brings it directly to me. Spread the word, Herald, begin now, to anyone still wandering the palace.” All sleep had left Ramose’s eyes. He bowed his understanding and hurried out, straightening his linens as he went. He had scarcely closed the door when it opened again and Nubnofret came into the room. An odour of stale wine and crushed lotus blooms preceded her.

“Whatever is going on, Khaemwaset?” she queried. “I almost bumped into Ramose as he was rushing out of the suite. Are you ill?” She came closer and peered at him, then exclaimed, “You certainly look ill! Oh my dear, you are white. Sit down.” He allowed her to push him into his chair. He felt her cool hand steal over his forehead. “Khaemwaset, you have a fever,” she pronounced. “You really hate Pi-Ramses, don’t you, and the city hates you, for its demons always make you mildly sick. I will call for a priest. You need a spell that will drive them forth.”

Khaemwaset caught her arm. Fevers were indeed a matter for magic, being caused by the possession of demons, but he knew that he had brought this illness upon himself and no evil power inhabited his body. Or does it? he wondered suddenly, confusedly. Was my decision to keep the scroll the wrong one, giving it the power to quietly transform itself and enter me? Am I now harbouring something evil, something destructive? Nubnofret was waiting, her arm still resting in his grip, her expression questioning. He shuddered, then began to shiver uncontrollably.

“Khaemwaset, you are frightening me.” Nubnofret’s voice came to him from far away. “Please let me go.” He came to himself and mumbled a stiff-lipped apology, withdrawing his hand. His wife kneaded her arm. “Kasa!” she shouted. “Put him to bed. Look at him.” Kasa came running, and with a glance at Nubnofret, helped Khaemwaset out of the chair and onto the couch.

“But no priest,” Khaemwaset muttered. He lay on the couch, still trembling, and drew up his knees. “I am sorry, Nubnofret. Go to bed and don’t worry. All I need is a good sleep. I have lost a valuable scroll, that is all.” Nubnofret visibly relaxed. “In that case I quite understand,” she said scornfully. “Other men might suffer so at the loss of a child but you, my dear brother, sweat and quiver over bits of papyrus.”