Before long they were being dappled in the grey shade of the date palms whose tiny green fruit was just beginning to appear, and then Saqqara opened out before them above the short hill that gave the ruins such a lofty isolation.
As they came up to the tomb and alighted, Hori saw them and waved. Khaemwaset ordered the litter-bearers into the shade of the canopies and he and his children descended the steps and entered the welcome gloom of the first chamber. Penbuy, his duties in the office concluded, was already at work copying inscriptions. Khaemwaset’s artists had set up their easels and were reproducing the beautiful paintings that covered almost every inch of the walls. Others were seated on the sandy floor, open chests beside them, laboriously making lists of the contents. At the door three men, with copper mirrors angled to catch the sunlight and direct it within, were standing patiently.
Sheritra drew in her breath. “But this is lovely!” she exclaimed. “Such detail! Grandfather should come and see!”
“It would only remind him of the crudity of his own artists,” Hori rightly pointed out. “You will send him copies of the work being done, won’t you, Father?”
“I always do.” Khaemwaset took Sheritra’s elbow. “Would you like to see the dead, my dearest?”
Sheritra was not squeamish. She nodded eagerly and, with her father on one side and Hori on the other, bent her head under the low lintel of the farther doorway.
Inside the light was softer, more diffused. The two sarcophagi bulked dimly, and Thoth was a dusky authoritarian presence. The three approached the bodies. Sheritra said nothing. She merely leaned over each one and studied it.
“She is the Princess Ahura,” Khaemwaset told her. “We do not know the Prince’s name. Their son is not here, obviously. Perhaps when all the work is done we will know better.”
“Poor things,” Sheritra said softly. “Undoubtedly it is a wonderful thing, to sit under the sacred sycamore tree with the blessed dead in Osiris’s kingdom, but, Father, I am more than glad that soon we will get on our litters and go home to Mother’s superlative feast.”
“Sheritra, you are such a greedy little thing!” Hori teased her. She replied lightly, and Khaemwaset listened to their banter without paying much attention to the words. His own glance had passed very carefully over the corpses. Nothing had changed. Even the ends of the threads that had bound the scroll to the prince’s hand were curled as he remembered them yesterday. He was aware of a relief pooling through him like warm water, and was at a loss to explain it. He felt happy, boyish, full of fun.
“How long before the work is completed and the tomb can be re-sealed?” he asked Hori.
The young man considered. “It is hard to say,” he replied. “It depends on the artists, of course. No repairs are necessary, so all should be ready for the offerings very soon.”
“I think we should put the lids on the coffins,” Khaemwaset said slowly. “It is not right for these two to lie open to the dust like this, and besides, if in the future thieves do get in, the lids will discourage them from pillaging the bodies for precious amulets.”
Hori looked at him curiously, and Khaemwaset wondered if something strange was showing on his face or betraying itself in his voice.
“Very well,” Hori agreed. “We take a risk, seeing that we do not know why they were not put in place originally, but our intentions are pure and will doubtless absolve us from any retribution from the dead.”
Khaemwaset’s bright mood began to fade. “We will leave you to your labour,” he said to his son. “Remind Amek’s men that the guard is to be maintained until the tomb is finally closed, will you, Hori? And make sure the fellahin get plenty of beer and vegetables. Their jobs are the hardest.” He moved back towards the stronger light of the antechamber and the blessed, living white light of the direct sun shafting down the steps. “Sheritra,” he called over his shoulder. “It is still too early to go home. Would you like a jaunt through the city? We can see what new baubles are on display in the markets.”
“I suppose we might as well sin fully,” she called back, and together they walked to the litters.
Instead of turning north to skirt the temples of the kings in the Ankh-tawy district, Khaemwaset ordered the bearers to veer south, cutting across the edge of the southern suburbs where most of the common foreigners lived and crossing the canal that was fed by the Nile and linked the temples of Hathor in the south and Ptah in the north. Khaemwaset had not bothered to include Ramose in his entourage, and it was sturdy Amek who called the warning to the increasingly thick crowds to give way and pay homage to the son of Pharaoh.