Khaemwaset sat on the deck under the small awning, enjoying the morning breeze that would turn in a very few hours to the scorching breath of a Ra growing in power and intensity towards high summer. The riverbank as he travelled north and away from Memphis’s industry and markets was carefully cultivated. One noble’s estate followed another, one set of clean white watersteps with tethered barges and skiffs giving way to lawn, shrubs, trees, a wall and then another tier of water-lapped steps The river road ran behind these private enclosures, encircled the Northof-the-Walls suburb, and returned to meander beside the Nile just before it crossed the northernmost canal. Ramses’ vineyards, surrounding Si-Montu’s inviting home, grew beyond the canal and were fed by irrigation canals bridged by the road.
Khaemwaset watched the last well-groomed estate drift by, a tangle of river growth follow, and the road appear again, choked as ever with laden donkeys, barefooted peasants and litters borne by dusty slaves. He did not mind the return of their babble. Today he felt peaceful and optimistic. The wet-scented air cooled the sweat from his brow under the black-and-white-striped linen helmet he wore. The Nile was a glittering blue, slapping gently and rhythmically against his craft. His captain called the beat to the rowers, his sing-song voice seeming to blend with the noise from the bank, the shrieking of the birds that dipped over Khaemwaset’s head in search of flung food and the pad-pad of Kasa’s tread as he came from the cabin to proffer cool, mint-flavoured water and dried dates. Amek stood in the prow, his eyes, as ever, slowly circling the bank, the other craft slicing the water, the fellahin, working the shadufs that poured wet life onto the fields of the farther bank.
Khaemwaset had just thanked Kasa and was raising the gold cup to his mouth when his gaze caught a flash of brilliant scarlet among the dun confusion of animals and bodies on the road. His hand froze. His mouth went dry. Then a rage such as he had never known filled him, galvanizing his limbs and flooding his lungs. She was threading her way through the crowd with the easy grace he had come to know so well, had seen so tantalizingly often in his cursed imagination, a white ribbon encircling her forehead and fluttering down her straight back, the sun glinting on the simple circle of silver around her throat and playing against the silver bracelets rubbing loosely from wrist to forearm. As he came to his feet and stared, that horrendous anger pulsing through him, he saw her raise one languid hand to brush a strand of wind-teased black hair away from her cheek. Her palm was hennaed bright orange. You bitch, he thought, trembling, the weeks of misery and restless compulsion churning in his mind, Ib’s face each frustrating evening, Sheritra’s silences, Hori’s disappointment, even his servants’ exhaustion, known but not seen, all jumbled together to form this towering urge to violence. Bitch, bitch, oh bitch! “Captain!” he shouted. “Steer for the bank immediately! Amek!” The cup had fallen from his grasp and he was vaguely aware of Kasa bending to retrieve it as Amek strode across the deck. “As soon as the boat hits the bank I want you to stop that woman.” He pointed, and Amek’s eyes followed his shaking arm. The man nodded. She was coming towards them along the road, in the direction of the city, and they had ample time to cut her off. This time, Khaemwaset thought fiercely, teeth clenched, this time you will not escape me. “When you have stopped her, ask her her price.”
Amek’s black eyebrows rose. “Her price, Prince?”
“Yes, her price. I want a night with her. I want to know how much she charges.”
The captain of his bodyguard bowed and without further ado kicked off his sandals, went to the side, and prepared to jump onto the muddy bank the moment the barge struck. Khaemwaset stepped back under the awning, scarcely aware of what he had said. The shaking was abating but the anger was still there, a steady coal heating his blood and making his fingers curl into fists.
The barge bumped the bank, and even before it ceased to quiver Amek was over the side, knee deep in mud and splashed to the chin. The woman was almost level with him, unknowing, unseeing. Hurry, Khaemwaset thought. Tensely, he watched his man pull his tough soldier’s legs from the mire one after the other, grasp the straggling river growth, and haul himself up, staggering then sprinting onto the road. Now Khaemwaset’s chaotic mind called. Now, Amek! Amek ruthlessly pushed the crowd aside and a second before the woman would have passed, spread his feet apart, drew his short sword and brought her to a halt.
She stopped slowly, one knee flexed under the tight sheath that was the hue of some exotic bird, her hands still loose, and Khaemwaset, his anger becoming swamped in anxiety, found time to admire her seemingly unshakeable aplomb. He saw Amek speak, his sword held against his mud-spattered leg, and expected the woman to glance towards the barge when the request was made, but she did not so much as move that proud head. Her lips parted. She spoke briefly and made as if to step aside, but Amek once more barred her way, speaking quickly. This time her chin came up and her mouth moved rapidly, forcefully. Amek leaned forward. So did she. They glared at one another. Then, abruptly, Amek sheathed his sword and the woman eased into the flow of travellers passing Khaemwaset and the barge, passing out of sight with an infuriating serenity. Khaemwaset found that he could not swallow. Indeed, he could hardly breathe.