Presently his brother came striding across the grass. He had obviously been at work in the vineyards and had taken a moment to wash and change his kilt, but other than the strip of white linen around his thick waist he was naked. His brown body was chunky and formidable, not from drawing the bow, wrestling, or chariot-driving, but from sweating beside his labourers; his presence gave Khaemwaset great comfort. Rising, he kissed Si-Montu’s damp, bearded cheek. Si-Montu waved him back to the cushions strewn on the reed mat and sank down beside him. “What?” he expostulated. “Drinking beer in the middle of the finest vineyard in Egypt? The grapes will wither and die from chagrin, Khaemwaset. How are you? Bring a jar of the five-year vintage!” he shouted at the servant, then he fixed Khaemwaset with a bright, altogether too piercing eye. Si-Montu might look like a peasant and roar like a sailor, Khaemwaset reflected, but he is neither. He is a royally educated prince of the land, and too many people forget it.
“Si-Montu, if I start drinking wine today I will not stop,” he confessed, “and as to how I am, let us deal with Pharaoh’s business first and then I want to talk to you.”
Si-Montu nodded equably. Khaemwaset had always been grateful for his brother’s ready acceptance, his reluctance to pry. “Very well,” Si-Montu smiled. “Father’s request can be dealt with very quickly. The grape harvest will be enormous this year if I can control the beginnings of the blight. The fruit is coming nicely, very tiny but huge bunches. However, the leaves and some of the vines themselves are turning black. You can take a look, physician, and perhaps prescribe something I might try. Ah!” He waved at the servant who had appeared with a tray, a dusty sealed jar, and two alabaster cups. The man held the jar so that Si-Montu could inspect the seal, then broke it and poured the wine. Khaemwaset watched the rich, dark liquid, suddenly suffused with sunlight, stream into the cups. Si-Montu held up an admonitory finger. “One cup now, then you will inspect the vines and send Father the bill for your services, then another cup or the whole jar if you choose.” He grinned, and Khaemwaset, in spite of himself, smiled back. “If you wish I will have the wine removed after you have drunk two cups.” He handed Khaemwaset the wine and raised his own cup. “To Egypt! Long may she rule the only areas of the world that really matter!”
Khaemwaset drank to the toast. The wine slipped down his throat, tart-sweet and cool. A great vintage indeed. Before long it began to spread its aristocratic warmth through his veins, and for the first time that day he relaxed, talking with his brother of their families, their enemies, foreign affairs—of which Si-Montu knew little and cared less—and then various agricultural holdings.
Si-Montu finally rose, and together they went carefully through the vineyard. Khaemwaset noticed, with wry humour, that his brother had not bothered to order them a canopy. They stood together in the stunning heat fingering leaves and discussing the problem. Khaemwaset made some suggestions. Si-Montu concurred. No one knew more about the care and cultivation of grapes than he, but still, Khaemwaset was able to help.
Then they ambled back to the garden and the second cup of wine. “So,” Si-Montu invited as soon as they were settled. “You look as though you have just fought your way back from the Underworld and slain the Great Serpent to do it. What’s wrong?”
Khaemwaset told him everything Once open the wound flowed copiously, and the sun had begun to set before he at last fell silent. Si-Montu had watched him the whole time, not commenting, grunting now and then, and when Khaemwaset’s voice ceased he drained his cup and refilled for both of them, then fell to tugging absently at his beard.
Ben-Anath appeared and raised her shoulders. Si-Montu held up two fingers at her and she smiled, nodded and faded back into the still thin but lengthening shadow cast by the house. Khaemwaset envied the pair of them their perfect communication.
“When I fell in love with Ben-Anath,” Si-Montu offered, “the whole court tried to persuade me that I had gone mad. Father talked at me by the hour. Mother threw every luscious woman she could cajole or threaten at my feet. I was finally barred from the succession. But did I care?” He laughed. “Not a bit. Not for a moment. All my energies went into wooing my woman.” Khaemwaset smiled inwardly. Si-Montu’s energy was considerable and, concentrated on one thing, it was well-nigh irresistible. “She was only the daughter of a Syrian ship’s captain, but gods she was haughty! Then she was worried that I would resent her because my decision to marry her had stripped me of almost every royal privilege. But I have never regretted that decision.” He fixed his brother with a suddenly sober glare. “Do you love Nubnofret like that?”