Khoiak’s days grew increasingly hotter and the crops stood high but still green in the little fields. Hori was spending most of his time, now, in the coolness of the tomb, its mysteries fretting him, and Sheritra swam, read and withdrew into her own world. Worship went on in the house, sometimes in the temples where the family prostrated together before Ptah or Ra or Neith. Khaemwaset knew that before long he would be summoned to the palace again, for ambassador Huy must surely be on the point of returning to Egypt, but he put his father’s annoying, amusing negotiations out of his mind. Summer was coming, a time of stultifying heat, endless hours when reality always seemed to acquire different dimensions and the eternity of burning air and white light seemed to fuse mortal Egypt with the immortal paradise of Osiris.
One day, Khaemwaset had just finished a period of dictation with Penbuy, some notes he had been making on the reign of Osiris Thothmes the First, when Ib entered the office and bowed. The noon meal was over and the hour for the afternoon rest was fast approaching. Khaemwaset glanced at his steward, sensing a further duty to be performed, and was annoyed. He wanted to lie on his couch under the soft swish of the fans and doze. “Well?” he snapped. Penbuy was gathering up his pens, ink and scrolls, his own eyes heavy with the need for sleep at this warm hour. On Khaemwaset’s signal he left the room.
“Your pardon Prince,” Ib said, “but there is a young man here who requests a moment of your time. His mother needs medical attention.”
“What young man?” Khaemwaset asked testily. “The city is full of good physicians. Did you tell him that I only treat the nobility or cases that might be of particular interest to me?”
“I did,” Ib rejoined. “He says that his mother is indeed a noblewoman, and no mean person. He would be grateful for your personal consultation, and his uncle will pay you well for your trouble.”
Khaemwaset started, then recovered. “I am not interested in more gold,” he grumbled. “I already have plenty. What is wrong with this woman?”
“Apparently she somehow drove a large wooden splinter into her foot. The splinter has been removed but the foot is festering.”
“Then I do not need to go myself. I can prescribe at once.” He was relieved. “Send in the boy.”
Ib retired, and Khaemwaset waited. Presently a shadow fell across the open doorway. Khaemwaset looked up. A young man about Hori’s age was bowing profoundly from the waist, arms outstretched. Khaemwaset noted immediately that his hands were finely tapered and well cared for, the palms hennaed, the nails clipped, the skin soft. He was shod in good leather sandals with gold thongs and his kilt linen was certainly of the tenth or eleventh grade of transparency. He rose and stood tall, his gaze meeting Khaemwaset’s, neither subservient nor proud, but merely expectant. He wore his own hair, Khaemwaset noted. It fell black and completely straight to his square shoulders. A thick band of gold encircled his neck and one large ankh symbol of life hung from it on his slim but beautifully muscled chest. In comparison to his hair, his eyes seemed grey. They followed Khaemwaset’s assessment closely, but with detachment. There was something almost familiar about him, in his straight stance perhaps, or the way his mouth curved naturally upward at the corners. Khaemwaset decided that he was the most perfect specimen of young manhood apart from Hori that he had ever seen.
“What is your name?” he asked.
The youth inclined his head. The black hair swung forward, gleaming dully. “I am Harmin,” he answered, his voice as steady and cool as his eyes.
“My steward told me of your mother’s complaint,” Khaemwaset said. “He also told me that your family is a noble one. I thought I knew, at least by sight, every noble family in Egypt, but I have never seen you or heard of your name before. Why is that?”
The young man smiled. It was a winning, affable smile to which Khaemwaset was hard put not to respond. “My family’s modest estates are at Koptos, just north of blessed Thebes,” he said. “We are of an ancient lineage, tracing our line from the days of Prince Sekenenra, and though we are members of the minor nobility and have never held high offices, we are nevertheless proud of our blood. It is pure. No foreign flow has commingled with it. During the days of revived trade with Punt, after the great Queen Hatshepsut rediscovered that land, my ancestor was steward of her caravans along the route from Koptos to the Eastern Sea.”
Khaemwaset blinked. Few historians, let alone ordinary Egyptian citizens, knew anything of the fabled queen who was said to have ruled as a king and had built a mortuary temple of unsurpassed beauty on the west bank of Thebes. Those who had studied the site were inclined to ascribe it to the warrior pharaoh Thothmes the Third, but Khaemwaset had always disagreed. His interest was piqued. Nevertheless, he said, “I should have heard of you if you have lived in Memphis for any length of time.”