Harmin’s smile broadened. “My mother, my uncle and I took up residence here about two months ago. There is little to do in Koptos anymore, Highness, and we have a good steward to care for our small farm there.”
Khaemwaset was still not satisfied, but to pry further would have breached good manners. He was, however, convinced of the young man’s noble breeding. “I do not need to see your mother,” he objected kindly. “I will prescribe for her though.”
Harmin took one swift step forward. “Forgive me, Prince, but we have applied the per-baibait-bird with honey and that drew out the splinter, and then we dressed the wound with a poultice of human excrement crushed in sweet beer yeast, sefet oil and honey, but the infection increases.”
“So you have consulted another physician?”
Harmin looked surprised. “Why no. My mother is well versed herself in remedies, but this time she is no longer able to treat herself. She would be more than honoured if you would examine her foot.”
Perhaps I had better, Khaemwaset thought reluctantly. The poultice applied was a common one for open wounds but he put no faith in it himself. It often seemed to make the problem worse. Sighing inwardly he dismissed the youth. “I will come,” he said. “Please wait in the outer hall.”
Harmin did not thank him. He did not even look satisfied. He bowed again, turned on his heel and disappeared, his sandals shushing softly on the tiled floor, his stride slow and easy.
Khaemwaset went into his library, unlocked the box where he kept his medicaments and drew out a leather satchel containing dressings and other things he often needed for his patients. His head buzzed with the demand to be laid on a pillow and his eyes were scratchy. Quickly he re-locked the box and followed Harmin.
Ib was sitting on his stool in the passage. He rose. “Shall I come with you, Prince?” he asked.
“No,” Khaemwaset answered. “I do not need you for this one, Ib. But I will take Amek.”
There was no sign of Harmin in the hallway. Khaemwaset found him waiting just within the shade cast by the row of coloured-splashed pillars at the front entrance to the house. He was standing motionless, arms loose at his sides, head slightly inclined towards the sound that was floating over the rows of thick shrubbery that helped to separate the paved pathway from the rear gardens.
Khaemwaset halted in shock. The voice of Sheritra, high and pure, was filling the hot air. She seldom sang and when she did it was almost always children’s verses, but today the words of an ancient love song pierced Khaemwaset to the heart. “Your love, I desire it like butter and honey. You belong to me like best ointment on the limbs of nobles, like finest linen on the limbs of the gods, like incense before the Lord of All …”
Harmin half turned towards Khaemwaset. “That is a beautiful voice,” he commented.
“Yes it is,” Khaemwaset responded shortly. Sheritra would have been embarrassed and ashamed if she had known of her audience. He jerked his head at Harmin and began to walk towards the river. “From which direction did you come?” he asked. “Where is your house?”
“Beyond the northern suburbs,” Harmin replied, now at Khaemwaset’s side. “I took a skiff across the river and then walked, Highness. It was a fine morning.”
Nothing more was said. Khaemwaset invited the young man aboard his barge, Amek and a soldier following, and the captain gave the order to cast off. At this time of the day the Nile traffic was sparse. Those who could were taking the afternoon rest and the watersteps of the nobles were deserted. He had presumed for some reason that his patient would live in one of them, although he knew the majority of their inhabitants personally. But Harmin gave no sign that they should veer towards the bank.
The river road appeared, almost empty of travellers. Those compelled to be on it were quiet in the heat, and the barge drifted beside it like a mote of dust falling along a sunbeam. The river’s surface was glassy and almost still.
They passed the bridged canal near where Khaemwaset had seen that damnable flash of scarlet, but the scuffed road was now empty. There were a few respectable homes, modest but neat, fronting the west side of the road and surrounded by fields of tall grain, then there was nothing but crops, drooping in the heat, and the water poured rhythmically into the thin, hacked irrigation canals that fed them as the fellahin lowered the shaduf buckets on their long wooden arms into the Nile and hauled on the ropes to raise them to the level of the canals that criss-crossed the fields.
Khaemwaset thought of his daughter and the secret, painful places of her soul. If anyone deserves to be loved it is she, he thought sadly. She must have been alone in the garden, for even Bakmut is not allowed to hear her sing.