“I am a royal son of Egypt,” Khaemwaset had finally and uncharacteristically shouted at her, “and Egypt led the world in all matters of fashion, government and diplomacy for uncounted hentis! My servants are pure Egyptian, and my family is guarded by Egyptian troops, not foreign mercenaries! My home is an Egyptian sanctuary, not a Semitic brothel!”
“Your home is an Egyptian mausoleum,” Nubnofret had responded coolly, unperturbed by her husband’s startling loss of temper, “and I do not like being known as the wife of Khaemwaset the Mummy. The impression we give to foreign dignitaries is quaint and perhaps even insulting.” She had shrugged her robe higher on her broad shoulders, and one hand had gone to the massive gold and yellow enamelled flowers at her throat.
“And I do not like my wife to be seen flaunting the polyglot sewer that Egypt has become!” Khaemwaset had flared back. “Look at you Nubnofret! You are a Princess of the purest noble blood, yet you mince about in so many frills and flounces that you look like one of the poppies everyone is rushing to grow in their gardens just because they come from Syria. And that colour! Purple! An abomination!”
“You,” Nubnofret had said pointedly, “are an ancient, croaking toad. I will wear what I like. Someone must keep up appearances. And before you say that we are royal and above such petty considerations, let me remind you that it is I who must entertain the wives of the Khatti, the Syrians, the Lybians, while you do business with their husbands. Egypt is an international power, not a provincial backwater. These wives leave my house knowing that you are a force to be reckoned with.”
“They know that already,” Khaemwaset had snapped back, his temper receding. “They cannot function without my breath upon their backs.”
“And you cannot function without my superb organization.” As usual, Nubnofret had had the last word. She had sailed out of the room, her ample hips swaying regally, her magnificent breasts high, and Khaemwaset had listened to the swish of her many-pleated robe and the click of her gold sandals with frustrated amusement. She was formidable, loving, and the most stubborn woman he had ever known, he mused as he quickly left the gloom of the reception hall behind and took the right-hand passage to his quarters. She had mutely acquiesced in the matter of the hall but had had her revenge with the rest of the house, so that sometimes Khaemwaset felt as though he lived in a trader’s shop. Treasures, knick-knacks and strange, useless things from all over the world littered the rooms, tastefully arranged of course, for Nubnofret had been raised in the best of households herself, but claustrophobic to her husband, who dreamed of the quiet internal spaces and the jewelled emptinesses of the past.
Only his private office escaped her. It was full of his own messiness, though the adjoining library of scrolls was kept scrupulously tidy by Penbuy. Here Khaemwaset could escape and be at peace.
He strode beyond the closed doors to his sleeping apartments, where a drowsy servant squatted on his little stool, and went on to enter the office. Here, several lamps of finest honey alabaster glowed golden. His chair waited, drawn out from the desk, and he was about to sit down with an audible sigh of release when Ib knocked, followed him in, and bowed. He set a tray on the desk, lifting the linen cloth to expose steaming stuffed goose, fried inet-fish, fresh cucumbers and a flagon of wine sealed by Khaemwaset’s own vintner from his vineyard outside Memphis. Khaemwaset waved him out and fell to with relish. He had almost completed the meal when Penbuy was announced. With a sinking heart, Khaemwaset watched the scribe place several scrolls on the desk. “Do not tell me,” he groaned. “The marriage negotiations have broken down again.”
Penbuy managed to nod in the middle of his bow. Quickly he went to the floor, crossed his legs and laid his palette across his knees. “I am afraid so, Prince. Shall I read you the scrolls while you finish your meal?” Khaemwaset thrust one at him by way of an answer and went back to the pile of warm shat cakes.
“Begin,” he ordered.
Penbuy unrolled one. “From the Mighty Bull of Ma’at, Son of Set, User-Ma’at-Ra, Setep-en-Ra Ramses, greetings to his favoured son Khaemwaset. Your presence in the palace at Pi-Ramses is required as soon as possible. The matter of the Khatti tribute, including the dispatch of the Khatti bride for the Mighty Bull, needs your immediate attention following a letter from our envoy, Huy, even now at the court of Hattusil. Speed north on wings of Shu.” Penbuy looked up. “It is sealed with the royal seal,” he added, letting the scroll roll up with a slight rustle. He laid it aside and took up his pen. “Do you wish to reply, Prince?”