Scroll of Saqqara(63)

A return invitation from his wife for no reason other than a desire to see her guests again was high praise. Khaemwaset felt absurdly complimented. But he did not agree with her that their accent was a provincial one. He had travelled Egypt on official business far more often than she, and knew that if he had heard it before he would have placed it.

“They are interesting people,” Sheritra put in, and added rather grudgingly, “I think they really liked me and were not talking to me just to be polite.” No one dared to comment for fear she might misconstrue what was said and her evening would be spoiled.

“Sisenet is widely read,” Hori said. “It is a pity that you did not have more time to spend with him, Father. I was telling him about the tomb, about our problems interpreting the wall scenes, and he offered to try and help. Do you mind?”

Khaemwaset considered. He felt a little guilty that he had had so few words with the man, but he had sensed that Sisenet was a person of few words anyway and was self-sufficient in his silences. “I only mind if he is no more than a thrill-seeking amateur,” he replied, “but you would have guessed that, and put him off. I suppose he may have something to add to our speculations.”

Nubnofret gave a prodigious yawn. “What a charming young man Harmin is!” she said, blinking like an owl in the strengthening light. Khaemwaset, tired though he was, could almost see the machinations begun behind those huge, shadowed eyes. Oh do not say anything just yet, he begged her silently. I saw Sheritra’s response to him too, but a chance word now will earn her scorn and that will be that. However, Nubnofret did not go on. She yawned again, bade them good morning and walked away. Sheritra met her father’s gaze.

“They were all charming,” she said deliberately. “As a matter of fact, I liked them.”

Khaemwaset put an arm around her thin shoulders, suddenly loving her with a fierce protectiveness. “Let’s get some sleep,” was all he replied, and together, still linked, they turned towards the house.





7

I am unto thee like a garden,

which I have planted with flowers

and, all manner of sweet-smelling herbs.


OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS Khaemwaset cast about for some excuse to visit Tbubui again. Her foot had healed well, and he knew he would not meet any of them at the social and religious functions he attended in Memphis as Pharaoh’s representative. Nobility they might be, but their blood was not sufficiently blue to allow them to hold any major offices; besides, they did not seem drawn to court life or the maze of governmental administration. There were many such families in Egypt, living quietly on their holdings, paying their taxes and sending the obligatory gift to the Living Horus on New Year’s Day, immersed in the simple life of the villages and the mundane concerns of their people.

But they are not usually so erudite, Khaemwaset thought on more than one occasion as he returned unwillingly to his routine. The soil of the land to which they relate so closely clings to their feet. Why are these three so different? What has brought them from the backwater of Koptos to Memphis? If they were bored, then why not go directly to Pi-Ramses? If Tbubui is ambitious for Harmin, that would have been the logical choice, for she is bold and learned and would have no difficulty getting herself noticed. I will ask her if she would like me to bring the youth to my father’s attention, perhaps get him a minor post at court where he can show his skills and advance on his own. All he needs is that first connection. But it was too soon, he realized. He did not want to appear patronizing. Nor did he want Tbubui to think that he was merely ingratiating himself with her. Which, he reflected ruefully, would probably be the truth.

It was Hori who solved his dilemma. He approached his father a week into the month of Tibi, waiting until Khaemwaset had dealt with the daily correspondence before ambling into the office and perching on the edge of the desk in his customary fashion.

“There was a letter from your grandmother today,” Khaemwaset told him. “She writes cheerfully but her scribe took it upon himself to add a note to the bottom of the scroll. Her health is failing rapidly.”

Hori frowned. “I am sorry to hear it. Will you be going north then?”

“No, not yet. She is well cared for and I do not think the situation is critical.” Khaemwaset regarded the prospect of more weeks in the Delta with the horror of a trapped hare. He wanted nothing more at the moment than to cultivate Sisenet and his sister without interruption. The thought came tangled with shame, but he consoled himself by imagining that the scribe would have asked for his presence more explicitly if his mother’s condition had been dangerous.