After a few moments of idle chatter, Khaemwaset ushered them down the steps and into the constant coolness of the short passage. With a nod he gave Hori permission to take charge of Sisenet, but Tbubui also wandered away.
Khaemwaset followed her with his eyes, all at once oblivious to his surroundings, all his being intent on the sweet, alluring curves of her, the rise and fall of her heels, the clean sweep of her throat and neck as she looked up to study the bright paint-work.
When she came to the two statues she halted, and stood for a long time staring, then she leaned forward and caressed them, her light fingers moving gently over every groove. “We love life so passionately, we Egyptians,” she said. “We want to hold onto every hot desert wind, every heavy odour from our garden flowers, every touch from those we adore. In building our tombs and preserving our bodies so that the gods may resurrect us, we spend gold like water tossed down our summer-parched throats. We write spells, we perform rituals. And yet who can say what death means? Who has returned from that dark place? Do you think one day someone might, Prince? Or perhaps already has, without our knowledge?” She stepped towards him “They say that the fabled Scroll of Thoth has the power to raise the dead,” she went on, watching him intently. “Will it ever be found, do you think?”
“I do not know,” Khaemwaset answered awkwardly. “If it exists it will be protected by Thoth’s powerful spells.”
She came closer “Every magician dreams of finding it,” she said softly, “if indeed it lies hidden somewhere. But few could control it if they did. Do you desire it, Great Prince, like the others? Do you hope that you might stumble across it each time you open a tomb?”
Was there something mocking in her tone? Many nobles regarded the magicians’ search for the Scroll as a naive joke, and if she did too he would be bitterly disappointed. It seemed from her expression that she was privately amused by something. “Yes, I desire it,” he answered straightforwardly. “Now would you like to go into the burial chamber?” She nodded, still smiling.
Hori and Sisenet were already them, their low voices drifting, disembodied, past the torchlight. Placing an authoritative hand on her arm, Khaemwaset accompanied Tbubui and they walked into the room where the two coffins lay. Once more he watched her as she released herself from his grip and went forward, leaning into the unknown man’s sarcophagus.
“There are cut threads attached to this man’s hand,” she commented at last, standing away: “Something has been stolen from him.” She looked squarely at Khaemwaset. He nodded.
“You are correct,” he replied. “The body had a scroll sewn onto it, which I took. I have treated it with great care, as I do all my finds, and when it has been copied it will be returned to this coffin. I am hoping it will add to the sum of our knowledge of the ancients.”
She made as if to say something, then obviously thought better of it. Hori and Sisenet were engaged in knocking on the walls. “Here! It is here,” Hori said, and the other man put his ear to the plaster.
“Strike once more,” he requested. Hori complied, then Sisenet straightened. “It sounds as though there is another chamber beyond,” he observed. “Have you considered the possibility that this wall is false?”
Khaemwaset tensed as Hori nodded. “Yes I have,” he said hesitantly, “but to explore it would mean tearing apart these decorative scenes. Now that would be true vandalism.” He glanced at his father. “In any case, the decision to do so is not mine to make. My father must take the risk.”
Under no circumstances, Khaemwaset thought, is that wall coming down. I do not know why I fear this tomb but I do. Something in my ka shrinks from it. “We can discuss it later,” he said briskly. “Sisenet, my son tells me that you are an informed historian yourself. I would be happy to hear your explanation for all the water depicted in this tomb. The inscriptions are few and we are puzzled.”
Sisenet smiled faintly, looking at his sister, then at Khaemwaset. He shrugged, with an artless, aristocratic grace, his black eyebrows lifting. “I can only hazard a guess,” he said. “Either this family adored spending their leisure in fishing, fowling and boating and wished to preserve their delight and prowess with line and throwing stick, or …”—he cleared his throat—“… or water represented some terrible cataclysm to them, a curse fulfilled, perhaps, and they felt compelled to chronicle it in the paintings of their daily lives.” He shook his head. “I am not much help, I’m afraid. Nor do I know why the coffin lids were left standing against the wall.”