“Then why ask him?” Tbubui said, and when Hori’s eyebrows shot up she waved a dismissive hand at her words. “No no, Prince! I am not inciting you to disobey your father. But it seems to me that the project may be swallowing more time and effort than he is really willing to give, that he is stretching himself too thinly among his duties, and that is why you find it difficult to lure him to the site as often as you would wish. Think about it. If you went ahead and opened up the sealed chamber you obviously believe is there, you would be saving him the trouble of an annoying decision and the bother of overseeing the work.” She shifted, slowly extending her legs and letting them find the grass below. The cloak did not follow. Spellbound, Hori found himself staring at an expanse of golden skin that gleamed with an almost glossy patina. And was there not the suspicion of a dark triangle where her loins vanished under the bunched cloak? “As you said,” she went on kindly, “you are the one doing all the work this time, yet he is the one making all the decisions Who knows? He might be proud of a son who can take the initiative occasionally, particularly if he trusts your judgment.”
“Oh he trusts my judgment,” Hori answered thoughtfully, wrenching his attention back to her face “I will think about what you have said, Tbubui. I would certainly be very disappointed if I sought his permission to open that chamber only to have it withheld.”
“Then do not ask him. And if he is angry, tell him that I, Tbubui, corrupted the pure obedience a son owes his father and his wrath must fall on me!” She spoke lightly and then laughed, and he laughed also, all at once happy to be in this garden, in the heat of a dazzling afternoon, sitting beside a woman whose wit and strange beauty attracted him in a way no one had ever done before.
He remembered his boredom with the perfect, painted beauties of his grandfather’s court, the many times he had been on the verge of falling in love only to be deflected by the discovery of a coarseness, an inappropriate sense of humour, a lack of instinctive judgment or a previously hidden ignorance on the part of the young woman who had initially caught his attention. But here, he thought deliberately, is a combination of intelligence, fine breeding, beauty and selflessness.
The silence that had fallen between them was not awkward. Tbubui had relaxed, head thrown back, eyes momentarily closed, and Hori sipped the last of his beer and gave himself over to the contentment.
Presently Tbubui said, “You are quite the most handsome young man I have ever seen. I knew of your reputation as the greatest male beauty in Egypt long before I met you, Hori, and it is pleasant for me to be able to concur with the general opinion.”
Hori snorted. “I know of it too,” he replied, “but I hardly ever think about it. Such a foolish, useless thing to be recognized for! No man or woman can take credit for his or her appearance. What intelligence can produce an aristocratic nose or a pair of alluring eyes? Foolishness!”
“Nevertheless, a magnetic physical appearance can be very useful in obtaining what one wants,” Tbubui objected quietly. “And the manipulation of it is not necessarily evil. You, of course, being of royal blood, do not need to put your beauty to any use. To you it is an annoyance. It can bring you nothing you do not already have.”
Except your respect, Hori thought suddenly, your response. I would like to make more than a passing impression on you.
She glanced at him sideways and asked, “Have you no betrothed, Hori? No young woman with whom you are planning a life? Surely at your age as a prince of Egypt, you are obliged to marry.”
Hori sighed. “You sound like my father,” he joked. “Khaemwaset worries regularly about my single state. He threatens to find me a proper young Egyptian daughter of the ancient nobility and force a betrothal if I do not hurry up and find one myself. But I must confess,” he finished, leaning over the table, “that such a thing is usually far from my mind. When I sign a marriage contract I want it to be with a woman I whole-heartedly love. I want what my parents have.”
“Ah.” The sound was noncommittal. “What your parents have. And what do they have, my young idealist?”
Was she mocking him? He could not tell. Thoughtfully he scrutinized the wide eyes now warmly submitting to his gaze, the thin nose, the sensuous outline of her smiling mouth. “They have mutual respect, closeness, and a firm and unshakeable love.”
Her smile slowly faded and she stared at him. “I do not think so,” she whispered, “for your mother’s voluptuous womanhood languishes for want of recognition, and your father is still a child.”