Scroll of Saqqara(76)

“You are impudent, Tbubui,” he said coldly, and for the first time they faced one another as equals. Finally she nodded.

“Yes Prince, I am impudent. But I do not apologize for telling the truth.”

“What truth?” he flashed back. “You have known us for so short a time. You presume too much!”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “I presume upon good manners, that is all. If I have offended you I am sorry, and I must say, Prince, that your defence of your mother and father is very pleasing to me.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he responded stiffly, already turning over her words in his mind and realizing that the moment of her honesty had somehow begun a relationship between them, had transcended the polite to-ing and fro-ing of acquaintance that had to precede the easy unselfconsciousness of friendship.

She stood, pulled open the cloak, then folded it about her again and resumed her seat. The artless gesture was so natural that it had not roused him, but he wanted to stroke her hand, ruffle her hair, pull teasingly at the massive silver earring swinging against her neck.

“I should like to visit you again,” he said. “You are a fascinating woman, Tbubui, and I like your company.”

“And I yours,” she answered. “Come whenever you like, Hori. I enjoy your conversation, but I also have relished feasting my eyes on such matchless male delights! You have done me a favour.”

He let out a guffaw of genuine amusement and was saved from a response by a movement in the trees to his left, from the direction of the river. Harmin appeared, striding along the path under the palms whose shade had already thickened as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. The face he turned first to the house and then to them was pale and closed, but on recognizing Khaemwaset’s son he immediately set a formal smile on his lips and came up to them, kissing his mother on her proffered cheek and bowing to Hori.

“Greetings, Harmin,” Hori said politely. “Has my sister had a pleasant day?”

“I have done my best to make it so,” the young man replied sharply.

“It has been a pleasant day, then, for all of us,” Tbubui interposed. “The Prince was rowing past our watersteps just as I was disembarking, Harmin, so I invited him to enliven my afternoon. But I suppose it is time to consider dinner.”

“Before then I must rest,” Harmin said a little petulantly. “Although the day was full and very sweet, I missed the hour on my couch, and I must confess I can barely do without it, no matter how seductive the blandishments of other pursuits.” He gave them another wan smile and went into the house. Hori had the impression that his somewhat fretful words were merely the surface wisps of smoke from a smouldering inner fire. He wondered how Sheritra, obviously the blandishment today, had fared, and as he watched his twin in physical magnetism disappear he decided quite suddenly that he did not like Harmin very much. The thought alarmed him.

He rose and stretched. “I must go,” he said, tempering his abrupt words with a smile. “I have enjoyed being here more than I can say, Tbubui, but now if my linen is ready I should row myself back.” She acquiesced by leaving the chair and together they followed Harmin into the house.

Evening was already seeping through the bare rooms and as yet no lamps had been lit. Hori, standing in the hall entrance surrounded by painted scenes from which all colour seemed to have been sucked, and staring uncomfortably at the dim statues of Amun and Thoth, whose curved ibis beak and small beaded eyes were all at once predatory, was aware of two things. He wanted to put his hands on Tbubui, but beside his desire was a wave of sinister loneliness that was stirring to wakefulness with the impending night. He almost shrieked at the approach of a servant carrying lamps, then laughed at himself.

Tbubui returned, his kilt over one arm, and thanking her he went into the passage and quickly exchanged Harmin’s for his own. A sullen yellow light was trickling from the crack under the door of Harmin’s bedchamber, and somewhere in the house, someone was picking out a plaintive, sad little melody on a lute. Hori shuddered.

Hurrying back to the hall he took his leave of Tbubui, left greetings for Sisenet who still had not come home, and walked as fast as he could through the gathering gloom under the palms to the blessed flow of the river. He was amazed to see Ra still just about the horizon, a glorious, fierce splash of red and orange, with the ruins and pyramids of Saqqara black before him. Hori clambered into the skiff, dropped his oars into the fiery water and set off for home.

By the time he got there it was quite dark, and the torch that normally illuminated the watersteps had not yet been lit. Cursing, he stumbled up the steps, but once on the path to the house his normal good humour came back. A mouth-watering aroma of roasting beef and strong onion-andgarlic soup wafted to his nostrils from the kitchens to the rear of the servants’ courtyard, and cheerful light spilled out onto the grass from the pillared terrace, through the open door of the dining hall. A servant approached carrying two blazing torches. He paused and bowed. “A good evening, Prince,” he murmured before hurrying on, and Hori returned his greeting, mentally discarding the unease Tbubui’s house had created in him.