“I suppose I had better have myself cleaned up before dinner,” he said. “Don’t react to any comments on your appearance tonight, Sheritra. Behave as though such dress is quite usual. Mother’s approval will be insulting. Father will notice but say nothing. Unless, of course, you want to explain your feelings to them both. I suggest you wait a while for that. I will see you at dinner.” He left the cosy, warm room and made his way to his own quarters. As well as being sore and tired, he was suddenly, unaccountably, depressed.
That night he lay on his couch, headrest in place to ease his protesting spine, and watched the flickering of the night lamp cast mobile shadows on his blue-painted, star-spangled ceiling. He relived his time with Tbubui, bringing to mind her brown body, her slow smiles, with a mental and physical unrest that disturbed and puzzled him. There is nothing of the coquette in Tbubui, he thought uneasily, yet she exudes a flaunting sexuality in everything she says and does.
His mind veered to what she had said about the tomb. She is right, he decided, glad to push the afternoon behind a saner matter for deliberation. Father has lost interest in the project. The least he could have done was admit as much to me and allow me to continue with it on my own. Tomorrow I will order the destruction of the wall. I am very eager to see what is beyond, and perhaps Father will find his enthusiasm rekindled if I find something of note.
He saw his father briefly in the morning and, feeling slightly guilty, he almost blurted out his plans. But Khaemwaset seemed withdrawn, and in the end Hori ordered out his litter and was carried to Saqqara without sharing the confidence. Guilt continued to trouble him as he sat cross-logged behind the sheltering curtains, but he remembered Tbubui’s words and managed to suppress it. The day was one of relentless heat and blinding light, Tibi careening towards Makhir, and he thought with longing of the cool dimness of the tomb.
The Overseer of Works came to meet him as he alighted before the tent that now had a settled, mildly dishevelled air of permanence. Hori paused to drink the water held out to him before walking with the man to the chipped steps leading down. At the foot, the artists and workmen clustered, talking idly and waiting for the orders of the day. They bowed as Hori descended and he returned their reverence with an absent smile. “Let us get out of the sun,” he said.
Inside, the tomb was much as he had first seen it; indeed, with the floor continually swept it looked fresher. Hori drew in a deep breath of the now sweet, damp air, and his spirits rose. This had become his second home. It was he who had laboured here in a fruitful peace, establishing respect among the workmen, commanding a fleck of paint here, a fragment of new stone there, to make this resting place fitting for its inhabitants once again. His father’s reluctance to share the sheets of papyrus placed on his desk every day had disappointed Hori, but as he slowly surveyed the painted walls, the uneven floor and shrouded grave goods, he acknowledged Khaemwaset’s other responsibilities and tried to be mollified.
Signalling to the expectant Overseer and the Chief Artist, he walked through into the coffin room. “That wall,” he indicated. “Have the scenes and inscriptions now been copied fully?”
“Yes, Highness,” the Chief Artist replied promptly. “The work was completed three days ago. Indeed, the task of copying the whole tomb will be finished in another three days.”
“Thank you. Overseer, is it possible to remove a section of the wall by cutting out small blocks and then replacing them later? How much damage to the painting would there be?”
The man hitched at his thick kilt. “If you are mistaken, Highness, and there is no room beyond, and the wall is solid rock covered in plaster, we cannot pierce it, of course. We would bore a series of holes, insert wet wooden wedges and split the rock as closely as possible to the nearness of blocks. But the stone will crack where the seams are weak. I cannot guarantee neatness.”
“Even if there is a room beyond, and the wall is nothing but wood and plaster,” the Chief Artist interposed, “the fine paintings will be destroyed. Certainly, Highness, in that case, it could be taken apart neatly, but the plaster will inevitably flake, taking the scenes with it in tiny pieces.”
“Could they be reproduced from the copies already made?” Hori asked.
The man nodded unwillingly. “Yes they could, and in the most authentic way, but Highness, they would not be the originals no matter how cleverly done. Who knows what prayers and spells were lovingly chanted over this great work?”
Who indeed, Hori thought. But there is nothing loving about the atmosphere of this place, no matter how at home I feel in it. The prayers and spells are more likely to have been curses and evil incantations. What should I do? His servants fell silent and stood quietly waiting while he stared at the floor, brow furrowed. He was tempted to ask himself what Khaemwaset would do, but his father had always been too supernaturally involved with this particular unveiling and besides, had he not abrogated his right to make the decisions here? Much as I love him, Hori thought, I have been the beast of burden in this case and I deserve the reward of the responsibility for this decision. Eventually his head came up.