Scroll of Saqqara(82)

For answer he uncurled his fingers. The earring lay glowing complacently on his palm. “I opened the secret chamber in the tomb,” he admitted ruefully. “And I found a tunnel. This was lying in it and it ripped my knee. Now I must confess to Father. Where is he?”

“In Mother’s rooms, playing sennet.” She traced the wound with one gentle finger. “He will be furious with you, Hori, you know that, don’t you?” Then her gaze became fixed on the jewel. Lifting it, she turned it over thoughtfully. “Ancient turquoise,” she commented. “This might mollify him a little if you are lucky. It reminds me of the turquoise Harmin was wearing yesterday. He had a fortune in ancient stone on his wrists and around his neck.”

Those in love bring up the name of the beloved at every opportunity, Hori reflected wryly. Aloud he said, “What is a member of an impoverished noble family doing with a fortune in turquoise?”

“They are not impoverished, only modestly wealthy,” she rebuked him quickly. “And besides, Harmin told me that the stones are heirlooms to be handed down to his son.” She passed him the earring. “You had better find Father. I don’t suppose you noticed the new house snake sunning himself as you came in?”

Hori shook his head and left her, making his way along the passage towards his mother’s rooms His leg was now stiffening and he forced it to bend, the pain in his body and the discomfort in his conscience rendering him entirely miserable. He did not even have Antef to put the day into a better perspective.

Khaemwaset and Nubnofret were sitting on low stools just inside the steps that led down to the cloistered terrace and the side garden beyond. Their heads were together, bent over the sennet board, and as Hori went towards them he could hear the rattle of the sticks and his mother’s low laugh. Wernuro rose from her corner and bowed to him and he smiled at her, coming up to his parents and halting selfconsciously. You are a man, he told himself sternly. You made an adult decision. Now stand by it, you fool. His father was making a move, hand stroking his chin as he pondered the board, and it was Nubnofret who looked up, the breeze from the garden momentarily fluttering her scarlet linen. Her smile of welcome faded. “Hori!” she said. “What happened to you? Wernuro, bring a chair quickly.”

Khaemwaset gave him one glance. “And wine also,” he added. “Was there an accident at the tomb?”

The young man sank back into the chair Wernuro had placed respectfully behind him, noting at the same time the lack of surprise in his father’s voice and attitude. It was almost as though Khaemwaset was waiting for something untoward. “Father, did you do the Tibi horoscopes by any chance?” he suddenly asked. Khaemwaset shook his head. “For Mekhir then? Mekhir is almost upon us.” Again Khaemwaset shook his head. He was waiting for an explanation, and again Hori had the impression that his father had steeled himself for bad news. There was an air of strain about the alert, handsome features, a tension in Khaemwaset’s thickset, muscular body. For the first time, in spite of the trouble Hori felt he was embroiled in, he found himself looking at his father objectively, as another adult male, divorced from the hazy cocoon of fatherhood, authority and long familiarity that had always blunted Hori’s perception. Khaemwaset is a man in torment, Hori thought in surprise. How good looking he is with his intelligent eyes and wide shoulders! What is happening in the secret life of his ka? With these astonishing and somehow reassuring thoughts Hori’s confidence came surging back. My father is a man just like myself, the revelation came. No more, and no less.

“Well I suppose we can do without our horoscopes for another month,” he said slowly. “It does not really matter. And in answer to your question, Father, there was no accident at the tomb. I opened a door in the false wall today.”

A dead silence fell. Wernuro’s small movements as she poured wine for Hori went almost unnoticed. Hori raised the silver cup, drank and replaced it. Khaemwaset was staring at him intently, obviously angry but also, it seemed to Hori, afraid. Nubnofret had turned towards the terrace and was gazing out at the trees now stirring against a softly reddening sky. This was none of her business.

At last Khaemwaset spoke, his voice unnaturally steady. “I do not recall giving you permission to do such a thing, my son.” His eyes remained fixed on Hori’s face. Hori found himself entirely calm.

“I did not ask it,” he replied. “I took the responsibility for the decision upon myself.”

“Why?”

Tbubui’s reasoning unwound through Hori’s mind, and all at once her arguments seemed spurious, selfish. I have been lying to myself, he thought, still in that same brilliant calm. I will tell him the truth.