Scroll of Saqqara(85)
“Well what of the scroll?” Hori suggested. “Can you not look at it again, Father? And perhaps this time it will be clearer to you? It may contain some hint for us.”
“It may,” Khaemwaset said doubtfully, hesitantly. “And I know that if we repair and re-seal this place without exploring all avenues of speculation you will always be dissatisfied.”
“Will you not also wonder about it from time to time?” Hori asked diffidently, noting his father’s unease. Khaemwaset was glancing slowly around, one hand tightly gripping the Eye of Horus pectoral resting on his broad chest. He shook his head emphatically.
“I think I have hated this place from the moment Penbuy came to us with news of its discovery,” he said in a low voice. “I still do not know why. Have the workmen begin to rebuild this wall, Hori. There is nothing more to be gained by leaving it down. I am going home. I cannot bear the stench of this water, and it has fouled my kilt.”
Hori watched him rub at a grey splatter as he moved quickly towards the glow of sunlight filtering along the passage. Then he was gone. The Overseer of Works and Khaemwaset’s Master Mason stood politely with eyes downcast, waiting for instructions. Hori left the stool. “You had better begin the reconstruction,” he told them. “I cannot be here today but you have my authority to make any decisions necessary regarding the wall. I shall be back tomorrow morning.”
I hope Father can bring himself to examine the scroll again, he thought as he negotiated the steps with his servant’s discreet assistance and collapsed, with a curse at his swollen knee, onto his litter. I hardly considered it as a factor when I was chewing on the tough problems of the water and the baboons and now the walled-off room, but I am now beginning to believe that it holds the key to this aggravating excavation. Nothing else does, and the inscriptions and scenes Penbuy’s assistants have so painstakingly transcribed are pretty but useless. “To the watersteps,” he commanded with a thrill of pleasure. The earring lay wrapped under the little cushions. He intended to visit Tbubui, with it and his adventures yesterday as the excuse. Had she not, after all, begged him to let her know what transpired? She would commiserate with him over his knee. She would ply him with good wine, make him comfortable, her sympathy would shine from those huge black eyes. Now that his father’s somewhat cursory examination of the find was over without so much as one sharp word, the rest of the day stretched ahead full of latent possibilities. Hori closed his eyes and smiled.
Although he would have preferred to walk, he was carried from the skiff along the winding path under the tall palms. The house was as he remembered it, low and freshly whitewashed, rambling and silent. He felt he had left it years ago. The front garden was deserted and for the first time Hori wondered if his appearance might be inconvenient, but as he alighted and told his bearers to wait for him under the trees by the riverbank, a servant came out, bowed and stood stoically. He was entirely black, a pure Nubian, Hori conjectured, with powerful shoulders and a blunt face. He reminded the young man of the shawabtis in the tomb, black, ebony with gold collars, each deaf and dumb until the moment when their master called them to perform their duties in the next world. “Tell the lady Tbubui that Prince Hori is here and wishes to speak with her,” he ordered. The man bowed again, still with head lowered, indicated that Hori should precede him into the entrance hall, then vanished. Hori sank onto a chair. In spite of his rapid heartbeat, his anticipation, the almost stultifying peace of the house began to settle over him.
He did not have long to wait. Tbubui herself came gliding towards him, reverencing him several times as she did so, a welcoming smile lighting her features. She was barefoot, as usual, one golden anklet tinkling as she moved, her wrists imprisoned by two thick, plain gold bracelets. Beneath the thin white body-hugging linen of her sheath her brown skin could be glimpsed, and this time Hori made no attempt to wrench his gaze from the clean curves of her hips and thighs, the slight quiver of her breasts. Her hair had been imprisoned in a dozen braids, exposing the noble length of aristocratic neck and her pure, uncluttered chin. Green eye-paint gave her eyes a lustrous sheen, and her mouth was hennaed orange.
“Highness!” she exclaimed as she came up to him. “Your knee! Whatever have you been doing?”
She might be talking to a child, Hori thought a little mutinously. That is how she sees me. As a child to be condescended to and indulged. He realized that she had not waited for him to speak first as she should have done and he pushed himself to his feet.