Scroll of Saqqara(88)
He struck her hand away then snatched it up and kissed it fervently, licking the tips of her fingers. “I have never been a young man with a light heart,” he groaned. “This is not infatuation Tbubui. It will last.”
She made no move to withdraw her hand. “You would be the laughing-stock of every noble in Egypt,” she warned him. “My blood may be aristocratic, but it is not the blood of full grandeur required of a prince’s wife. I am too old for you.”
He laid her fingers between both his palms and managed a wan smile.
“And how old are you?”
There was a pause. Then she chuckled. “The gods have given me thirty-five years.”
“I don’t care!”
“But I do. I cannot bind a man so young.” She pulled from his grasp and he at last sat back. His head was drumming and he felt a little sick. Suddenly he became aware of the pain in his knee.
“Do you feel nothing for me, then?” he asked.
“Whatever would your father say?” she countered. “Hori, you are an attractive man and I am not immune to your magnetism. No one in Egypt is immune. But I must regard you as a dear young friend. You may visit me whenever you wish, providing you keep your feelings a secret from your family and other friends. Is it agreed?”
“Agreed,” he whispered. His poise had deserted him long ago, replaced by the need to prove himself as a man that her perhaps unconsciously patronizing attitude made worse. “But you did not answer my question.”
“Yes, Prince,” she said pointedly. “I did. Now would you like something to eat? A fresh dressing for your wound?”
No dressing can heal my wound, he wanted to shout. Everything in him demanded that the conversation be continued, that she be forced to admit a desire for him equal to his own, but a new wisdom advised a temporary retreat. Frontal attack would not work. Tbubui must be won with stealth, with a patience barbed in small thorns of aggression
“Thank you, no,” he replied briskly. “I must go home. I have business waiting. Your hospitality was boundless as usual, Tbubui.” He did his best to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. She rose, unscrewed the earring and handed it back to him with obvious reluctance.
“We in this family revere ancient turquoise,” she said. “This piece is of incomparable delicacy and beauty, and I shall perhaps try to have it copied. I appreciate being allowed to wear it, Prince.” Hori wrapped it and returned it to the pouch. Clumsily he pushed himself out of the chair and without another word she followed him into the passage.
The afternoon was far advanced, a blazing furnace of heat and light that shocked him after the coolness of her bedchamber. He took his leave with some of his accustomed dignity and she smiled wryly into his eyes, bidding him to come back at his earliest convenience. His litter was waiting. Grunting he reclined on the cushions, gave his command and twitched the curtains closed.
Some moments later, something made him lift the heavy covering and glance back at the house. Tbubui was standing in the shadow of the entrance, gazing expressionlessly after him, and she was not alone. Her brother stood beside her, one arm across her shoulders, his sombre face as blank as hers. Quickly Hori withdrew and let the curtain fall, but the vision of those two frozen and somehow ominous sentinels stayed with him, clouding the otherwise burning day.
KHAEMWASET’S MOOD was still uncertain when the rest of the family gathered to dine just after sunset. Accustomed to a father of even temper, Sheritra prattled on about Harmin during the first two courses and was shocked into silence when Khaemwaset told her sharply to be quiet. For once Nubnofret defended her, saying, “Really Khaemwaset, there is no need to be rude!” But he did not answer, lifting food to his mouth that he hardly tasted and not hearing at all the pleasant music filling the hall. He was aware of Hori’s unusual withdrawal, his monosyllabic answers to his mother’s casual questions, and made a mental note to inspect his son’s knee the following day, but forgot the thought as soon as it was complete. When he had returned from the tomb to his office, Penbuy had read him a scroll from Wennufer, his priestly friend, setting out the retort to an amicable argument the two had been engaged in, now, for months, regarding the true burial place of the head of Osiris, and Khaemwaset had found himself profoundly bored with the whole question. Huy, Mayor of Memphis, had sent a note inviting him to dine and he had told Penbuy to decline on his behalf. Si-Montu had written in his own hieratic scrawl to let his brother know that the grapes were recovering from their blight and filling apace. The mention of disease had made him think of the message from his mother’s scribe, but he thrust the guilt of his inaction regarding her failing health to the back of his mind. He would dictate a cheerful letter to her soon. From the Delta had come the reports of the men detailed to measure the steadily shrinking level of the Nile, and his scribe’s voice, monotonously reeling off the list of figures, had given Khaemwaset a sudden lancing pain in the gut that he did not even bother to treat.