Scroll Of Saqqara Part 28

Antef stepped forward. There was no pity in the young man's gaze, only acceptance and a contempt for Khaemwaset. "I loved your son," he said matter-of-factly. "Now that he is dead my a.s.sociation with this accursed house is ended. I will not attend Hori's funeral. Farewell, Highness." He bowed and was gone. Come back, Khaemwaset thought he shouted, but the words stayed in his mind. Come back, I want to know how he died, what he said, what he felt, oh what is the truth, Hori, what is the truth?

Slowly he left the raft, and as soon as he was standing on the warm stone that still held the heat of the previous day, Ib sprang into action. Khaemwaset left the crumpled body of his son and walked slowly back to the house. It is still night, he thought dizzily. Nothing has changed. Hori is dead and nothing has changed. The pa.s.sage before his quarters loomed silent and empty but for the guard on his door and the flaring torches. The house still slumbered, all unknowing. Hori is dead, Khaemwaset wanted to shriek at the top of his lungs. Instead he blundered into his quarters and sank onto the couch.

"Hori is dead," he said, Tbubui shifted and groaned softly. For a moment he thought that she had gone back to sleep, but then she pushed back the sheets and sat up.

"What?" she said.

"Hori is dead," he repeated like a litany. He began to sway in his extremity.

She stared at him indifferently, her eyes swollen with sleep. "Yes, I know," she said.

He froze. "What do you mean?" he breathed. Suddenly his heart began to gallop in his chest.

"Just what I said," she offered, running a hand over her face and yawning broadly. "Nenefer-ka-Ptah put a spell on him. Actually the spell was put on him earlier, because he dared to go to Koptos. Not that it would have mattered. I knew you wouldn't believe him anyway."

Khaemwaset felt the room begin to spin and recede. "What are you saying?" he managed. "What do you mean?"

She yawned again, and pa.s.sed a pink tongue over her lips. "I mean, now that Hori is dead, and you refused to help him, your degradation is complete, Khaemwaset, and my task is done. I am not obliged to play my part anymore. I am thirsty," she went on. "Is there any wine left?" She pulled herself to the edge of the couch and poured wine into a cup. Khaemwaset watched her, incredulous, as she drained it, then set the cup back on the table with a click. She regarded him impatiently. "Hori was right," she said, shaking back her hair and sliding from the couch. Her naked body caught the faint light, which caressed it smoothly, licking along the stretch of her long thighs, curving around her swinging b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "The story he brought back is true. But what does it matter? I am here. I give you what you need. I am your wife."

"True?" he stammered, not understanding, everything in him whirling sickeningly, a thousand voices, a thousand emotions, all at variance with one another. He clutched at the sheets to still the waves of sick dizziness breaking over him. "What story, Tbubui? If your lineage is less than pure I do not care."

"You do not see it, do you?" she taunted him, stretching, and he was mesmerized as always by the flexing of those inviting muscles. All at once he was consumed with l.u.s.t for her, as though in possessing her body yet again he could wipe out his grief, his guilt, his bewilderment. She pa.s.sed a hand over her nipples and down across her taut stomach.

"I am a corpse, Khaemwaset" she said calmly. "Sisenet is not my brother, he is my dear husband Nenefer-ka-Ptah. You yourself raised us, as we had hoped someone would. We are the legitimate owners of the Scroll of Thoth, as far as any mortals may be legitimate owners of such a magical and precious and dangerous thing." She gave him a winning smile. "I suppose you are the owner now through your thieving, and much good may it do you. Thoth does not take kindly to humans interfering in divine matters. Nenefer-ka-Ptah and I, yes and Merhu too, my son you call Harmin, paid dearly for our claim to the Scroll, but it was worth it. Yes it was."

She glided close to him and now he could smell her perfume. It had tantalized him from the beginning, that blend of myrrh and something else, something he could not name. But now, in his numb horror and dawning realization of what he had done, he recognized the odour that underlay the pungent, troubling scent. The myrrh was underpinned by the odour of the charnel-house, a lingering stench of death and decay he had smelled a dozen times when he had lifted the lids of coffins to find the mouldering remains of the long dead beneath. Tbubui was drenched in it beneath the heavy myrrh, her body exuding it with every movement. Khaemwaset wanted to retch.

While she slid seductively to and fro, he was sitting frozen on the couch, his mind momentarily calcified. Hori was right, he was thinking idiotically. Hori was right. The G.o.ds have mercy, Hori was right. I have loved a corpse. "Yes," he choked.

"Good!" she smiled, and he thought of her accent, so enigmatic. It is not something foreign, he told himself frantically. It is good Egyptian, but Egyptian as it must have been spoken hundreds of years ago. Oh how could I have been so blind!

"Prince Khaemwaset, she went on. "Master physician, master magician, above the laws of the G.o.ds in his arrogance. You cannot rid yourself of me now. Is your punishment fitting, do you think?" She paused, not really expecting an answer, and Khaemwaset thought, Yes, my punishment is entirely fitting, entirely pitiless, I have been guilty of an academic arrogance unsurpa.s.sed in Egypt. But was that any reason to punish my son also, and my daughter, and my poor, long-suffering wife? Is the judgment of the G.o.ds so merciless?

"I am in your heart, your guts, your genitals, and there I stay," she purred, coming closer so that her obsidian eyes gleamed inches from his own and her charnel breath fell cold on his mouth. "I control you. You allowed me that power every step of the way. You fool!" She lidded her gaze and swung away, and, mesmerized, Khaemwaset watched her go, b.u.t.tocks flexing, hair flying. "Nenefer-ka-Ptah and Merhu will move in here. Nenefer is my rightful husband. But I presume you have guessed that. Nubnofret has gone. Hori is dead. Sheritra is immured behind her own self-loathing. What a happy family we will be." She turned on him with a manufactured surprise, her eyebrows raised, her eyes open wide. "Oh, incidentally, I am not pregnant. I told you that to introduce one of the little tests Thoth decreed, another chance to save yourself. But you failed it, Khaemwaset, as you failed all the others. You disinherited your children, and so furthered your moral and spiritual destruction at our hands. Never mind. You and Nenefer can share me. That will be interesting, won't it? Come." She opened her arms and gyrated her hips in a slow, seductive movement. "Make love to me anyway. You want to, I can tell. No man could ever resist me, Khaemwaset, in the old days. In the old, old days!" He heard her laughter, and in spite of himself, in spite of the numbing shock, the horror, the disbelief to which he could no longer cling, he was as desperately fired as he had been the first time he saw her. He rose, trembling. Bereaved, crushed, sick, he was compelled to obey.

"Good," she encouraged him. "Good. I need warming, Khaemwaset. My flesh is so cold. Like the Nile, so cold, so thick in my lungs when I clung to Nenefer and screamed in the hope that we would be saved. And we were saved." She came to him, running her hands over his head, down his neck, trailing her fingers across his stomach and down to where he was helplessly, involuntarily engorged. "You saved us, Khaemwaset," she murmured, her mouth to his throat. "You did it. Come inside me, Prince. I want you to make love to me."

Khaemwaset's knees gave way and he fell back onto the couch, Tbubui on top of him. Hori, he thought. Hori, Hori ... But the name was nothing, the name was inconsequential and he gave himself up to this abomination with a cry.

Afterwards he lay beside her, stiffly, in the grip of a deep horror, his limbs rigid, terrified to touch her as she sighed and moved imperceptibly in whatever dark state pa.s.sed for her sleep. This is my fate, he thought wildly, to be gradually reduced to two states, helpless l.u.s.t and an equally catatonic fear, the one alternating with the other as the months turn into years and my life oozes away, to be slowly lost in the shadow world of a living death. Already I am almost paralyzed. My senses obey only her. My faculty of righteous judgment has atrophied to nothing. My ability to love has vanished. I have lost my son, my wife, my daughter, and soon I shall lose what is left of myself. Thoth has made me Tbubui's creature, and what has been cannot be changed. I will remain her creature until I die, until my own self-loathing kills me, for I do not think that any power on earth can rid me of this burden.

All at once his breath was stilled and he sat up. No power on earth, perhaps, he thought, a seed of hope blooming, but what of magic, of the unseen powers that emanate from the G.o.ds? You fool! You are a magician! Now is the time to put forth all your skill, or live in prison forever.

It was still dark when he let himself out of his suite and padded barefoot along the pa.s.sage towards his office, Ib and Kasa following. He did not think, except to wonder if he was on the verge of insanity, for if he tried to think he immediately faced a chasm in his mind that made him sick, dizzy. He paused at one of the huge jars full of water standing by an exit to the garden and plunged his head deep, gasping at the fresh, wet shock, before going on. At the door to the office he turned to Ib.

"I want you to dictate two letters for me," he said. "One to Nubnofret and one to Pharaoh. Put them in your own words, Ib, for I have no time to do it myself. Tell them that Hori has died and mourning has commenced. Tell Nubnofret ..." He fell silent, pondering. "No. Beg Nubnofret in my name to come home." Ib nodded, tight-lipped, and bowed himself away. Khaemwaset crooked a finger at Kasa. "I am about to perform magic," he said. "I need you to a.s.sist me, but you must not speak. Do you understand?" He opened the door and both men went in.

"Highness," Kasa said, and Khaemwaset could hear the fear in his voice, "I am not an initiate. I have not been purified. I can only hinder the spell."

Khaemwaset was already in the inner room, unlocking all the chests and throwing back the lids. "I am not purified either," he replied. "Do not worry. Now be silent." Kasa obeyed.

A sly voice whispered in Khaemwaset's mind. Do you want to do this? At least you have something, proud Prince, and if you destroy them you will have nothing. Besides, Nenefer-ka-Ptah is himself a magician .What if he senses your aim and thwarts you? Do you imagine that the practice of magic has grown more sophisticated since the days when he wielded the power, or are the ancient spells more undiluted? You are sullied and weakened by your own gross sensuality. Can you put forth the spiritual energy you will need? Close the chests. Go back to your couch. Take her in your arms, for the one thing that will never change is your warped, perverse desire for her, and surely it is better to a.s.suage one pain than be engulfed by the many. He moaned under his breath and went on selecting the things he would need, then he carried them back into the office. The Scroll of Thoth and the scrolls Hori had persuaded him to read were on the top. He deposited everything on the desk.

"Listen carefully," he said to Kasa. "I need a small amount of natron. You can get it from the kitchen, but make sure it is fresh. I need a large bowl of running Nile flood-water. Bring two pieces of linen that have never been worn, a jar of virgin oil and my white sandals. I have incense, a mask and the unguent of myrrh here. Try not to attract attention while you do these things, Kasa, and be as quick as you can. Shall I repeat the list?"

Kasa, shook his head. "No, Highness."

"Good. And bring a razor. My body must be shaved."

Kasa backed out quietly and the door clicked shut behind him. Khaemwaset turned to the Scroll of Thoth. He knew now that Hori had not been mad enough to dig out the tomb and take it away. It had simply returned. It was his responsibility now, his doom, and nothing could avert the consequences. Perhaps Nenefer-ka-Ptah had come by it in just such a way. Perhaps its ownership went from corrupt magician to corrupt magician with a trail of terrible consequences in its wake, an inherited curse, Khaemwaset forced himself to unroll it, scan it, enter into its black mystery. Then he set it aside and began to read Antef's bold script. He wanted to familiarize himself with every detail for which Hori had died. His mind began to wander to his son, but desperately he wrenched it back to the task at hand, for after thought came emotion, and after emotion the maelstrom of insanity.

He had finished reading and was returning the scrolls to their chest when Kasa returned. A young male servant staggered to the desk with a large bowl of water, set it down, bowed and withdrew. Kasa placed the other things beside it and stood waiting inquiringly. Outwardly he was calm, but Khaemwaset sensed the turmoil beneath. Thank the G.o.ds for Nubnofret's training, he thought. Kasa will not break.

"The first thing you will do is shave me," he said. "All of me, Kasa, from head to toe. Not one hair must escape. Such purity is important."

He lay on the hard, tiled floor while his body servant drew the razor in short strokes over his skull, in long sure motions down his body. Khaemwaset fought to settle his mind and bring it to the profound state of concentration he would need. He began the prayers of purification silently as Kasa worked. When the man was finished, he stood. "Now wash me in the flood-water," he commanded. "Do it with one of the pieces of linen. When my body is clean, repeat the process on my hands, breast and feet. At that point I will open my mouth. Wash inside it as well. I caution you again: Do not speak."

Kasa did as he was told, his hands moving gently but efficiently over Khaemwaset's body. Night still gripped the house and there was no presentiment of the dawn that surely could not be far away. Khaemwaset felt that he had lived an age since he had spoken to Antef in the pa.s.sage, since he had run out of the house and down the water-steps, since he had seen, had seen ... He felt Kasa's linen brush his foot and automatically intoned the accompanying chant. "My feet are washed on a rock at the side of the lake of the G.o.d." He opened his mouth and closed his eyes, his tongue rebelling as Kasa wiped it and then touched the roof and the teeth. "The words that shall emerge from my mouth shall now be pure," he said as Kasa finished. "Now, Kasa, charge the incense holder and place it in my hand." The servant did so and soon the office began to fill with the fragrant grey smoke.

At its familiar, comforting smell Khaemwaset felt his stomach loosen and relax. I am a priest, he thought. No matter what I have done, I am still able to be purified and to stand with the G.o.ds. "Now take the oil and pour it over my head," he commanded. The sweet, thick liquid trickled past his ears, and finding the slight hollow of his breastbone, ran down his body. The words were coming more easily now in Khaemwaset's mind, and he was able to remain in the present and not think about what was to come. "Open the unguent," he said, and when Kasa had done so he anointed himself on the forehead, breast, stomach, hands and feet. "Natron," he snapped, and it appeared before him, sifted into a little cup from the kitchen. Pinching it between his fingers, Khaemwaset placed it behind his ears and on his tongue. "Now, Kasa, drape me in the linen." As the dazzling, voluminous square was settled around him, Khaemwaset breathed a sigh. He was completely purified. He was safe. "The sandals," he said, and Kasa bent to slip them onto his feet. "Now, open the pot of green paint I have set out on the desk, take the brush, and trace the symbol of Ma'at on my tongue." Kasa's hand was trembling as he applied the brush. "I am now in the chamber of the two Ma'ats, the two truths of cosmic and human order," Khaemwaset recited in his head. "I am in balance."

It was time to begin. Facing the east he began his identification with the G.o.ds. "I am a Great One," he intoned. "I am a seed which is born of a G.o.d. I am a great magician, son of a great magician. I have many names and many forms, and my form is in each G.o.d.." He went on in the same hypnotic, sing-song chant, aware that he had captured the attention of the G.o.ds. They were watching him carefully, curiously, and if his tongue slipped or he forgot a word they would turn away and his growing power over them would be lost.

He had already decided that he would not appeal to Thoth. Thoth had deserted him. He had not been given the slightest chance to rectify his sin. No, it would be Set whom he would bend to his will. Set, who had been as nothing to him, a reminder only of the savage, ancient days when Egypt's kings were ritually sacrificed under the knives of Set's priests to impregnate the earth with their blood. Khaemwaset had always abhorred his aloofness, his unpredictable, untameable independence. He knew very well that such an act would place him in Set's power forever, that he would be beholden to the G.o.d he had always despised as a destructive lover of chaos for the rest of his life, would have to sacrifice to him and serve him without reservation. But of the G.o.ds, Set alone would have no qualms about the physical and spiritual destruction Khaemwaset had planned for the three he now knew were his enemies.

The process of identification was complete. The G.o.ds were held, and he stood with them. He could go on. Taking a deep breath, he shouted, "It is to you I speak, Set the turbulent, Set the bringer of storms, Set of the red hair and wolf's face! Hear me and pay heed, for I know your secret name!" He paused, and was aware that the room had gone suddenly very still. The flame in the lamp rose absolutely straight and the tiny eddies of air that had played about him were absent. Sweat began to pour down his face and trickle cold along his spine. The G.o.d was listening. Khaemwaset chanted the precaution every magician must use before attempting to threaten a G.o.d. "It is not I who speaks thus," he sang, "nor I who repeats that, but the magic force which has come to attack the three with whom I am concerned."

The silence deepened. It had a disturbing, sentient quality. Khaemwaset could hear Kasa's rapid, harsh breaths behind him. "If you do not listen to my words," Khaemwaset went on, fighting to keep his voice rich and strong, "I will decapitate a hippopotamus on the forecourt of your temple, I will make you sit wrapped in a crocodile's skin, for I know your secret name." He paused then shouted four times, "Your name is 'The-day-when-a-woman-gavebirth-to-a-son'!" He was rigidly under control, the linen already sticking to him. He had never used these spells before to do anything but good, and he was almost as afraid as poor Kasa. "I am Set, I am Set, I am Set, I am Set!" he shouted with triumph. "I am he who has divided that which was reunited. I am he who is full of vigour and great in power, Set Set Set!"

The incense, previously hanging against the ceiling in a dim grey cloud, suddenly swirled agitatedly about. The lamp flickered convulsively and a wind with a voice came blowing through the window. It was time to free himself. "Kasa," he said. "Take the wax from the box on my desk and fashion three figures. They do not have be good likenesses, just give them each a head, a trunk, and limbs. Give two of them male genitals." Kasa stumbled to obey, his eyes, as he crossed into the light, wide and white-rimmed. Khaemwaset drew forward a leaf of papyrus that had been newly pressed and, taking up a pen, began to write the names Nenefer-ka-Ptah, Ahura, Merhu in green ink. He also wrote the name of Nenefer's ancestor. He was supposed to have traced Nenefer's mother and father as well, but he did not know who they were. By the time he had finished, Kasa had the three small wax figurines made. They were crude but recognizably human.

Khaemwaset reached to the far side of the desk and grasped his knife. It was of ivory made only for him at his final initiation, for his use alone, and on its blade was carved the likeness of Thoth, his patron. Patron no longer, he thought grimly. Thoth was Nenefer's lord also, but Set is stronger, Set is wilder, Set will chew them up in his sharp white fangs and spit them out like so much offal.

With the point of the knife he carved their names into the heads of the dolls, one name for each. "Bind them separately with that black thread," he ordered, and Kasa did so. Placing them on the papyrus, Khaemwaset stood back.

"A spell for having power over the fate of Nenefer-ka-Ptah, Ahura and Merhu, in this world and the next," he chanted, paying intense attention to the rhythm and pitch of his words. Four times he repeated them, then he began. "I am a Great One, the son of a Great One, I am a flame, the son of a flame, to whom was given his head after it had been cut off. But the heads of these, my enemies, shall be cut off forever. They shall not be knit together, for I am Set, Lord of their suffering." He paused for the next onslaught, and as he did so his concentration became total. Power slid to his tongue and confidence to his body. "They shall become corrupt, they shall have worms, they shall be distended, they shall stink. They will decay, they will become putrid. They will not exist, they will not be strong, their viscera will be destroyed, their eyes will rot, their ears will not hear, their tongues will not speak, their hair will be cut off. Their corpses are not permanent. They will perish in this land forever, for I am Set, Lord of the G.o.ds."

Now they were tangled in the web of magic, the three of them. Still living, yet no longer able, even if they wished, to struggle away from the fate awaiting them. But destroying their bodies was not enough. Khaemwaset knew that as long as there was a chance that their kas survived he was not safe. He must obliterate them entirely, and the only way to do that was to change their names. A name was a sacred thing. If a name survived the G.o.ds could find you, recognize you, welcome you into their eternal presence, and perhaps even grant you the gift of a return to your body. Sternly, Khaemwaset repressed the shudder that thought had caused. He must not falter now. He must not think, he must not imagine, and above all, he must not fear.

He tipped back his head and closed his eyes. "I am Set, whose vengeance is just," he croaked. "From the name Nenefer-ka-Ptah I remove the name of the G.o.d Ptah, creator of the world, so that his power may not imbue this enemy with strength. From the name Ahura I remove the name of the G.o.d Ra, glorious sun, so that his power may not imbue this enemy with strength. From the name Merhu I remove the name of the G.o.d Hu, the Divine Utterance and the Tongue of Ptah, so that his power may not imbue this enemy with strength. Now I will change the names, thus. Ptahhates-him, Ra-will-burn-her, Hu-will-lay-a-curse. The positive has become the negative, and the negative will become annihilation. Die the second death! Die die die!" He approached the figures and the papyrus on the table, but at that moment there came a soft knocking on the door.

"Khaemwaset, I know you are in there. What are you doing?" It was Tbubui.

Khaemwaset froze, and Kasa gave a little cry. Khaemwaset rounded on him fiercely, grimacing him into silence, terrified that he would break the spell now, at this crucial moment. Kasa gulped and nodded.

"You are trying to weave a spell, aren't you, my dearest?" her voice came, m.u.f.fled by the wood. Khaemwaset heard her fingernails sc.r.a.pe across the door. "Give it up. Give me a chance to make you even happier. I can satisfy you as can no other woman, Khaemwaset. Will it be so bad? I only want to live, I only want what everyone wants. Am I to be blamed for that?" Her voice had risen and Khaemwaset, listening in a sudden agony, recognized the beginnings of hysteria. He did not move. "I knew what you were doing the moment I opened my eyes and you were gone," she went on loudly. "I sensed it. I could feel it. You are trying to get rid of us. Oh, cruel Khaemwaset! But your efforts will be fruitless. Thoth has abandoned you. Your words will have no power. Thoth ..." Her sound trailed away and both men watched the door, hearing her furtive movements as she tried the lock. All at once they ceased. Khaemwaset could almost see her thinking on the other side, her sleeping robe flung loosely about her, her hair dishevelled, her body crouched. "Not Thoth," she resumed faintly. "Of course not. It is Set, isn't it? Set, your father's totem. Set, whose red hair runs in your family. O G.o.ds." All at once there was a flurry of blows against the door and she began to scream. "Khaemwaset! I love you! I adore you! Do not do this, please! I am terrified. Let me live!"

Khaemwaset felt his mouth dry up and he turned once more to the table, trying to summon up the saliva he would need. She continued to scream and sob, beating on the solid wood with fists and feet, and he could not shut out the vision of her, desperate and suddenly insane with fear. With deliberation he spat on the papyrus and again on the figures, one by one. "Anathema!" he said. The noise from the pa.s.sage stopped, then she shrieked, "Ah G.o.ds, no! That hurt me, Khaemwaset! Please stop!"

With great care he took the dolls and paper, and placing them on the floor he lifted his left foot and slowly ground it into them. This time she began to choke and wail, a horrible gurgling sound that made Kasa clap his hands over his ears and sink to the tiling.

"I will not stay dead, I will not!" she shouted. "I will be back, you grinning jackal, for the Scroll cannot be gainsaid!"

"Oh yes it can," he whispered. "Anathema, Tbubui. Anathema." He knelt, and taking his ivory knife, he very gently slid it into the three soft wax shapes, then he drove it hard against the papyrus, which split with a small, distressing sound. Khaemwaset took the bowl that had held the water, poured the remains away, wiped it out, and, laying all the mutilated pieces of his work in it, he took the lamp and a spill and set the whole alight. The papyrus caught at once and the wax began to melt.

"Anathema," he breathed for the last time.

Tbubui was screaming now, a high-pitched, inhuman note, and he could hear her writhing at the edge of the door, her fists and heels drumming madly. The wax was puddling in the bottom of the bowl and the papyrus had crisped and blackened to a few feathery ashes. None of the dolls was recognizable anymore.

Khaemwaset began to cry. I have been fortunate, he thought, his eyes watering from the incense and the tart tang of the burnt papyrus in his nostrils. My spell has not failed. Set bowed to my will, but he is already straightening again, and regarding me with his black, cruel wolf's eye. I do not think that he will ever look away from me again.

Gradually he became aware that a deep peace had fallen, and with it the first shy intimations of dawn. Wiping his face on the linen, he unwound it and let it fall, putting on the crumpled kilt he had shed at the beginning. Someone would surely have heard that insane screaming. Soon the pa.s.sage would be full of guards and they would find ... find what? He looked about. The office was a shambles, and it stank of stale incense, sweat and the myrrh with which he had anointed himself. The lamp at that moment sparked, guttered and went out, but Khaemwaset could still see his body servant, white and leaning against the wall.

"Kasa, open the door," he said. The man stared at him.

"Highness," he breathed, "what has happened here? What have you done?"

"I have rid myself of a great evil," Khaemwaset said wearily, "and now I must learn to live with a greater one. Later I will speak to the whole household, but for now, Kasa, open the door."

On unsteady feet the man went to do as he was told, but as he touched the lock he paused. "Highness," he said without turning around. "The secret name of Set ..."

"It is as I have said it," Khaemwaset broke in. "But do not think to use it, old friend. Even an apprentice of magic is not, for his own safety, told such a thing. I congratulate you on your courage."

Kasa opened the door.

She was lying curled up, her face to the room, one hand against the foot of the door. Her fingers, knees and feet had broken open but the flesh beneath was purple and dry and there was no blood on the door. The stench of putrefaction in the pa.s.sage was overpowering, and Kasa began to retch. Khaemwaset ignored it. Kneeling, he pushed her hair away from her face. The eyes were gla.s.sy and expressionless, the lips drawn back over the little teeth. It seemed to him that the body was already bloating, and he knew he did not have much time. Soldiers were running towards him and he could hear shouting somewhere in the house. He stood. The men came to a halt and saluted, bewildered, but Khaemwaset did not want to explain, not then. There is more than my d.a.m.nation for a legacy, he thought, watching their faces, for I still love and long for her. It is an unnatural desire, compulsive and terrible, and no power I know will ever rid me of that burden.

"Carry her into the garden," he commanded tersely. "Amek, are you there?"

The captain of his guard emerged and bowed. "Highness?"

"Take six men and go to the house of Sisenet on the east bank. In it you will find two bodies, Sisenet and his son. Bring them here. Make a pyre, then report to me." The men began to murmur but Amek merely bowed, snapped an order of his own and wheeled away.

Khaemwaset spared Tbubui's body one more look as his guard bent and gingerly began to raise her, then he grabbed for Kasa's shoulder and, leaning on him, made his way to his apartments. On the way he pa.s.sed the new entrance that led to Tbubui's beautiful north suite, and he averted his eyes.

Once inside the safety of his own rooms he told Kasa to go away and rest, and he himself approached the couch. The cup from which she had drunk such a short time ago still sat on the table. He picked it up and the dregs oozed like oil. The couch still bore the imprint of her body and the pillow was dented where her head had lain. Khaemwaset sat down heavily and pulled the pillow into his arms. He remained there, rocking and weeping, while the light around him strengthened and warmed and birds began to twitter and fight in the trees beyond the window.

Three hours later Amek sought admittance, and Khaemwaset, in a daze of mental fatigue, laid the pillow aside and went out to meet the captain. "It is done," Amek said. "The bodies were there as you said. The man Sisenet was slumped over the table in his room and, Highness, he had a cursing doll in one hand and the husk of a scorpion in the other. The boy Harmin had died on his couch." Khaemwaset nodded, but Amek had not finished. "Highness," he went on hesitantly, "I have seen many dead bodies in my career as a soldier. These people did not seem freshly dead They are swollen and they stink, yet their limbs are rigid. I do not understand it."

"I do," Khaemwaset said. "They died a very long time ago, Amek. Put them on the pyre. Try not to touch them over-much."

'But Highness," Amek protested, shocked. "If you burn them, if you do not let them be beautified, the G.o.ds will not be able to find them. Only their names will ensure their immortality, and names are a slender clue for the Divine Ones to follow."

"They are indeed," Khaemwaset agreed, wanting both to laugh and weep. "But trust me, Amek. What I have asked you to do is a matter of magic. Do not be concerned."

Amek made a silent gesture of obeisance and left to carry out his orders. Khaemwaset made his way to Sheritra's rooms. This time he did not seek permission to enter. Pushing past Bakmut he strode through the ante-room and straight into Sheritra's sleeping quarters. She was awake but not yet up. The shutters had not been raised and she blinked at him through the dimness, then she jerked upright.

"You are not welcome here, Father," she began icily, then he saw her eyes travel him more slowly. He knew what she saw. He was covered in oil, his neck smudged with the natron he had placed behind his ears, his naked chest smeared with grey unguent, his palms gritty, and the whole made worse by his copious sweat. Warily she swung her feet to the floor.

"You have been conjuring," she said. "Oh Father, what is it?"

"Hori is dead," he replied, a lump in his throat, and she nodded.

"I know. Why are you so surprised?" Then her face closed. "I will not speak to you about it anymore. I will go into mourning. I at least loved him." Her voice shook. "If that b.i.t.c.h pretends to a sorrow I know she does not feel, I shall kill her myself."

For answer he held out her cloak. "Put this on, Sheritra," he said. "This is a command, and if you refuse I shall carry you outside myself. I promise you that this is the last time, apart from Hori's funeral, that you will have to see my face."

She regarded him suspiciously for a moment, then, tearing the cloak from his hand, she pulled it about herself.

He walked her out into the garden, now filled with a mellow early light. He knew what she would see but he did not spare her, stepping aside as she pa.s.sed between the pillars so that her view would not be impeded. For a while she obviously could not grasp the sight. Khaemwaset simply let his gaze play over the pile of dry, twisted wood in the middle of gra.s.s, topped by three stiff, distorted bodies. Sheritra drew in her breath and moved towards them like a sleep-walker. Khaemwaset followed. Twice she stalked around the pyre, pausing only to peer into Merhu's yellowing, empty face, then she planted herself before her father.

"You did this," she said.

"I did," he said. "Hori was right all the time. I order you to stay and watch them burn."

Her expression had not changed. It was hard and indifferent. "Well it is too late for Hori," she retorted. "If you had believed him and conjured on his behalf he would still be alive."

"If I had believed him, if I had not broken into that tomb, if I had not stolen the thing to which I had no right, if I had not pursued the mysterious Tbubui ..." He signalled to Amek. "Fire them," he said.

Khaemwaset welcomed the discomfort of the gathering flames, his self-hate and his loathing for the G.o.ds too deep for coherent thought. The bodies hissed and crackled as the flames reached them, but still Sheritra made no move and said nothing. The only time she reacted, drawing in her breath, was when the old tendons began to tighten with the heat and, one by one, the bodies began to jerk, to sit up, to draw up their knees in a grotesque parody of life. She and he remained where they were until the fire collapsed and died, and there was nothing left but a glowing heart in which a few blackened bones had collected. Then Sheritra came up to him.

"Never forget that all this is your doing," she said, and her eyes held neither pity nor accusation. "From now on, you will respect my isolation or I will leave this house. The choice is yours, Prince." She did not wait for an argument. She glided away, somehow dignified, even regal with her straight back and floating white linen, and Khaemwaset watched her go. The servants had gathered in a frightened huddle at the far end of the garden, all their ch.o.r.es forgotten, but Khaemwaset could not face them. Not yet.

He turned towards the house, sitting brightly sunlit, and he was sure that he could hear the Nile running strongly, lapping and gurgling its joy as it sped towards the Delta. He had considered throwing the Scroll onto the fire, but he had known in his heart that such a gesture would be pointless. It would simply have reappeared, light and innocuous, in his chest. I am at last the proud owner of the Scroll of Thoth, he thought bitterly as he pa.s.sed under the shade of the pillars. My boyhood dream has come true. I was cursed from the day of my birth, and I did not know it. My son is dead, my wife estranged, my daughter a prisoner of herself. What shall I do with the long years stretching ahead? How shall I fill the pitiless chasms of the reception hall, the empty, torchlit pa.s.sages, the white sepulchre of my couch? What shall I think when I wake alone in the night and lie sleepless in the silence, the brooding, accusing silence? He gestured to Kasa and crossed the threshold.

EPILOGUE.

Praise to Thoth ...

the Vizier who gives judgment, who vanquishes crime, who recalls all that is forgotten, the remembrancer of time and eternity ...

whose words abide forever.

HE TURNED HIS HEAD HE TURNED HIS HEAD with difficulty, seeking water. His room was very dark beyond the tiny glimmer cast by the night lamp, but someone was breathing harshly, irregularly, the sound primitive and frightening. It was some time before he realized that the noise was coming from himself. Of course, he thought peacefully. At last I am dying. My lungs have rotted from inhaling so much ancient air. Too many tombs opened in the enthusiasm of my younger days, too many dusty coffins examined. But I have not violated the dead for twenty years. Not since ... not since that place at Saqqara. He felt his chest constrict, and for a moment he struggled to get his breath, mouth open, hands clutched to his throat. But then the tension eased and he heard his breathing settle once again. Where are they? he thought petulantly. Kasa, Nubnofret, they should be here with the priests, with water and soothing medicines, but the room is dark, the room is empty. I am alone. Nubnofret does not care, of course, but Kasa ... It is his business to care. "Kasa!" he croaked. "I need water!" with difficulty, seeking water. His room was very dark beyond the tiny glimmer cast by the night lamp, but someone was breathing harshly, irregularly, the sound primitive and frightening. It was some time before he realized that the noise was coming from himself. Of course, he thought peacefully. At last I am dying. My lungs have rotted from inhaling so much ancient air. Too many tombs opened in the enthusiasm of my younger days, too many dusty coffins examined. But I have not violated the dead for twenty years. Not since ... not since that place at Saqqara. He felt his chest constrict, and for a moment he struggled to get his breath, mouth open, hands clutched to his throat. But then the tension eased and he heard his breathing settle once again. Where are they? he thought petulantly. Kasa, Nubnofret, they should be here with the priests, with water and soothing medicines, but the room is dark, the room is empty. I am alone. Nubnofret does not care, of course, but Kasa ... It is his business to care. "Kasa!" he croaked. "I need water!"

No one answered him. Only the shadows moved, deep and slow, like glimpses of a river bottom under the moon's cold gleam. Moon, he thought. Moon, moon. The moon belongs to Thoth, but I do not. For a long time now I have belonged to Set, and where is he in my extremity? For a moment he concentrated on the sound of his breathing, echoing against the invisible walls and the spangled ceiling shrouded in night, but soon other sounds began to intrude and he forgot his lungs and stared into the darkness, frowning. There were shapes out there, animal shapes, vague and furry, curved animal spines.

Suddenly the light caught an eye, round and stupid, and he realized that there were baboons in his room, gibbering softly. He could see them now, scratching themselves in that idiotic, serious way baboons had, their paws going to their genitals. They were fondling themselves and staring at him incuriously. He was angry. What were baboons doing in his suite? Why did Kasa not chase them away? Then he saw that they had golden chains about their necks, and the chains, dull brown in the faint light, all led to the same place.

Suddenly Khaemwaset was afraid. His breath stopped, hitched, and he clawed for more air. "They are mine, Khaemwaset," a voice came out of the darkness. "They help the sun to rise. They herald the dawn. But there will be no dawn for you. You will die tonight." All at once his breathing was freed. He gulped at the air, the blessed, life-giving air, and sat up. "Who are you?" he demanded sharply. "Show yourself." But something in him did not want the owner of the sibilant, somehow inhuman voice to show itself, and he watched in trepidation as the blackness shifted, coalesced, became the figure of a man stepping out of the shadows and approaching the couch. With a cry Khaemwaset shrank back, for the man had the long, curved beak and tiny eyes of an ibis.

"It is time to remember, Khaemwaset," the figure, the man, the G.o.d said, leaning over him. "Not that you have forgotten, although you have tried. Set and I, we have had many conversations about you. You have been his obedient servant for long enough. Now it is my turn to claim your fealty again."