Year of the Hyenas

by Brad Geagley

  The men chosen by Qar sped inside the sanctuary, returning within moments bearing a god’s sedan chair on their shoulders. Seated within it was the limestone figure of the first Pharaoh Amenhoteb. Wearing his striped nemes crown, hastily rouged and anointed, the graven pharaoh stared sternly at his village.

  The men brought the statue to where Hunro stood. For a moment she hung her head. But when Qar abruptly pushed her forward, she caught her voice. “Act, my lord,” she implored the statue, “to restore my loss.”

  For a moment nothing happened. Then the six bearers began to sway on their feet and their eyes fluttered. The men on the chair’s right unexpectedly dipped in unison, as if they intended to pitch the statue onto the ground. The crowd gasped, striving to keep themselves from the god’s gaze. The chair righted itself, only to pitch forward when the two lead bearers fell to their knees. Cries from the tomb-makers rose again. But the lead men leapt once more to their feet, turning the chair around, to run headlong in the opposite direction. The villagers fell away before them, yelling.

  “What’s going on? Tell me!” Semerket demanded.

  Qar leaned back to whisper in his ear, “The god is pressing down upon the shoulders of the bearers, to indicate which direction they should take him.”

  The bearers seemed to be confused. Round and round they turned, so that Amenhoteb’s oracle could gaze his fill at all his villagers. Then the bearers stopped, their feet suddenly rooted to the ground. For a long while they did not move. Then they turned in Khepura’s direction, rushing headlong at the head woman.

  Qar prodded Semerket. “Now,” he whispered.

  The statue teetered forward, so that its inlaid obsidian eyes could glare down upon her. Khepura flung her arms over her head and opened her mouth to scream. But at that precise moment the statue was shifted slightly to stare at another beside her. The bearers sank to their knees then, and made no other move.

  The good god had found the thief.

  Hunro put a fist in her mouth to stifle her scream—and the other villagers backed away from the accused, leaving him alone at the circle’s center. Semerket seized Qar’s arm.

  It was Rami.

  The youth fell to the ground. Hunro ran to him and held his face in her hands. “Did you do it, truly?”

  Reluctantly the boy nodded.

  “I drop the charges,” Hunro cried instantly.

  Qar stepped forward, saying the god had made his judgment and that the charges remained in effect. “But,” he said, “if Rami produces the stolen items, we will forgo his punishment. If not, the stick shall be brought and his father shall beat him according to the law.”

  Hunro stroked her son’s head, pushing the hair from his eyes. “Rami,” she said, “please. You must do this thing.”

  Rami smiled weakly at his mother, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mother, but the jewels are gone,” he whispered. “I don’t even know where they are.” He dropped his head and refused to look at her.

  “Let a stick be brought!” shouted Qar.

  A branch, thick and pliable, was cut from an acacia tree in the temple garden. When its thorns had been shaved away and the leaves removed, Qar deemed it serviceable. He brought it to Neferhotep.

  “Take it. Whip him until he confesses where his mother’s jewels are.”

  Neferhotep exchanged glances with Khepura. Semerket watched them closely. Neferhotep’s voice rang clearly out over the crowd. “I cannot.”

  “It is the law!” Qar thundered.

  “I cannot whip him. Rami is not my son.”

  A chorus of gasps erupted from the tomb-makers. Their faces wore expressions ranging from shock to glee. Hunro put a hand to her throat where a blue vein throbbed.

  “I have concealed my shame from the village long enough,” Neferhotep continued in the same clear voice, though he affected a grief-stricken stance. “It is the cuckoo’s egg that has hatched in my house. Paneb is the father of Rami. My wife is an adulteress. Paneb must punish his own son.”

  Semerket instantly realized the full import of Neferhotep’s words. Hunro was to be denounced as an adulteress and arrested. The jewels were gone; now the chief witness against the tomb-makers would be put away as well.

  Paneb’s roar of rage caught everyone by surprise.

  “You bastard!” he shouted at Neferhotep. “You’ve made me do terrible things in your time—but you can’t make me do this!” Paneb rose to his full impressive height. He seized the acacia branch from Qar, and his knuckles were white as he gripped it. The branch hissed through the air as he charged forward.

  Neferhotep ran. He broke through the crowd of tomb-makers and sped down the hill to the village gates. “Stop him!” he implored the villagers as he passed. “Somebody make him stop! He’s a crazy person!”

  No one intervened.

  Paneb caught Neferhotep by the gates, bringing the branch across his shoulders. Neferhotep screamed like a hare caught in a hyena’s jaws and tripped, rolling in the sands, trying to protect his face.

  By this time Qar and Semerket had caught up to the big foreman. They clung to his arms, but he continued to lash at Neferhotep until sweat dripped from his brow. In desperation Qar threw himself between Paneb and the scribe. Neferhotep immediately seized his chance and leapt again to his feet, fleeing through the gates and into the village corridor.

  Paneb flung Qar aside as if he were a child, running after Neferhotep for the entire length of the village’s main street, kicking aside the pottery and refuse at the villagers’ doors. Dogs barked after them, feeding the confusion and tumult. Neferhotep reached his house just as Paneb caught him. The scribe flung himself through his door, sliding the bolt behind him.

  “Come out of there, Nef!” Paneb roared, pounding on the door. “I’ve killed before—what’s another death to me? I’m damned whatever happens, thanks to you!”

  It was Qar, accompanied by other Medjays, who subdued the foreman, clubbing Paneb over the head with the butt end of his spear. Paneb fell, stunned. The Medjays bound him then with ropes, thrusting a pole through his bonds. They carried him away on their shoulders as if he were a trussed antelope. Qar gave the orders to also bind Rami. When this was done, father and son were taken to the prison in the Medjay headquarters at the edge of the Great Place.

  Semerket and Qar could not speak. Finally, turning to Qar, Semerket whispered. “What in hell just happened here?”

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, the news was brought to them that Hunro had been arrested by a women’s delegation headed by Khepura. She was taken, struggling and cursing, to be imprisoned in the cell located at the back of the village. The jewels were gone, and so, too, was their chief witness, just as Semerket had foreseen.

  Qar was at last moved to action. “It’s time to take back control of this,” he said.

  That evening the sound of tramping feet caught the tomb-makers unawares. Realizing that men and not spirits made the noises, the villagers crept from their houses to gawk from their doors. In the corridor they saw a cadre of Medjays walking two abreast. Captain Mentmose led them, their spears held at the ready. At one of the alleys the Medjays turned.

  Moments later the villagers heard loud knocks on some distant door. From over the walls came Khepura’s surprised screams, followed by angry shouts from her sons. The tomb-makers stared at one another with frightened eyes. They began to gather in the corridor, afraid and silent, just as the Medjays reemerged into it.

  To their dismay they saw Khepura’s husband, the goldsmith Sani, being led away in manacles. The Medjays unceremoniously prodded Sani toward the northern gate. Sani’s face was so fearful that he appeared almost unrecognizable to his neighbors. The Medjays roughly shoved aside any of the tomb-makers who stumbled in their way.

  Khepura’s screams of anguish erupted into the corridor, pursuing the Medjays down its entire length. “Sani!” she screeched. “Sani—!” But the Medjays continued to force the goldsmith ahead of them, using the points of their spears. Khepura collapsed in th
e corridor, shrieking her husband’s name again and again, surrounded by her sons. “He is a good man,” she wailed. “Bring him back to me!”

  Qar looked back into the village corridor. Half-expecting to see an angry mob, he saw instead families huddled together in their doorways, their expressions resigned, as if the thing they feared most had at last come to claim them.

  AS SANI WAS LED AWAY by Qar, Semerket slipped from Hetephras’s house and out of the village. The wind was sharp and only starlight illuminated the desert. Rain clouds massed on the horizon. From deep in the Great Place Semerket heard the chirping yelps of a jackal pack on the prowl. Squinting in their direction, he saw their dark forms frolicking together on the distant sands. Every so often they would stop, dig for rodents and grubs, and then move on, grunting to one another. The hackles on his neck rose; jackals were the dogs of the cemetery, the companions of death.

  He walked swiftly down the trail to the village jail cell. It was nothing more than a deep pit lined in mud brick, over which a small bronze grate was locked. The villagers had posted no guard, and he approached the grating unobserved. Kneeling beside it, he heard a small pebble drop to the cell’s floor far below. The pit must be at least five cubits deep, he surmised.

  “Hunro,” he whispered into the cell.

  He heard a small movement, but could see nothing below. “Semerket?” Her feathery voice came back to him through the dark.

  “I’ve brought you a cloak, and some bread. Watch out now—I’m going to drop them to you.”

  He pushed the cloak through the grating. Then he dropped the loaf of bread to her, though he had to tear it in half to fit it through the grate.

  She was touched. “You’re good to remember me, Semerket,” she said.

  “We’ve arrested Sani. He’s going to be tortured if he doesn’t tell us what he knows, Hunro. Paneb’s already in custody. The day after, and every day after that, the Medjays will arrest another member of the work gang until one confesses.”

  There was no reply from her at first. Then he heard her muttering into the dark, “Horrible…”

  “I want you to know that I’ll save Rami if I can. But you must warn him, Hunro, that his only hope is to confess. It will be to his advantage if he does. Will you tell him?”

  It was a moment before she spoke again. “If I see him again, yes. Thank you, Semerket.”

  “Tomorrow at first light I’m going to Djamet to see the vizier. He’ll order your release.”

  She was silent. He thought she must be weeping again, but when her voice reached him it was surprisingly calm.

  “Goodbye, Semerket,” she said.

  Reluctantly, he stood up and brushed the dirt from his knees. As he adjusted his woolen mantle about his shoulders, he happened to look in the direction of the Great Place. Six pairs of gleaming yellow eyes stared back. The jackals stood very near to him, bold and unafraid. He made a threatening gesture at them and stamped his foot. The jackals turned and fled down the trail, stopping occasionally to return his stare.

  The desert wind rushed at him from over the dunes, grit-laden and chill. Shivering, he trudged to the village kitchens to fetch his evening’s meal from the servants. Lost in his thoughts, fearing for Hunro, he pushed open the door without thinking who might be behind it.

  Khepura and her sons sat in a tight circle, surrounded by their neighbors. As she wept, her sons bent over her, begging her to be brave. Other tomb-makers murmured words of comfort, saying they knew in their hearts that Sani would be home soon, that the Medjays could not possibly keep him in jail for very long…

  Khepura moaned that she feared her husband would be beaten by the Medjays—that he was not young—that he could not possibly survive such treatment. At this last, she broke into fresh wails.

  Semerket came through the gate and the tomb-makers instantly were silent, dropping their heads to glare at him from hooded eyes. Semerket cursed his luck to find himself surrounded by resentful villagers. His only course was to brave it out and hope there would be no confrontation.

  Semerket nodded to them, refusing to meet their gaze, and headed for the hearths. He directed the attending servant to give him a jar of beer, and asked another woman to fill a bowl with greens and cheese. Semerket was on the point of leaving, but as he turned from the hearth he found that Khepura was standing directly behind him, blocking his exit, her expression malignant.

  “It was you who had my husband arrested,” she muttered accusingly.

  “No,” he said firmly. “The Medjays arrested him.”

  “You were behind it.”

  “Blame yourself, Khepura—he wouldn’t be in jail had you not taken Hunro away.”

  “Sneferu told us about the pot, how you tricked him into repairing it. Do you think we don’t know what you’re trying to do to us—making innocent people into criminals so you’ll look good to the vizier?”

  Semerket felt his face redden with anger. He wanted to laugh at her words, to fling accusations at her. So they were innocent people, were they? He knew in his heart that Khepura had something to do with the disappearance of Hunro’s jewels, even though Rami had taken the blame. Hot words began to bubble to his lips, his tongue freed of its usual sluggishness. It was all he could do not to tell her— tell them all—that though the villagers may have slipped through the noose by their timely theft of Hunro’s jewels, he would soon tighten it again.

  But he saw her four strong sons glowering at him, ready to spring if their mother gave the word. Semerket placed his jar of beer on the hearth, beside his bowl of greens. Turning to them, forcing his voice to remain calm, he only said, “If your husband is innocent, Khepura, then you needn’t be afraid.”

  “He is innocent. It’s you who are guilty.” Her invective came pouring out like molten lead. “I know Hunro was with you last night. I know what went on, don’t think I don’t. I could have you imprisoned on the very same charge of adultery if I chose. I’m head woman here and it counts for something—though you think you’re so much better than us.”

  The flush of anger again surged through him. The unguarded words came spilling out. “You couldn’t arrest me, Khepura,” he said, “because you know your own husband is guilty of the charge. Tell me this—did Sani ever bring you jewels from a tomb, as he did Hunro?”

  Khepura gasped, and backed away from him. Her sons erupted in violent protests. Semerket immediately rued his words, though he could not deny the pleasure they brought him. Hurriedly he turned back to the hearth for his food, wanting to leave before the villagers jumped upon him. But his beer and the bowl of greens and cheese were gone. Irritated, he called to the servant. After searching the kitchen for a few moments, she located his meal at the end of a long wooden bench.

  He left the kitchen, returning to Hetephras’s house. Sukis greeted him at the door and wound herself around his ankles, enticed by the aroma of his meal. The yellow cat followed him into the house. Placing the beer and bowl on the brick bench in the reception room, Semerket looked about for a candle. The moment he went into the kitchen, Sukis leapt brazenly atop the bench and seized a piece of cheese.

  “Spoiled Sukis!” he said, making a hissing noise from the door to shoo her away. She jumped from the bench and sat, tail erect and twitching, her eyes following him. He went to find a candle. There was none in the kitchen, but he remembered that a fresh bundle of them was in the cellar. Downstairs, he groped about until he found them.

  Once again in the kitchen he pulled his flint from his sash and managed to light the wick. He sniffed at the beer. Again the servants had overflavored the brew with herbs. The bowl of lettuce and cheese had a bitter scent as well. A tiny warning bell rang in the back of his mind.

  Before he could even give thought to the suspicion, however, he heard a small retching sound coming from the reception room. He held the candle high and beheld Sukis walking stiff-legged on the tiles, struggling to reach him, coming toward him with a comical mincing strut. Strange hacking sounds erupted from her
throat and Semerket saw foam bubbling from her jaws. She was trembling.

  Semerket rushed to the cat, trying to take in what was happening. She fell on her side, gasping, but then seemed to overcome her initial spasm. “Sukis…!” he said aloud. He would have taken the little animal into his arms but at that moment she emitted such a horrifying wail that he inadvertently backed away, frightened. The cat’s eyes bulged from their sockets. Her spine, to his horror, was arching inward as if it would snap in two. Her wail grew louder still, and the cat’s mouth pulled into a wide, macabre grin.

  He looked around helplessly, panic rising, not knowing what to do for her. Suddenly there was nothing to do at all; with a choking noise, Sukis died. Her eyes became fixed, slowly withdrawing again into their sockets. The terrible spasm relaxed its hold, and her spine straightened. Her body again became soft and pliable. But she was still.

  Semerket gazed down at the cat. If Sukis had not stolen the piece of cheese, he knew, he would have been the one lying on the tiles, back bent, foam on his lips. His eyes misted as he bent to stroke her yellow fur.

  Gathering up the cat’s body, he wrapped it in a cloth, laying it at the side of the room. Later, he promised himself, he would have Sukis preserved and placed beside Hetephras in her tomb. Then he took the bowl of food and the jar of beer into the far privy and poured them both down the hole.

  Semerket returned to the room where Sukis’s body lay, and opened the front door. He stared into the sky. The dark ledge of rain clouds on the distant horizon stretched over the far desert. Semerket suddenly needed human company; he craved it. He thought at first he would go to Qar’s tower, to inform him of what had happened. But then he remembered that Qar was at the Medjay headquarters on the other side of the Great Place. He had only a vague idea where the quarters were located, knowing only that they were in some abandoned tomb on the western side of the valley. It was too dark a night, he thought, to attempt a run across the steep and winding trails of the Great Place, for there was no moon…