by N. L. Holmes
Hani saw exactly what the king was thinking. “My Sun has expressed it well,” he said admiringly. “If he were our vassal, and Kheta, shall we say, attacked him, we’d have to take action. And A’amu is very far away.”
“However,” the king said, raising a beringed forefinger, “our benign neglect is conditional. If Abdi-ashirta were to attack any of our cities again, we would have to make an example of him. That would be a shame, but there it is.”
“True, My Sun.”
“It’s important that the diplomatic corps be aware of this—and that Abdi-ashirta be aware of it as well. Perhaps a chastened Abdi-ashirta would be even more useful, no?”
When Neb-ma’at-ra spoke, it was a command. Hani realized with a frisson of unease that he was not wholly sure of the king’s meaning. Did he want Hani to incite the Amurrite to aggression in some way? This would have to be done with extreme caution; otherwise, Hani himself would appear to be in rebellion.
The king smiled, his little eyes sinking into the flesh of his cheeks, and in the shadows, Aper-el looked up at Hani and smiled, too, almost imperceptibly. But the expressionless cobra eyes of the coregent narrowed, and Hani found himself chilled. Presumably, Aper-el would carry out whatever guidelines the next king set. Did the younger king, who would rule the future, disagree with his father’s policy?
CHAPTER 2
Lord Hani was abroad more often than not, so when he was in Waset, he and Maya worked in the salon of the diplomat’s home. Maya settled his small body on the floor, short legs crossed, and spread his kilt taut over his thighs. Upon it, he laid a roll of papyrus. He unhitched the strap of his pen case from his shoulder and spread his ink blocks before him. After withdrawing a fresh reed, he proceeded to gnaw it into a brush then point it expertly on his tongue.
“Ready, my lord,” he said to Hani.
Maya—Amen-mes—was Lord Hani’s secretary. He was twenty-three years old, exactly the age of Hani’s own firstborn, whom Maya held in disdain. But he tried very hard to conceal those feelings. After all, Lord Aha was his social superior and vastly taller than Maya, who was a dwarf. If they should come to blows, Maya stood no chance because Aha had his father’s wrestler build and an imperious temper besides. Maya didn’t think much of his employer’s firstborn. Lord Hani deserves better. He deserves a faithful, talented, devoted... he deserves me. This thought occupied a disproportionate amount of Maya’s mental energy, he feared.
Maya heard nothing from Hani, so he looked over at him where he sat cross-legged against the wall. Hani was staring intently up through the clerestory, a beatific grin on his face.
“My lord?” Maya prodded.
Hani’s attention returned to his scribe. “Oh, sorry, Maya. I thought I saw a duck fly past and wondered what kind it was. Now I can’t remember what I wanted to dictate.” He laughed and shook his head. “The duck reminded me of Abdi-ashirta. I guess he’s settled in at home by now.” The diplomat’s smile faded, and he stared into his lap, his thick brows furrowed.
“Something wrong?” Maya asked. It was rare that his employer was so distracted; he had the capacity for long, intense hours of work.
“Not wrong, exactly. I’m just pondering some words of the king.”
“The king?” Maya’s eyes widened. “He received you in audience? In person?”
“He did. Or perhaps I should say, ‘They did.’ The coregent was present as well.”
Maya’s eyes stayed round. Not many people could say they had looked upon the Dazzling Sun Disk in person. He whispered, “May I touch you, my lord?”
Hani threw back his head and hooted with laughter. “Maya, boy, his radiance isn’t contagious. If it were, everyone who saw him pass by on his boat would be gilded.”
Maya blushed in spite of himself. “Of course not, my lord. I was being facetious.”
Hani smiled knowingly. “Let’s get to work, shall we? I want to send a letter to Commissioner Yanakh-amu in Djahy.”
Maya dribbled water on his block of black ink and dipped his pen. He had just lifted it, prepared to write Hani’s words, when a servant stuck his head in the door. “My lord, the high commissioner Lord Ptah-mes is here to see you.”
“He’s here?” Hani cried, crawling to his feet.
“Yes, my lord. Shall I show him in?”
“I should think so!” Hani arranged himself and hastily brushed down his kilt.
Maya likewise sprang to his feet, sweeping up his writing implements. The papyrus escaped him and unrolled across the floor. He gave a cry of frustration and surged after it, knocking his wig askew.
“Lord Ptah-mes, high commissioner of the northern vassals,” announced the servant.
The former vizier entered, tall and commanding. His face was grim. Hani bent over in respect, and Maya dropped the papyrus and did the same, pressing his wig back on with one hand. The vengeful papyrus rolled away again. Maya restrained a curse.
“Hani,” Ptah-mes said in greeting. He shot an amused glance at Maya. “Sorry to disrupt your work, but I wanted to see you immediately, and I was en route from the palace, so I dropped in.”
“My lord’s presence is never a disruption.”
The gravity descended back over the commissioner’s features like a curtain. “Here’s what has happened, Hani. May I speak in front of this fellow? Your secretary, I take it?”
“He is, my lord. And you may. Maya is utterly trustworthy.”
Golden warmth spread across Maya’s cheeks. He felt as if the shebyu collar had lowered itself around his neck. Utterly trustworthy.
“Abdi-ashirta has been assassinated.”
A sudden silence fell over the room. Hani’s mouth dropped open. “Do we know who did it?”
“We do not. As you know, he had just occupied Simurru again, to the furious annoyance of Pa-hem-nedjer. That worthy regional commissioner immediately sent troops, who besieged the city and retook it—only to find Abdi-ashirta dead in his palace.”
Hani stared soberly into space. “Are we sure it wasn’t Pa-hem-nedjer’s men who killed Abdi-ashirta? In the chaos of a siege, he might have seen an easy chance to redress his grievances...”
Lord Ptah-mes shrugged slightly. “He says no.”
“One of Abdi-ashirta’s own men, then? Perhaps there were divisions in his ranks we were unaware of.”
“Altogether possible. The number of possibilities is, in fact, infinite. But the upshot is that we have lost an exceedingly valuable man. A man whom the Living Haru wanted very much to continue in his position.”
Hani looked up at his superior with a wry twist of the lips. “I assume we can be sure he didn’t die of natural causes.”
“Quite right.” Ptah-mes’s handsome face cracked marginally in a smile. “Unless it was the gods who drove a dagger into his back.”
Hani let out a regretful sigh. “I’m sorry for political reasons but also for personal ones, my lord. I think Abdi-ashirta was a man with a certain kind of honor, self-interested though he might be. Now what are we dealing with?”
“That depends on who, if anyone, takes his place at the head of the hapiru. Most likely, we’re facing a nest of snakes, as I’ve said before.” The high commissioner turned as if to go, his brows knotted.
“Thank you for telling me so promptly, my lord.”
“It wasn’t disinterested, Hani,” Ptah-mes said, turning back. “The king suspects that there are forces within his own court who wanted to see Abdi-ashirta out of the way. He himself particularly desired Abdi-ashirta to... stray, as he did, but to remain in power, chastened perhaps, and for that reason, be more vulnerable to our direction. Do you follow me?”
“I do indeed, my lord. Our Sun said something similar to me at our last audience.”
Ptah-mes nodded. “He wants you to find out who murdered Abdi-ashirta, because those people are not necessarily friends of the king and his foreign policy. Find out what’s really going on up there. Pa-hem-nedjer won’t.”
“I’ll leave immediately, my lord
.” Hani’s face was a model of expressionless obedience.
“I’ll see to it you have an escort.” Ptah-mes tipped his elegantly wigged head and disappeared through the doorway. Maya could hear his precise footsteps retreating through the vestibule.
The two men stood frozen in their own thoughts, Maya pinging with excitement. Surely Lord Hani would take him along on this mission for the king. Maya’s mother would be immensely impressed.
At last, Hani said pensively, “Well, off to A’amu. I’d better tell my wife.”
“I suppose I’m going with you, my lord?” Maya ventured, trying not to sound too eager.
But Hani made a dubious noise that chilled Maya’s blood. “It could be dangerous, my young friend. If this was political, someone may not want us looking too closely. What would happen to your mother if you should come to harm?”
“But, my lord,” Maya cried in anguish, “you’ll need a secretary. Why not me? I take up so little room.”
Hani threw back his head and let loose that warm laugh of his. The gap between his front teeth always made him look like an impish little boy when he laughed. “Against such an argument, what can I say?” Then his face sobered to a kindly paternal gravity. “Just be conscious that your mother is a widow, and you’ll be her sole support in her old age, Maya. If Lord Ptah-mes’s suspicions are correct, we’re likely to encounter opposition, and thus, there may be danger. It’s fine with me if you’re willing to take the risk. But remember, we’ll undoubtedly be gone for months—maybe a year, depending on how the investigation goes.”
“I’ll make you glad you let me come, Lord Hani. I’ll make you proud.” Maya clasped his hands and fixed his employer with pleading eyes. In fact, his mother was a goldsmith and could certainly support herself if the worst happened to her only son.
Hani smiled affectionately. “You always make me proud, Maya.”
Love and gratitude flooded the youth in a burning tide, like a cup of strong wine heating his bones, until he felt he could no longer bear it. Maya considered Lord Hani’s square, honest face, a bit heavy around the jowls, with the coppery complexion of a southerner. He took in his employer’s solid nose and his wide mouth, so given to laughter, and the warm little eyes under their thick brows. That face was dearer to Maya than anyone else’s under the sun, except perhaps his mother’s.
Maya already owed his employer everything. Unlike most scribes, he had not been born into a scribal family. His parents, both dwarfs, were royal goldsmiths, prosperous but uninitiated into the sacred art of writing—the very Speech of the Gods. Like many comfortable families of the artisan class, they’d paid for their only son to obtain basic schooling. Maya had shown an aptitude for learning. And as occasionally happened with promising boys, a royal scribe, Lord Hani, had sponsored him into the Per-ankh—the House of Life—scribal school of the temple of Amen-Ra, opening to him a whole new career and a whole new level of prestige. Maya, despite his small stature, would be honored, respected, and powerful. He would become a man of culture. He would have a lovely villa like his patron, marry well, and pass his government post down to his sons. No more sweltering over a forge, huddling above a worktable until his back cried out, or coming home at the end of the day, his fingers sooty and blistered. No dying young, like his father, so that his offspring scarcely remembered him. Maya owed Hani everything.
“When do we leave, my lord?” he cried, fizzing with excitement.
⸎
“Must you go, my dear? For a whole year? That’s such a long time,” Nub-nefer cried in surprisingly open distress. She laid her hands on Hani’s chest as if to bind him to her by some infrangible magical bond.
As he looked at her twisted mouth and pleated eyebrows, Hani’s heart curled up with guilt. He hated to leave, too. There was no place he would rather be than in his peaceful home with his family. But he was a diplomat. He’d traveled the length of the empire for more than twenty years—his entire adult life—first as a military scribe, then as a civilian emissary. His wife had never so unashamedly expressed to him the hardship his constant absences levied on the family, and it tore his soul.
“It may not be that long, my love. It depends on how fast I can conclude my investigation,” he assured her, taking her hands in his. “This won’t be any worse than usual. My father will be here if you need anything.”
“I’m not married to your father,” Nub-nefer said plaintively. She laid her cheek against his chest and clung there, silent for a moment. “Oh, Hani, don’t leave us now, of all times.”
He could feel the dampness of her tears against his skin, and it seared him through to his conscience. “What do you mean, my dear? Why is now any different from all the other times I’ve traveled? Is... is something wrong with the children? Is it Baket-iset?”
“No,” she cried, drawing away, her eyes sparking with exasperation. “You’re at court all the time. Surely you know what’s going on, Hani. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“The king? I fear he may not live too much longer, if that’s what you mean.” But much as they revered the Living Haru, Hani couldn’t see that his departure into the West would inflict any great personal wound to Nub-nefer or his family.
“And when he dies, my husband, who rules alone?”
“Nefer-khepru-ra,” he replied cautiously, only partly seeing where she was leading.
“Don’t you know he’s out to suppress the Amen priesthood?” she whispered.
Hani’s heart sank in deep unease. He pulled away and held up a cautionary finger. “We don’t know that, my dear. Certainly no one at court is saying that. You mustn’t spread rumors, in the name of all that’s holy. And don’t listen to them either.”
But Nub-nefer shook her head and stamped her foot angrily. “We do know it. My brother is a priest of the King of the Gods, like my father before him, isn’t he? He’s seen what’s already starting to happen. It isn’t just rumor. I myself serve in the Ipet-isut four months of every year.”
To be sure, Hani’s brother-in-law was a serious man and not given to gossipmongering, although he might be inclined to assume the worst and panic. A heavy mist of dread began to creep over Hani, like a fog from the marshes in the early hours of a winter day. It almost made him shiver, despite the warmth. “Just stay out of all this controversy, my dear, I beg you. Our good king surely knows what his son is up to, and he would never countenance any impiety.”
But she fixed him with her kohl-painted eyes, anguish straining her features. “Have you seen... what he’s doing almost in the very halls of Ipet-isut, Hani?”
“No, of course not, my dear. I can’t go inside the temple...” Don’t tell me, Hani thought desperately. I shouldn’t know. I don’t want to know anything bad about the heir of the Living Haru.
“Yes, you can. The sun courts of his new temples are open to all. He wants you to see it. I want you to see it. I want you to see that it’s not just some rumor, some hysteria on my part. All the priests are talking among themselves. They’re angry. Frightened. Scandalized.”
“What could it be?” he cried in spite of himself. No, I don’t want to know.
“Talk to Amen-em-hut, please, Hani. Let him tell you. Perhaps you’ll believe a man.” Her beautiful face was stubborn, warped with tears.
“But Nub-nefer, my dearest, I don’t have time to talk to your brother now. I need to get ready. I have a journey of weeks to make, an investigation to conduct. I—”
Nub-nefer was implacable. “You know he’s been building four new temples to the Aten, the visible face of the sun disk, ever since Our Sun’s third jubilee.”
“Of course.”
“And inside are statues. Colossal statues. Of him and his queen. But she’s bearing the crook and flail like a king. And he—I don’t know how to describe them, my husband. They’re grotesque, counter to everything beautiful or meaningful. Counter to ma’at, the order of the universe. I can’t begin to describe them. They’re... neither male nor female, Hani. I don’t know what th
ey are, what he’s trying to say.”
Hani stared at his wife helplessly. “A new style, you mean?” He shrugged with a kind of spasm of the shoulders. “That happens now and then. You mustn’t get so upset by it, my dear.”
“Something’s going on,” she cried, raw voiced. “I feel it. Something terrible is going on. I don’t want to face it alone.”
“Nub-nefer, my love, you must have trust. Trust in our good king, who is devoted to the Hidden One, his father. Look at how he’s built temples to his honor and remade the Southern Ipet temple completely. I can only repeat: he would never permit his son to do anything impious. You must believe that.” Hani drew Nub-nefer to him, folded her in his arms. It’s unlike her to put such stock in vague premonitions. He wondered if the priests were circulating scary tales to which she had fallen victim. Perhaps he should make time to talk to his brother-in-law Amen-em-hut and at least caution him that his sister’s nerves were strained and that he shouldn’t expose her to vague and ominous predictions in Hani’s absence. But a shiver ran up his spine. He thought about the failing health of Neb-ma’at-ra and what could happen once Nefer-khepru-ra sat alone on the throne of the Two Lands.
Hani held his wife for a long time, savoring her warmth, feeling her suppressed sobs against his chest. How much more difficult she was making it for him to leave, this dear woman who was always his strength. At last he said gently, “I want to tell the children that I’ll be going soon. Would you like to come along with me?”
Nub-nefer pulled away from him, scrubbing at her eyes. “Yes, I’ll come.” She drew a deep, unsteady breath.
Pa-kiki would not return from school until the evening, so Hani and his wife made their way hand in hand down to the salon where Baket-iset often passed her days—neither of them wanted her to be isolated from the life of the household, and indeed, she was helpful in directing the servants in her mother’s absence. Nub-nefer made a visible effort to regain her calm, squaring her shoulders and lifting her bosom in determination. She straightened the knot of her shawl, and Hani put his arm around her shoulder. Before they’d even approached the doorway, they heard the laughter of the younger girls and a scrambling as if someone were knocking the furniture about. Hani cast an inquiring eye at his wife, who smiled and shrugged, her anxiety shoved aside.