by N. L. Holmes
“I can show you the knife, though.”
“Why don’t we visit the room where the body was found, too? That might be helpful—to see entrances and such.”
The commissioner didn’t seem to think much of that idea, to judge by the scowl that curdled his face. But as the king’s emissary, Hani did indeed outrank him. Pa-hem-nedjer hauled himself from his stool and led Hani and the secretary along the corridor to the other side of the palace, where the breezes from the southwest would keep the rooms pleasant in the afternoon. He pushed open the door, which was guarded by a local soldier.
Hani peeked in then stepped inside the bedchamber. It was spacious and more luxurious than anything they’d seen so far in the meager palace. An Egyptian-style bed with headrest stood against one wall under a light gauze-curtained frame, resembling a kiosk. He supposed it was to keep out mosquitoes. The opposing wall had long windows that opened onto a court. Hani stretched his neck and looked out. A garden spread below, with formal beds and a few trees intersected by gravel paths. At this hour, it was baked in the sun, which reflected mercilessly off the beam-divided whitewashed wall of the palace wing across from Hani. The cicadas filled the courtyard with the deafening waves of their buzz.
“How easy would it be for someone to climb up the wall of the court and get in here?” Hani asked his host, casting an appraising eye around.
“With a ladder? Easy enough. Otherwise, you’d have to be a monkey. Or a bird.” The commissioner shrugged.
“Have you any other theories about how a murderer might have gotten into this room, Lord Haya?” Hani craned his neck through the window to look upward. Perhaps it would have been easier to drop down from the roof. A rope would be less conspicuous than a ladder.
“It was obviously one of Abdi-ashirta’s own men,” Pa-hem-nedjer said carelessly. “They were probably in here together. The fellow saw his chance, stabbed his leader, and fled into the melee below. One more hapir wouldn’t have attracted any attention.”
Hani nodded, considering. He watched Maya writing away. “Who is leader of the hapiru now that Abdi-ashirta is dead, my lord?”
“No idea. Probably one of his sons.”
“And where might one meet his sons?”
Pa-hem-nedjer looked sullen, as if the question were an affront. “They weren’t here. What are they going to know?”
“Where were they? Where are they? The sons of leaders are often keen to step into their fathers’ shoes.” Hani flashed the commissioner his most amiable smile.
“From what I understand, they’re in Temesheq. Whether as guests or conquerors, I couldn’t tell you.”
Hani nodded, satisfied. “And now the knife, my lord. May I see it?”
Pa-hem-nedjer opened a small chest with a vaulted lid that sat near the bed. It might have been designed to keep a lady’s jewels. Inside rested a slim knife. Pa-hem-nedjer hefted the weapon in a businesslike way then reversed the blade and held it out to Hani, pommel first.
Hani took it in his fingers, regarded it carefully, turned it over, and held it up. Beside him, the commissioner gave a hmph of amusement or impatience. The blade was almost as long as Hani’s hand and made of polished bronze, still stained with Abdi-ashirta’s blood. It was a real knife, razor-sharp, not some pretty cosmetic thing. The hilt was simple but distinctive—gilded, slightly incurved at the waist to render it more comfortable in the hand, and inset with triangular patterns in red, blue, and turquoise stone at either end like a row of bright teeth.
“Thank you, Lord Haya. May I hold onto this to show Our Sun?”
“Whatever you want.”
“I thank you for your cooperation. I won’t keep you any longer.” Hani watched the commissioner turn to go with a most perfunctory bow. “Ah, yes. One further question. Who actually found Abdi-ashirta’s body, my lord?”
“You’d have to ask Pa-wer, the garrison commander. Unfortunately, he’s in Urusalim at the moment.” And Pa-hem-nedjer departed with an air that was scarcely courteous.
“I guess the Priest’s a busy man,” Hani said dryly once he and his scribe were alone.
Maya made a rude noise. “How did a boor like that get to be commissioner? He gives us all a bad name.”
Hani continued to study the knife in his hand. Then he said quietly to himself, “It’s Egyptian.”
⸎
That evening over dinner, which they shared in Lord Hani’s room, Hani said to Maya, “There are two people we need to talk to as soon as possible. One is Rib-addi, the mayor of Kebni, to whose kingdom Simurru officially belongs. He’s probably at his capital—Gubla, as they call it here.”
The secretary was avidly devouring a wing of some succulent little bird, bones and all. He swallowed it in an unexpectedly large lump then said, choking a bit, “Mayor, my lord?”
Maya’s employer laughed. “Well, I daresay he calls himself a king, and no doubt he is a king among his own people. But his rank at our court is that of the mayor of any city, like Waset or Iunu. He’s the one who was constantly bending the high commissioner’s ear about Abdi-ashirta’s misdeeds. I suspect he knows everything that goes on up here.”
“Rib-addi, eh? Such names.” Maya dabbed at the corners of his lips.
“If you’re going to accompany me on these trips, my friend, you’ll need to learn the Amurrite language.” Hani smiled, but his brown eyes were almost accusing under their straight, thick brows.
Maya squirmed, knowing how he had resisted Hani’s frequent hints to that effect. “Yes, my lord,” he said meekly.
“And the next person we need to talk to is this Pa-wer, ‘the Grandee,’ who was head of the garrison here and will know who actually found our late brigand chieftain.”
“The Grandee. The Priest. Seems like everyone goes by a nickname here.”
“Funny, isn’t it? Perhaps the locals say to themselves, ‘Such names. Let’s call them something shorter.’”
Maya could feel the heat rising up his cheeks in humiliation until he realized that Hani was holding back laughter. The two of them guffawed face to face for one of those priceless moments that made Maya appreciate so deeply his good superior. Lord Djehuty, patron of scribes, had been beneficent to the youth. Maya might have found himself working for someone like the commissioner of Simurru instead.
“Where is Urusalim, Lord Hani?” he finally asked, resuming his attack on the small roast bird.
Hani finished a swallow of the local wine. “Quite a ways to the south, in Djahy. Closer to Kemet than to here, I’d say.” He grinned wickedly. “They speak a somewhat different language down there.”
“Guess I’d better learn that, too, eh, my lord?” Maya said, growing hopeless. He hadn’t Lord Hani’s facility for foreign tongues. He could write in Akkadian, of course, but as for speaking it...
They ate in silence for a while, ravenous after their first day back on steady land. At last, Hani said, “Whenever you’ve finished, Maya, let’s call it a night early. I want to get on the road to Kebni as soon as it’s feasible.”
Maya got to his feet and swept his scraps into a pile on the low table. “I take my leave, my lord.”
“May the lord of the horizon watch over you, my friend.”
“And you, my lord.”
Maya made his way back to his own room, buoyed on a pleasant sense of his own good fortune—only to find that the palace slaves had barred the door and tucked the string into the upper crack of the doorframe, far out of his reach. His good mood grew a crust of frost.
Maya snarled a curse under his breath and stood there, undecided, hands on his hips. Should he disturb Lord Hani to open it for him? The idea was infuriatingly embarrassing. Better that he should be shamed in the presence of a stranger. But he spoke no Amurrite and wouldn’t be able to give orders to that skinny eunuch. Maya let out a simmering breath through his clenched teeth. Finally, he stumped down the corridor to the room shared by several of the lesser secretaries and servants of their party. From within, he heard laughter and t
he clatter of dishes. Still at table, the gluttonous bastards. He banged on the door.
A man thrust his frizzy unwigged head out, looking around in vain. Then his eyes dropped to Maya, planted in the doorway, arms folded over his chest.
“Well, then, my little friend. What can I do for you?” The man grinned.
Maya knew that, despite his younger age, he outranked this fellow, who would never have dared to act so disrespectful in Lord Hani’s presence. He said coldly, “I’d appreciate it if someone could unbar my door. You outsize people might as well serve some useful purpose beyond eating our hosts out of house and home.”
The man laughed uproariously, clearly a little tipsy. Behind him in the room, Maya heard voices demanding, “Who is it, In-her-khau?”
“It’s the dwarf,” he yelled back. “He wants a hand.”
“We’ve got ten,” someone else supplied. “Which one does he want?”
This witticism was met with another salvo of hilarity. Maya, who’d had a fair bit to drink himself, tapped his fingers upon his crossed arms as his patience unraveled. “Lord Hani said to tell you to unbolt my door immediately,” he said in his most authoritative voice.
“Oh, did he? Well, then...” Frizzy-Hair made an unsteady bow and lurched into the hall after Maya. He squinted up at the lintel and made as if to stretch for the string but fail to attain it. Grinning at Maya, he twiddled his fingers ineffectually a span away from the string. “Lord of Light, I can’t seem to reach it!”
Anger rushed through Maya’s small frame like the River in flood. I’ve had just about enough of these people. He kicked the man savagely in the shin, aiming high so that his bare heel made contact. “Open the fucking door, you lump of ass dung,” he roared while In-her-khau danced around on one foot, cursing and whining. “Now, or I’m reporting you.”
Still grumbling, the frizzy-haired scribe tugged down the string, releasing the door latch. Maya strode triumphantly through the doorway, while the other scribes watched from their door, hooting with laughter. Maya realized this might be the moment his drunken colleagues all turned on him and tore him limb from limb, but the men seemed more amused by the vanquishing of their comrade than bent on revenge. They welcomed the limping In-her-khau with slaps on the back and friendly, derisive remarks.
His teeth clenched, Maya slammed his door.
⸎
Kebni—Gubla to its inhabitants—sat smiling upon a wide bay, an ancient walled city and large, with green vineyards and stylus-slim black conifers clustered about its skirts down to the sea. Behind it, swelling in the distance, rose the fabulous mountains of cedar, still snowcapped even in summer. It had been the protectorate of Kemet since time out of mind and then had become a formal vassal. Despite the troubles in A’amu, Kebni was still impossibly rich, a tempting mouthful coveted by the men of Naharin in their time of enmity and now by the king of greedy Kheta Land. Hani was eager to make the acquaintance of its mayor, Rib-addi, the man who held Kemet’s northern border except for the recently acquired outpost at Ugarit. Rib-addi seemed to be the object of some contempt at court, Hani realized, but he would make up his own mind about that. Perhaps Rib-addi knew something about the murder of Abdi-ashirta. Simurru was officially one of the Kebnite’s cities, even if it was garrisoned on and off by Egyptians.
Rib-addi’s men had shown Hani and his secretary into a small private salon in the king’s apartments. While they waited for the lord of the land to appear, Hani cast his eyes around. He could see much that reminded him of home, but the luxury of the place was nonetheless foreign, with walls painted in blocks of color divided by ornamental bands. Masonry benches were softened with a wealth of cushions, and gauzy drapes hung at the windows. The furniture was all exquisitely made and decorated, with heads of Haru and water lilies and other Egyptian motifs. The beams of massive cedar in the ceiling alone would have ransomed a king.
“Ah, Lord Hani. Forgive me for the delay. Forgive me, eh, my boy?”
Hani and Maya turned toward the voice. A reed-thin old man in a purple tunic and fringed blue shawl, wrapped diagonally around the hips, approached with hands outstretched. The richness of his dress, his gold earrings, and his bony hands sparkling with rings made it quite clear that this was the mayor—and to his people, king. Hani nodded in a respectful half bow, but the man forestalled him and sank laboriously to his knees instead. “It is my part to prostrate myself seven times seven times before the emissary of my Sun God and Lord, Nimmureya, the Dazzling Face of Shapshu.” He put his nose to the ground with a grunt of effort.
Beside Hani, Maya whispered, “Shapshu? Does he mean Ra?”
“Rise, my lord,” said Hani kindly. “Your gray hairs alone deserve better than this.” He helped Rib-addi to his feet, noticing that despite their splendor, the king’s garments were less than clean.
The old man hung with his whole weight onto Hani’s arm, trembling, until he had regained his standing position. Rib-addi had a narrow fine-boned face, pouch-eyed and melancholy, made narrower still by his wispy, pointed gray beard. Although shrunken with age and badly stooped, he must once have been passably tall. Hani thought he’d probably been quite good-looking in his youth. But now his skin was mottled and creased and his lower lip inclined to hang open over nearly toothless gums. His hooded eyes were sharp and black as jet beads, though. This was no half-mummified old addlepate, despite appearances.
“Thanks to the Lady of Gubla, who has finally sent me a representative of my Lord and Sun God,” he cried in a reedy voice, clutching his hands together as if in prayer. Rib-addi spoke excellent Egyptian, almost without accent, although his correspondence with the Hall of Royal Correspondence was, as expected, in the Akkadian diplomatic tongue. The king gestured Hani obsequiously to one of two elaborate inlaid chairs and plopped heavily into a seat, folding his frail shoulders in like wings. Maya crossed his legs on the floor and began to prepare for dictation.
The king began in a tremulous voice what had clearly become a sort of refrain. “I fear you see before you an old, sick man, Hani. I am no longer the bastion of the north I was in the days of Manakhbiriya—Men-kheperu-ra Djehuty-mes, as we who are Egyptian at heart would say. And our current Sun God and Lord—life, prosperity, and health to him—no longer sends me the kind of support I need to serve him well. If only you could tell him how desperately we need his soldiers. If only you could tell him. Even a few archers, especially archers from Meluhha, eh? The vile hapiru make a mockery of my troops, which are too few and too ill armed to protect my northern cities. And then the Hittites—ah, the great, tall Hittites...” He rolled his eyes fearfully up to the ceiling as if the Hittites hovered there in menace.
Hani cut him off mildly. “My lord, I can assure you, the Living Haru knows of your needs. I’m here on a particular mission, and the king thinks you alone can help me.”
Rib-addi’s black eyes glittered, and he lifted his bearded chin a little as if proud.
“As you no doubt know, the chief of the hapiru, Abdi-ashirta, was recently murdered.”
Rib-addi nodded rapidly. “That’s true, Hani. He was an ungrateful dog. An ungrateful dog. May the underworld swallow his soul. But now things will be even worse, because his abominable firstborn, Aziru, will take his place.”
Ah. Here are those sons that Abdi-ashirta spoke of. “Is that sure, my lord?” he said. “Are there perhaps others who might contest that succession? Because it’s possible that Abdi-ashirta was killed as a result of infighting in his ranks.”
Rib-addi gave a high-pitched bark of laughter that rattled his thin shoulders. “Not at all. Aziru and his brothers are all thick as thieves. Thick as thieves, eh? Aziru is the worst of them, but Pu-ba’alu and Khai and the others are right behind him. They’re all bent on Amurru becoming a proper kingdom. The Lady knows how they would exploit that status.”
“What sort of man is this Aziru, Lord Rib-addi?”
The king of Kebni shrugged, thrusting out his lower lip in reflection. “A fellow your age or a litt
le younger, I would say. Good-looking, courteous manners. Fair-spoken. But an insidious liar. He wants to take the whole northern half of my kingdom and rule it himself from Tsumur. And then what? I don’t know. Defecting to Kheta? I don’t know. I would never feel safe again, and neither should our good god Nimmureya, once Aziru has his way. Tell the king he must send me more soldiers if he wants me to—”
“How is it you speak such good Egyptian, my lord?” Hani interrupted with an admiring smile. “You speak as well as I do.”
Rib-addi parted his lips in a nearly toothless chuckle. “I was young once, you know, my boy. I was brought up at your court back in the days of Akhbiriya. I was like a boon companion to the Osir Djehuty-mes when we were boys—one of those northern princes held as a pledge of good behavior for my father, don’t you see. That was well before Prince Amen-hotep—who’s now the Living Haru—was born. Yes, indeed, my brother and I both, brought up in your court.” He glanced a little slyly at Hani from under his lids and pressed his bony hands to his chest. “That’s why I always have Kemet’s best interests at my heart. I’m more Egyptian than Gublite.”
Here’s another of them, Hani thought in amusement. A fox of the north. They seem to make up a whole race. I wish Baket-iset were here to pass judgment on what’s really in his heart. I suspect it’s Rib-addi’s welfare. But he, Hani, wasn’t much different in that regard. There he was, beaming and flattering, almost lying to the old man in an effort to get some information out of him for his own benefit. Rib-addi probably really needed more soldiers.
In a voice softened with the humbling awareness of his own duplicity, Hani asked, “Have you any idea who might have killed Abdi-ashirta, Lord Rib-addi?”
The old king heaved a sigh and sat in silence, his fleshless purpled hands clasped in his lap. At last he said, “You did.”
Hani, too, said nothing for a space. He was aware of Maya’s eyes turned up to his, round with confusion. But Hani knew what Rib-addi meant. When he spoke, his question was disingenuous. “Surely you don’t mean me, my lord.”