by N. L. Holmes
“Some man of Kemet, Lord Hani. Perhaps not you. Someone who wanted... what? For Abdi-ashirta not to be chief of the hapiru? Did they mean well, hoping to decapitate an enemy? I don’t know. I don’t know.” He seemed to slump into himself like a dead spider, all its thin, knobby limbs no longer useful and suddenly pathetically awkward.
“I wish I could answer that for you,” Hani murmured only too sincerely, his chest tight. “What else could they have meant?” He had a feeling he didn’t want to know.
Rib-addi jerked his gaze up at Hani, his black eyes alive again. “You’re a native-born Egyptian, are you not? Do you know the word... treachery?”
Hani nodded, frozen. His heartbeat stepped up a notch.
“There’s a lot of it here, Lord Hani. I seem to sense in you an honest man, but not all of your countrymen are so. Indeed, not all of my countrymen are honest.” He stared out the window desolately.
“And... why do you think Abdi-ashirta was killed, my lord? One of his own might have designs on his power over the hapiru. But why would an Egyptian want him dead?”
“He no longer paid them, my friend. Neither them nor the Mitannians. Not any longer. No.”
Hani fell silent. Must the man always speak in riddles? If he knows why Abdi-ashirta was killed, why doesn’t he come out and say it? Aloud, he said, “And what exactly does that mean?”
But Rib-addi raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “That’s all I know, son. I am a victim of my poor health and old age. Here I sit, receiving only what information they choose to bring me.”
Rather like an old spider in the center of his web. Hani debated whether the king was truly ignorant or whether he was withholding information—and if the latter was the case, why. No one would benefit more from Abdi-ashirta’s death than the king of Kebni. At last, Hani asked of his secretary in a bland voice, “Do you have all of Lord Rib-addi’s words down, Maya?”
The young man nodded. Hani rose from his seat and extended a hand. “I thank you for your frank answers, my lord. Much to think about, I see.”
“And I thank the good Sun God for sending me an honest emissary.” Rib-addi hauled himself up with Hani’s help and rose to his stooped height before the Egyptian. Hani and Maya made their reverences before Rib-addi, who outdid them with his own bobbing bows. “You will remind our good Sun God about the soldiers?” Rib-addi murmured as they departed.
The two passed down the corridor in silence except for the clapping of their sandals. Hani was lost in his own thoughts, and they were somber. You did it.
“What do you think, my lord?” Maya asked as they reached the stairs. Together they started down, their footsteps clattering unevenly on the treads to the mismatched length of their strides.
“I’m afraid Lord Rib-addi might be right,” Hani said. “It was probably one of us.”
CHAPTER 4
Pa-khuru, the young officer who had escorted them to Simurru, had been delayed by unexpected duties and was still around when they departed. Thus, he was once more in command of Hani’s escort to Urusalim, where Pa-wer awaited the troops. Hani had prevailed upon Pa-khuru to make a brief detour inland to Temesheq. The emissary hoped Abdi-ashirta’s sons were still there.
As Hani and Maya sat side by side in the antechamber of the local king, Maya said quietly, “Do you still think these lads had something to do with our man’s death, my lord?”
“I don’t know, Maya, but they’re going to be important figures in the new scheme of things. I want to meet them for myself so I can give Our Sun the most accurate possible assessment of affairs.”
Maya was silent. Then, pushing back his wig and scratching his head, he said, “Why would one of us do in the old man, anyway? I thought you said the king wanted him alive and indebted to him for the forgiveness the king will have shown him.”
“True, but not everyone sees eye to eye with him on that.”
The entrance of a royal servant interrupted their conversation. “Lord Hani,” he said, bowing profoundly. “Our king sends his regrets, as he has been detained, but he hopes you will find Lords Aziru and Pu-ba’alu sufficient to answer your questions. Follow me, please.”
Hani and Maya trailed the man down a twisting corridor to a small cubicle that had the air of being a storeroom rather than a salon for high-level meetings. But windowless, it was certainly secure against eavesdropping. Three men and a youth rose to their feet as the emissary entered. They folded in a reverence, and Hani nodded graciously in return. “Gentlemen, be seated, please. I am Amen-hotep called Hani, the emissary of the Great King of Kemet, charged with investigating the death of your father.”
“I am Aziru son of Abdi-ashirta. This is my brother Pu-ba’alu,” said the eldest of the three, and he twitched up his skirts and seated himself.
Hani supposed Aziru to be a little less than his own age, as Rib-addi had said. The man was lean, well-built, rather shorter than Hani, and somberly dressed, as were the others—no doubt in mourning. He had an attractive, intelligent face, creased with laughter, but it had a tendency to drop into sarcastic lines about the mouth. Hani thought Aziru might be less mellow than his father. Will he be less honest as well? Aziru’s straight, dark hair was bobbed at the shoulder and secured with a headband in the Amurrite way. His brother—thicker set, his head completely shaven in contrast to his full black beard—looked less perspicacious and more physical than Aziru. His bared neck with its roll of flesh was like that of a bull.
A much younger man sat at Aziru’s side, his gaze frank and modest. Next to him, in turn, perched an adolescent.
“This is my heir, Bet-ilu,” said Aziru, setting a proud hand on the older youth’s shoulder. “And that is my younger son, Abdi-tesshub.”
I see the family has changed allegiance, thought Hani dryly, shifting from “the servant of Ashtart,” a good Amurrite goddess, to “the servant of Tesshub,” a popular god among the Hittites, in two generations. Is that a statement about Aziru’s political leanings? “My condolences on the loss of Lord Abdi-ashirta. I had the honor to host him at my home on his last visit to our country.”
“He spoke of you,” said Aziru, his eyes warming. “He thought well of you. He said you were fair. And”—his grin opened—“that you were a lover of birds.”
From his place on the floor, Maya cleared his throat, and Hani laughed, a flush rising to his cheeks in spite of himself. “I suppose he found that eccentric.”
“No, no. Endearing. Now, what can we do to help you find our father’s murderer, Hani?”
Hani warned himself not to be taken in by the charm of Aziru, who had obviously studied at a master’s knee. “First, my lord, explain for me the governance of your hapiru. Was your father their king? Is there a schema of succession?”
“The hapiru are the dregs of society, as the world sees them. They are those whose towns have been destroyed, who have fled oppression, who have been declared outlaws, who have escaped deportation—name the disaster, and there are people of ours who have suffered it. They’ve found safety in the eastern desert for generations, plying their trades honestly but hidden from those who wish them ill. They farm where they are able, they manufacture, they trade—”
“They raid caravans and attack settlements?” Hani finished mildly.
Aziru’s face darkened as if in anger, but his brows knit in pain. “The desert is an inhospitable place, my lord. The larger our numbers become, the harder it is to find enough food. In the past, I grant you, there was some banditry. But how else could we feed our women and children except by taking back some of what was taken from us?”
Very eloquent, thought Hani. And indeed, he could only too easily imagine the lives of the desperate outcasts. “But now...?”
“My father emerged at the head of these people through his own charisma and skill, Lord Hani. He was able to feed them, and they were willing to give him power over them to that end. He was wise enough to realize, however, that only by settling down and participating in the real life of a state c
ould their future be guaranteed. That’s why he has sought recognition as a vassal of great Kemet. The hapiru ask nothing better than to become Amurru—A’amu, as you would say.”
Hani nodded. Unfortunately, there are already people there. He looked up at Aziru and smiled. It was time for a little compliment. “Tell me, Lord Aziru, how is it that you and your father speak such excellent Egyptian?”
Aziru laughed bitterly, and his pleasant expression chilled. “My father grew up at the table of your king, along with all those men who now have power in your government. Where is the justice in that, can you tell me? That they, friends of Our Sun, should become kings and viziers and commissioners while Abdi-ashirta is left trying to feed the offscourings of Kharu with whatever he can scrape from the rocks of the desert?”
“Was your father a prince, then?”
Aziru’s mouth grew hard. “No, my lord. He was in the train of the prince of Gubla.”
Well, then. And who was prince of Gubla fifty or sixty years ago but our friend Rib-addi.
Still, Hani wasn’t sure he understood. “A courtier? A royal servant?”
“You may call him a servant, but he was no man’s inferior. He was noble in stock and in actions.”
Hani nodded—surprised, he had to admit. On that distant day of their fowling expedition in the marshes, Abdi-ashirta had acted as if he’d never seen the Great River, or at least, never explored it. Could he possibly have spent enough years in the Black Land to master its language flawlessly without ever venturing outside? Hani filed his suspicions to ponder later. “You, too, I think, have experience at our court.”
“My father saw to it I was educated in your language and ways. Thus, I follow in his footsteps, you might say.”
So Abdi-ashirta had been an embittered victim of life’s inequities who wanted redress and recognition from those who’d looked down on him—and wanted his grudge to endure into the next generation. That part made perfect sense, in fact.
“Do you follow in his footsteps as leader of your people, as well?” asked Hani.
“I do, by the grace of the gods and the will of the people. And my son after me.” He laid a proud arm around the shoulders of young Bet-ilu.
Hani nodded slowly. “Is it possible that there are those among you whose will it is not—who would prefer to see themselves at the head of the hapiru?”
Pu-ba’alu shot his brother a grim look. Aziru shook his head, and his lips thinned in a predatory smile. “Not anymore.”
A chill descended Hani’s spine. He knew he must not lose sight of what ruthless brigands these charming men were. He’d seen that same look on the face of the Living Haru. “Have you any idea of who might have taken your father’s life, Lord Aziru?”
“Why, the soldiers who relieved him of Tsumur. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Pa-hem-nedjer claims it was not his men and says they found your father murdered when they entered after the siege. He was stabbed in the back.”
Pu-ba’alu made an ugly noise of disbelief. “There was no siege. Our father was ready to turn the citadel over to the commissioner’s men. Only he couldn’t, could he? Because he was dead.”
“Pahannate—Pa-hem-nedjer—is a lying dog. Your king deserves a better representative in Tsumur than he.” Aziru looked Hani straight in the eye.
“Were you there, my lord?” Hani asked softly. “Else how can you be so sure what happened?”
Aziru opened his mouth to say something, but his younger son blurted, “I was there. There was no siege, my lord.”
All eyes turned to the boy, who’d sat in attentive silence up to that point. He was a small, slim, fine-boned lad of about fifteen. Hani couldn’t help contrasting him to Pa-kiki, who was the same age but a stocky, square-jawed, russet-skinned little Theban full of smiles and who probably could never have sat so quietly for so long. Abdi-tesshub’s dark, worried eyes darted to his father, but Aziru seemed not to care if he testify.
“Tell us what you saw, son,” Hani urged him kindly. “We want to find the men who killed your grandfather.”
Abdi-tesshub glanced at his father and then began to speak, his hands nervously twisting his skirts at his sides. “I was with Grandfather when the Egyptians arrived with the commissioner. Grandfather had kicked out some corrupt officials and was just waiting for Pahannate to come back so he could return his city to him. He told me to go, because he was afraid it might be dangerous once Pahannate got there. He... he already had a grudge against Grandfather, and I think he—Grandfather—was afraid something might happen. He sent all our people away. He was just going to hand the city back to Pahannate, man to man.”
He might be lying, or he might just be nervous speaking to an adult like this, thought Hani, watching the boy lick his lips. “Nobody stayed behind with him?”
“I don’t know, my lord.” The lad stared Hani earnestly in the eye. “I left as I was told.”
Hani glanced down at Maya, hoping to catch his expression. But the scribe’s face was bent over his papyrus with concentration. “This is easy enough to prove or disprove,” Hani said matter-of-factly to the Amurrites. “Thank you for your testimony, my boy. Has anyone anything else to add?”
Aziru, a thin smile on his face, shook his head.
“Then I take my leave. Please convey my thanks to the king of Temesheq for making you available to me.”
The hapiru bowed as one man. Hani still wasn’t sure what the northerners’ status was—conquerors, guests, or prisoners? He would have liked to have interviewed the king of Temesheq, who, in contrast to Aziru, seemed to be avoiding him.
He and Maya made their way back to the garrison encampment on the road. “Do you believe the boy, my lord?” Maya asked as they walked the gravelly path.
Hani scowled pensively. “I’m trying to make up my mind. He seemed sincere, but he might have been well rehearsed. On the other hand, his story fits what everyone else has told us.”
“Except Pa-hem-nedjer.”
“Except Pa-hem-nedjer. Who struck me as a man who might very happily lie to avoid the effort of telling the truth.” Then Hani remembered what Ptah-mes had told him—Neb-ma’at-ra himself had suspicions about someone within his own government wanting to see Abdi-ashirta out of the way. Was there really something to that? I’d better keep it to myself until I’m sure.
“Well, but...” Maya fell silent.
“What, my friend?”
“The Amurrites say the Egyptians did it, but the Egyptians say the Amurrites did it. That seems too pat.”
Hani nodded pensively. “Too pat indeed. Perhaps Pa-wer will have some new insight for us. After all, he was the one who led the invading troops. He’ll at least know who discovered the body.”
They entered camp unspeaking, Hani sunk deep in thought. His mind was still chewing on the report of Abdi-ashirta’s grandson. Could the boy be believed? If so, his story might be interpreted in several ways. One of the old chieftain’s men might have stayed behind after everyone else left and then dispatched his leader, leaving his corpse for the Egyptians to find. Or several of Pa-hem-nedjer’s soldiers, finding Abdi-ashirta alone, might have decided to obliterate him, with or without orders from above, one of them holding him while the other knifed him from behind. In either case, it might well have been a crime without witnesses.
Hani decided to ask Pa-khuru to push on toward the south that afternoon rather than waiting until morning. Perhaps they wouldn’t get far before dusk, but at least they could traverse some part of the inland desert by twilight, forwarding their journey a bit. The trip would be long and brutal enough, and there were urgent questions he wanted to put to the garrison commandant.
“Go on to our place if you want, Maya. I’d like a word with Pa-khuru.”
Maya seemed to catch the note of command in his employer’s voice, and he split off at the path to their small leather tent. But as Hani strode hurriedly toward the officer’s temporary residence, he saw, hustling toward him, Pa-khuru’s aide-de-camp. He was brea
thless and somber.
A crackle of fear ran up Hani’s neck. “What is it?” he cried even before the man could salute.
The soldier panted, “You’re just in time, my lord. Lord Pa-khuru has received an urgent message from Urusalim.”
Hani followed the soldier at a quick jog, his stomach knotted. What could it be that was so pressing? His thoughts flew immediately to the king. Has he died?
They passed under the flap of the commander’s tent. Pa-khuru had his back to them, bent over a folding table strewn with rolls of papyrus. The young man turned immediately. His face was pale and taut. “Ah, Lord Hani. Terrible news. I’ve just received word that my commandant Lord Pa-wer has been killed.”
Hani stared at him for a long space, at a loss for words, the thoughts galloping through his head like a pack of wild dogs at the heels of a hare. Dear gods, another murder? Aloud, he asked, hoping it was the case, “Was there a battle?”
“No. It seems to have been an assassination.” Pa-khuru’s face was a rigid mix of sorrow and grim determination.
Hani felt suspicion creeping over him. This couldn’t be coincidence. The most important man in his inquiry into Abdi-ashirta’s murder... had himself been murdered. Hani wondered if the actual discoverer of the body was next. Or had Pa-wer’s elimination protected the discoverer with anonymity? Or was the discoverer, in fact, the murderer?
“We must hurry on to Urusalim,” Hani said.
“Absolutely, my lord. Lord Yanakh-amu is awaiting you there in person.”
Hani turned and made his way back to his own tent as rapidly as his dignity permitted, a cold void forming in his belly. Maya was already packing up the writing implements and rolls of papyrus. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of Hani’s face. “What is it, my lord?”
“Pa-wer’s been murdered.”
Maya’s jaw dropped.
“I so regret having drawn you into this, my young friend,” said Hani sorrowfully. “I knew there was some danger, but things are escalating fast. If you feel you’d rather go straight back to Kemet, I’d think no worse of you. I’m sure Pa-khuru would spare you an escort.”