by N. L. Holmes
“Lord Amen, help us,” Mery-ra breathed. He sank to the ground and leaned against the wall as if his legs had betrayed him.
Hani continued searching the walls. “In your name, they’ve taken out the divine determinative so you’re just Beloved of the Sun and not the Lord Ra. This was done by someone literate.” Rage was building in him like the first wave of the Inundation—he who was by nature so calm. “The impious bastard!”
“What sort of monster is our king that he would stoop to defacing private tombs?” Mery-ra moaned, his eyes wet. The flowers for offering lay limp at his side. Hani had never seen his easygoing father so undone. But then, no affront could ever have compared with this. To destroy one’s name was to destroy one’s soul—in this house of eternity, to condemn the dead to nonexistence.
A ferocious pulse ticked in Hani’s temple. “Surely it’s not the king.” He tried to be rational, but his voice shook with fury. “There wouldn’t be enough soldiers in the Two Lands to attack every private person’s tomb. Some enemy, perhaps.” Ammit devour his soul, whoever he is. Although Hani knew that even if the defacement were the work of an enemy, it was the atmosphere—the increasingly intolerant climate of the times—that permitted someone to dare such a crime.
“Do you think it was one of the workers?” Mery-ra asked. “Did they feel we didn’t pay them enough?”
Hani sat down beside him. “This was done by some zealot. Some stupid courtier who wanted to show his loyalty to the king.” Suddenly, a terrible fear skewered him.
“Do you have any enemy so vengeful?”
“I didn’t think so,” Hani said faintly. Because the one thought in his head was Aha.
Hani finally rose and laid their gifts at the foot of his mother’s sarcophagus, among the desiccated remains of the offerings from previous years. I’ll come repair this with my own hand, Mother, if I have to write in every defaced name with pen and ink. He helped his father to his feet, wrung with sorrow to see how age seemed to have descended upon Mery-ra’s bowed head and slumped shoulders. Hani wondered whether he should reveal his suspicions to him but decided to let the old man recover first from his shock.
They extinguished their torches and left the last one at the door, which stood open. No point in closing the tomb up now, Hani thought sarcastically. The fear that Aha had done this vile deed gnawed at his vitals—not that he thought the boy hated his family, but he so spinelessly seemed to crave the royal approval. Why, his own name had been defaced. But then, Hani already knew that Aha had rejected his name, which was the same as his father’s. Perhaps he has rejected me deliberately as well, he thought with a pang of sadness so bitter he was afraid tears would mount to his eyes.
They shuffled back to the River in somber silence, their feet dragging. Hani was concerned for Mery-ra. He said finally, as he helped his father into the ferry, “I’ll see that it’s repaired, Father. Don’t worry.”
“But who would have done such a thing to us? I just can’t understand.” Mery-ra seemed mired in that question. He collapsed into his seat.
Hani couldn’t keep the anger from his voice altogether. “Such are the times we live in.”
As they slid across the river, he found his thoughts drifting to Rib-addi, left to defend his borders as best as his feeble strength permitted, no son at his side, no suzerain’s troops at his side. These were times of perfidy and division, generation against generation. A wave of slow rage was rising in Hani despite his brave words to himself. This was all the work of one man, faithless and self-centered. Was he a god? Hani wasn’t sure the king himself thought he was the Living Haru, despite the thousands of years of tradition. If his father was the Aten, what exactly is he, this paragon of filial piety who amputates sons from their fathers? Hani ground his teeth, as helpless before his own fury as he was to change the king.
And how could he continue to serve such a person? Did it offend the gods that he kept his silence and plugged away at furthering Nefer-khepru-ra’s ends? Yet what else could he do? It was Kemet he served. Even the First Prophet of Amen-Ra was biting his lip and staying low. Amen-em-hut is probably the bravest among us all, spewing his outrage over anyone who will listen. Hani hoped his brother-in-law wouldn’t be punished for his outspokenness. But at least he would have a clean conscience.
The boat bumped against the eastern quay, and the ferryman jumped out to tie the painter to a ring. Hani realized he had completely missed the beauties of the crossing. He lent Mery-ra an arm as they climbed out, and the two men made their way glumly back through the streets they had crossed with such light hearts only that morning.
“Don’t say anything about this in front of Nub-nefer,” he cautioned his father. “I’d like to tell her under controlled circumstances.”
Mery-ra nodded. He already seemed to be recovering from the first shock, and his shaggy brows were drawn down in a determined line. “I’m going back this afternoon with a workman,” he growled. “No one is erasing me and mine so easily.”
“Good for you, my father. Unfortunately, I have work to do.” Why should I be loyal to my post, though?
Hani considered skiving off that afternoon and accompanying Mery-ra back across the River, but Maya, who awaited them at home at the door, made his choice for him. “Ready to work, my lord,” the secretary said cheerfully, unhitching his pen case, which dangled, as always, over his shoulder. Then his smile began to fade. He eyed the two men uneasily. “Is anything wrong?”
Mery-ra made a loud, rude noise and lumbered off into the house. Hani drew his secretary into the garden and said quietly, “Our tomb has been defaced, Maya. All mentions of the Hidden One, even in our names, have been chiseled out.”
Maya’s jaw dropped, and his eyes nearly popped from his head. “Osir protect us! What an abomination! What sort of pervert would stoop to such a thing, Lord Hani?” He clutched his pen like a dagger and stared around fiercely as if the perpetrators might be hiding behind a bush.
“I’d heard this was going on, but I never thought it would be turned on us.” The most violent flames of Hani’s anger had flickered away, leaving behind a numbing ash of sadness.
“It’s not... something official, you don’t think? Because of Lady Nub-nefer’s priesthood?”
Hani shook his head. “I think it’s just some overzealous courtier doing the king’s dirty work for him in the hopes of looking loyal.”
Maya made a disgusted hawking noise. “How pitiful. I’d like to take a chisel to him.”
Hani suppressed a smile, thinking of all the conspicuous—not to say fawning—acts of loyalty Maya had carried out over the years, always with a good heart. He clapped the secretary on the shoulder. “Do not rush to attack your attacker; leave him to the gods.”
Maya stared at him, his eyes suddenly tearful with awe. “It’s a good man who can be philosophical at a moment like this, Lord Hani. Words of wisdom are cheap when they’re generic, but at a moment like this...” His voice wavered, and he barely managed to add, “You’re a good man, my lord.”
Hani, profoundly touched, smiled grimly. “Don’t think I’m not angry, Maya. But there’s no point dashing my wings fruitlessly against the bars of my cage like a scared bird. Here’s what I propose. We, who are investigators, are going to find out who did this abominable deed. And while we’re doing that, we’re going to find the killer of Abdi-ashirta.”
“But I thought that case was closed.”
“This is an unofficial investigation, my friend. We’re doing this for the sake of Ma’at—Ma’at written with the divine determinative. That is, we do it for the goddess and not just for the concept of truth, neither of which seem to be held in much honor by the current administration.”
Maya hitched up his kilt and fisted his small hands. “I’m ready. Just tell me what to do.”
CHAPTER 11
Maya’s first assignment took him home to a good lunch prepared by his mother’s servant. While the apprentices and other masters continued to work in the studio, Maya
and his mother sat down in the back of the shop to a big cucumber salad and a stack of flatbreads.
“Mother, could you recognize the hand of a goldsmith if I showed you an article they’d made?”
“Why, that depends, son. I don’t know everyone in Waset,” she admitted, piling another helping of salad on her son’s dish. “But I might be able to tell. Sometimes a piece is even marked, if you know where to look.”
Maya drew from its linen wrapping the gold-hilted knife that had killed Abdi-ashirta. It was beautiful and clean lined, but it seemed to him a sinister thing. He laid it on the table beside the bread.
His mother began to laugh. “Well, I know this, of course. We made it.”
“You did?” Maya cried, shocked but also delighted. That had shortened his search considerably.
“The studio did. I made some personally but not all.” She examined the pommel carefully and pronounced, “This isn’t one of mine. Ipy did it. See here, on the very tip of the pommel? Those two tiny parallel lines? If I had made it, the lines would be crossed. It’s just so I know how much work to pay the men for.” She ran a calloused thumb up the edge of the knife. “We get the blades with their tangs from the bronzesmith, and then we have someone carve the wooden form of the hilt, then we cover it with beaten gold, do the granulation, and set the wire for the inlays. Do you like it, son? I could make you something like it, but not exactly, because Our Sun wanted it to be unique for his friends.”
“How many of these did you make?”
“Oh...” She threw back her scarf-covered head and seemed to ponder the ceiling. “I forget. It was before the old king died. Maybe five? Six? Why do you ask?”
“It’s for an investigation,” he said, his chest swelling with importance. “All very confidential.” He made a sealing motion over his lips with the ball of his thumb so that she would know not to talk about it. “Do you know who the recipients were?”
“No, son. Once we gave them to the king and were paid, that’s all I knew.” She pushed the serving bowl solicitously in her son’s direction. “Do you want some cheese to go with that? Young men need more food than old ladies. I would have prepared more if I’d known in advance you were coming.”
“No, Mother. Thanks for the information.” Maya scooted his rump back from the low table and got to his feet. “I’m off to the new capital. It may be a while before I’m home.”
“You’re going? You don’t even want some fruit?”
“Not now. But thank you. It was delicious.”
“Are you still wearing your amulet?”
He proudly drew the golden Bes from under his shirt. “I barely ever take it off. Lord Hani said he’d never seen such a beautiful piece of work.”
Maya kissed his mother, who was still seated cross-legged on the floor, and headed for the door. She called after him, “Are you going to marry his daughter, Maya?”
He pushed aside the mat hanging in the entrance, and the late-summer sun hit him like a blow, blinding him. Was he going to marry Sat-hut-haru? She was still young—they had to consider that—but of marriageable age. And Ammit take it, how he loved her now that she’d finally noticed him. If only he could distinguish himself in Lord Hani’s eyes, he’d feel like less of a beggar. Perhaps this investigation would give him an opportunity to excel.
He stood in the sliver of shade before the house and pondered his next step. He needed to find out who had received the gift knives. If there were only five or six altogether, his task wasn’t so difficult. They already knew that Yapakh-addi and Ptah-mes had been so honored. So three or four people remained, at most. If he hung around at court, he probably would have seen them wearing the daggers, which seemed to have become the fashion.
Looks like I need to go to Akhet-aten and snoop around, he thought and reconciled himself to the idea of five days of boat travel.
⸎
The new city was no more welcoming this time than it had been on his first trip—raw and bare and yellow, treeless and full of dust, baked by the sun. He set off from the riverbank toward the Hall of Royal Correspondence, thinking he might see someone wearing the knife or at least find a colleague he could talk to. The only shade was the stubby shadow he cast at his own feet.
He entered the court of the Hall of Royal Correspondence, and sure enough, there was In-her-khau, coming out of the dark doorway of a building. Maya stiffened, but the man—who’d been malicious when drunk— only nodded pleasantly at him. The secretary stuck out a hand to detain him. “Friend In-her-khau, a word, please.”
The two men stepped into the shade against the wall, In-her-khau scratching his fuzzy head. “What can I do for you, Maya?”
Maya drew the dagger from its linen wrapper. “You ever seen anything like this around?”
The scribe examined the knife briefly then gave a shrug. “Don’t know that I have. Why?”
“Five or six of the king’s friends received something like this as a gift. Lord Hani is trying to find out who got them.”
“I don’t know. But the man who could tell you is the king’s chamberlain.”
Is he making fun of me? Maya repressed a sneer of disgust. How likely was a high functionary like the royal chamberlain to grant a low-level scribe a hearing? “Well, if you’re his best friend, be sure to get me an audience,” he said sarcastically.
To his surprise, In-her-khau grinned. “I’m more than his friend, Maya. His second-in-command is my brother.”
Maya eyed the scribe dubiously. “Is he, now?” He had a funny feeling this was another of In-her-khau’s jokes.
But the man seemed serious. He held up both hands as if to swear. “Just ask if you don’t believe me. His name is Nefer-shesh-em-ra. Sheshi, if you prefer. Tell him we’re colleagues and that I sent you to him. He’ll talk to you.”
Maya had his doubts, but no lead was too ridiculous to follow. “Thanks, then. If he throws me out, you owe me dinner.”
In-her-khau laughed heartily. “It’s a deal.”
Maya set off toward the northern palace where it was said the king actually resided. As he walked, almost blinded by the glare, he practiced what he would say to Sheshi and the expression he would pin on his face. The problem was that people often failed to take little people seriously, although they held positions as responsible as anyone else. Maya had no desire to be heaved out into the street headfirst by an annoyed official.
The residential palace was completely different in ambiance than the rest of the city. Above its high walls, treetops rustled, and he could smell water. Here was all the luxury lacking elsewhere in the new capital. Nubian guards stood at the massive gateway. Maya realized he couldn’t enter by the main gate to look for an employee, so he walked around the perimeter until he found a service entrance, where wagons and laden donkeys were making their way inside. A great crowd of carters and pack animals gathered within the walls, and servants in large numbers were occupied with unloading bales and jars. Slipping his gold amulet out of the neck of his shirt so that it could be seen, Maya made his way, with an air of assurance he certainly didn’t feel, to a group of men standing in the shade who were conspicuously better dressed than the workmen around them, wearing long, fashionable wigs.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said with just the right touch of pomposity. “I am the secretary of Lord Hani, and I’m assisting him in an investigation for the king. Could you tell me where I might find one Nefer-shesh-em-ra, known as Sheshi?”
The men eyed him up and down, and one—tall, dark-skinned, and thin like In-her-khau—who stood with his arms crossed, said in a high-pitched, not-very-friendly voice, “I’m Sheshi. What is it you want?”
“My lord,” said Maya, bowing, “your brother and I are colleagues. He said you might be of some help in Lord Hani’s investigation for the king—may life, prosperity, and health be his.” He felt he should make clear the fact that this was a royal mandate. Nefer-shesh-em-ra wouldn’t know that the king had closed the case.
The man exchanged a s
uspicious look with his fellows, but then he beckoned to Maya. “Come in here.” He led the way into a kind of loading bay, empty for the moment except for a towering stack of bolts of fabric, where he looked down at Maya with a severe expression pulling on the muscles around his mouth. He appeared to be quite a bit older than his brother, but there was a recognizable resemblance even though his hair was covered by a wig. He sported a little square tuft of beard at the end of his chin. “Well?” he said impatiently. “I’m in the middle of things. What do you want of me?”
“My lord, a year or two ago, our lord king—life, prosperity, and health to him—made a gift of a decorative dagger to a few of his friends.”
He held out the dagger, and Sheshi took it from his hand and looked it over. “So?”
“Can you tell me who received one? This could be a very important clue in Lord Hani’s investigation.”
But Sheshi handed back the knife with a skeptical twist of the mouth. “I don’t know that it’s my business to tell, little man.”
Little man, indeed. Offended, Maya felt his heart begin to beat faster. Don’t refuse me, he willed Sheshi silently, wanting all the more to impose himself on the sub-chamberlain. “My lord, your brother In-her-khau assured me that you were the most loyal servant of our good god, and that you would do anything to help him resolve the crime Lord Hani is investigating. Isn’t it your duty to cooperate with a royal investigator?”
Sheshi eyed him, frowning in perplexity. Then he said in a somewhat less chilly voice, “Very well. Let’s see if I can remember.” He began to tick the names off on his fingers. “Lord Ptah-mes. Lord Yanakh-amu. Lord Yapakh-addi. Lord Nakht-pa-aten. Lord Ra-mes. Lord Aper-el. That’s it, all six of them. The viziers and high commissioners.”
Maya let out his breath in relief and wrapped the dagger again with deliberate ceremony. “Thank you, my lord. The king will be grateful.” He suspected that the man would tell somebody Maya had questioned him, but the secretary had done nothing illegal. Maya bowed with courtly dignity and turned on his heel. He made his way out of the bay, feeling the sub-chamberlain’s eyes on his back.