by N. L. Holmes
Now what? Hani would begin by examining each of these men’s possible motive for killing Abdi-ashirta. They knew Yapakh-addi’s—Abdi-ashirta had rejected his advances fifty years before. What about the others? Maya was barely acquainted with any of the men and had not even met Nakht-pa-aten or Ra-mes. The latter was the previous vizier of the Upper Kingdom, and Nakht-pa-aten, the former Tutu, was his successor. What might people of that exalted status have against a northern troublemaker who was outside their jurisdiction? Yanakh-amu was commissioner of the vassals of Djahy and hence involved in some way with the late hapir. He was about the same age as Lord Ptah-mes, perhaps a few years older than Hani—but all of them were certainly of the late king’s generation. Aper-el was older, but not by more than five years. He might have known fellow courtiers, both younger and older. Of the other three, Maya only knew that Yapakh-addi was of an older generation, probably older than Abdi-ashirta. Did either of the viziers of the Upper Kingdom also have a history with the deceased? Had they, too, grown up with him at court? Or was it all simply political?
“It’s hopeless,” Maya said to the empty street. There he was, within a matter of paces of the suspects, and he had no idea where to look, whom to ask, what to do. He decided to return to Waset.
With a deflated sigh, the secretary set off toward the river’s edge, where the commercial boats were moored, not so far from the king’s own magnificent quays. He passed between walled workshops and long warehouses with vaulted roofs. The area was strangely empty—no scribes, no workmen. Perhaps the king is holding some sort of event at the palace. What really concerned him was the lack of ideas to pursue his investigation. He needed to do something that would impress Lord Hani with his abilities. If only he could learn something that would break open the case brilliantly...
Thus sunk in his thoughts, he hardly reacted when he heard from somewhere nearby but out of sight, “There’s the dwarf.” Before he could turn to see who had spoken, a man leaped upon him, stinking and slippery with sweat. Maya sprawled on the ground with a cry of pained surprise, the gold knife spilling from his grasp.
“Help!” Maya managed at last. He swung his fists and kicked out, but another man was upon him now, the two of them pinning him in the dirt of the street. His writing case fell off with a clatter of pens, and he scrambled for them. But the attackers grabbed his wrists and feet and tied them all up together brutally tight with a scrap of rope. He yelled and struggled, fear spouting from within him. “Help! Help! Someone—”
His voice was stifled as the men dragged a rough bag over his head and dumped him upside down into it. Terror a white-hot explosion within him, Maya wriggled wildly against his bonds. His heart was bursting. He was scarcely able to breathe— and perhaps most nightmarish of all, he was unable to see what was happening. He tried to scream, but one of his attackers clouted him alongside the face. “Where are you taking me?” he gasped, tasting blood. “What is this?”
One of them muttered something, the words blurred by the thick sack. Someone tied the mouth of it and hoisted it up, perhaps onto a shoulder. Maya cried out in pain as he fell on his head, hitting his nose with his knees. The atmosphere inside the sack was unbreathable with chaff.
Bes have mercy, he thought in terror. What are they going to do to me? He was almost too exhausted from his struggles to fight any longer, crumpled up as he was. Death had never planed so maliciously overhead. He felt the rhythmic jarring of footsteps, each one sending him bouncing against his bearer’s back, to the muffled curses of his captors. The sack seemed to drop at one point, sending his heart into his mouth, but the men hitched it up.
At last, their footsteps stopped, and Maya, his pulse pounding in his ears, suddenly found himself flying through the air. He heaved a great cry of fear, and then his breath was knocked out of him as the sack struck water.
And began to sink.
Maya screamed for all he was worth—he screamed unashamedly with the little breath left to him. No! My life can’t end like this! I’m going to be married!
At first, the sack bobbed back up and wobbled just below the surface, but then he could feel the water beginning to seep through the coarse fabric. It wet his face, his back, his shins—as icy as death. He cried. He moaned. He prayed. The sack sank again. He could see nothing, just darkness. The taste of fear was in his mouth, its stench in the chaff-filled air that penetrated his nose—but only for the moment, because soon the waters of the Great River would stop his nostrils forever. This is the end. I’ll be eaten by crocodiles, and there will be nothing left to bury. Who will take care of my mother in her old age? Lord Hani...
All at once, the sack was jerked up, compressing him into a painful ball with the return of his weight. The water streamed from him as he was hoisted into the air—he could hear it cascading back into the River. Grunting and muffled voices penetrated his sack. He was dumped to the ground, and by the dim luminosity inside the hopsack, he saw the point of a knife pierce the fabric and rip it open. Light and air flooded within. His eyes watering, he sucked air into his lungs in desperate relief. Hands pulled the sack away from him and cut his bonds. He flopped out onto the pavement of the quay like a fish pulled from a net.
At last, Maya saw his rescuers—a pair of young boatmen scarcely older than boys. Their eyes bugged with amazement at the diminutive human being who had emerged from the sack of death. Maya climbed painfully to his knees, ignoring his running nose. “Thank you, thank you, my good lads.”
“Iyi, they sure had it in for you!” cried one of the youths. “What, did you cuckold one of them?”
“I don’t even know who they were.” Maya gasped, getting to his feet with an effort. “I was just walking down the street, and they jumped me.” Air had never seemed so precious. He opened his mouth and gulped it gluttonously like the finest of wines.
“We seen ’em drop in the sack, all wrigglin’ like,” the other boy said. “We thought it was a animal, maybe.”
“I can’t thank you enough. I don’t have anything of value to give you”—he groped feverishly for his amulet—“I can’t give you this; he just saved my life. But take my shirt. Take my kilt, if you want it. My wig.” Then he realized he had no idea where his wig was.
The boys burst out laughing, and the plumper one said, “We can’t wear any of that stuff. It’s too small.”
“But you can trade it. It’s good linen.” He tugged off his shirt and held it out to them, sodden though it was. The taller of them took it, still grinning. “Now, all I ask of you is to get me back to Waset as fast as possible. Can you do that?”
They assured him they were boatmen—there was nowhere on the River they couldn’t take him. He tumbled into their boat behind them, and they loosed the painter. The little boat slipped out onto the stream, and its wide rectangular sail caught the wind.
“Tell me, lads, did you see the men who threw me in?” Maya asked the boatmen once they’d settled into the rippling current. The heavier one sat at the rear, the steering oar under one arm, while the other, who had just trimmed the sail, took a seat on the bench across from Maya.
The sail boy scratched his ear in deep thought. “Yes, master. Two big fellas. One had a wide leather belt that covered half his stomach, an’ the other one was Nubian. He had a quilted scarf over his head like a soldier.”
“A soldier?” Maya couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. Why was a soldier after me? Did Sheshi sic the king’s men on me?
“Well, like a soldier. He didn’t have a quilted apron or nothin’.”
“A bodyguard—that’s what I thought,” the steersman put in. “Like some rich man’s bodyguard.”
Maya was silent, absorbing that idea. “Anything distinctive about them? No insignias or anything?”
Sail Boy made an elaborate shrug. “We was takin’ our siesta in the bottom of the boat until the yellin’ woke us up. I didn’t see all that much. Did you, Har-wa?”
His companion shook his head gravely.
“Not
even for a nice reward as soon as we get to Waset?” Maya said hopefully. “My mother is a goldsmith for the king.”
“Sorry, master,” Har-wa said with a shrug. “I could make somethin’ up to get the reward, but we didn’t really see that much.”
It’s all right, Maya told himself, despite his disappointment. Even Lord Hani can’t get blood from a stone.
Maya’s fear and desperation drifted away as the new capital slid out of sight and the peace of the River replaced it. Because, like any good Egyptian, he did love the River—just not to fall into it. The glassy malachite water slipped past, parting around the prow with a suave hiss. The sun dried Maya’s kilt almost immediately, and although it was filthy with chaff and green tidemarks of slime, he began to feel more like himself—better, in fact, because he had just survived a rather extraordinary adventure, and life seemed wildly precious. He saw reeds teeming with ducks and other waterfowl along the shore and thought of Lord Hani. He would have questions. Unfortunately, in a boat this small, fighting against the Flood current, it would take Maya more than a week to get home upstream, where he could answer those questions, but he felt he owed his saviors the fare.
What just happened to me in broad daylight on the streets of the capital of the Black Land? It clearly wasn’t an attempt at robbery, since no one had touched the expensive gold amulet hanging around his neck. Was that Sheshi suspicious, perhaps, about someone asking too many questions? He’d have a word for In-her-khau if that was so. It would take more than a dinner to smooth this out.
Once he finally reached Waset and changed his clothes at home, Maya made his way to Lord Hani’s villa, but there the gatekeeper told him the master was at Akhet-aten. Maya stifled a curse and stumped his way back to his mother’s house. It was only then that he realized he had lost the knife.
⸎
Hani knew of no better way to discover the desecrator of his tomb than simply to ask Aha, “Did you do it?” Whatever else his son had become, he wasn’t a liar. If he were guilty, he’d admit it.
And then what? Hani didn’t want to think about what he had to do if his suspicions were correct. He would try to find Aha first at his house, and failing that, he’d head for the new capital. With all his being, he hoped the boy would say, “It wasn’t me, Father. It must have been one of the workmen.”
Khentet-ka welcomed Hani to his son’s home. It was quite a nice place for a young scribe, with gardens and a pool, and his daughter-in-law was equally decorative and expensive looking. Hani chided himself for being judgmental—the girl appeared to have nothing but material things on her mind, but perhaps she just didn’t know what to say to Hani. She had always seemed to be a loving mother to her and Aha’s children. Khentet-ka was full of news about how they’d planned to expand the house itself for the growing family, but now that the capital had moved, they’d undoubtedly go to Akhet-aten and build something new. She told her father-in-law proudly that Aha had a patron at court and all sorts of benefits were flowing his way.
In return for what vile services, I wonder? Hani asked himself. But he tried to keep a friendly smile on his face—his daughter-in-law was guilty of nothing.
Eventually, the girl admitted that Aha wouldn’t be back until the end of the month. He had a little place in Akhet-aten where he stayed. It was a journey of a good many days, especially in the direction of Waset.
“I may just visit him there, then.” Hani kissed her goodbye and made his way home. I need to invest in a nice boat of my own, he thought wearily. It seems I’ll be making the trip to Akhet-aten frequently, because I certainly don’t plan to move to that godforsaken hole. But it was a long journey. He and everyone else who chose not to move would be away from their families for weeks on end. The Aten apparently didn’t care.
Hani left word with the gatekeeper that he would be gone to the capital for a few days, and he found himself a fast, powerful boat bound downriver. The Inundation had begun, and the craft fairly flew ahead of the current, swollen green with algae and tiny water plants. They arrived in only a few days’ time. When the sailors had maneuvered to the land’s edge among the other boats and tied up to one of the pilings driven into the bank, he disembarked and trudged the distance to the Hall of Royal Correspondence through the ocher dust of the streets. Somehow, Akhet-aten seemed hotter than Waset, with a baking heat that parched the skin and cracked the lips.
The darkness inside the building was a blinding contrast. Hani paused until his eyes could adjust. Finally, he approached the guardian at his table in the reception hall. “I’m looking for the scribe Aha son of Hani. I believe he now goes by Hesy-en-aten.”
The man smirked knowingly. Hani wasn’t sure whose mockery lay in that smirk, his own or all the young toadies who were changing their names.
The guardian rose and returned almost immediately. “He’s on his way.” He resumed his writing.
Moments later, Aha emerged from an inner door, looking inflated with his importance. When he saw his father, a strange flash of fear or guilt passed across his square face, but he composed himself in a heartbeat. “Father,” he said blandly. “What brings you here?”
“Let’s step outside for a moment, son. I’d like to speak to you.” Hani drew the boy after him into the court, where there was a sliver of shade in a corner, away from the traveled areas. It was unnaturally silent; even the cicadas seemed to hold their breath. Aha stood solidly, almost defensively, his thumbs in the waist of his kilt. The little gold knife hung at his hip.
Hani stared intently at Aha, his eyes pleading for truth. “My son, someone has desecrated our family tomb. The name of the Hidden One has been chiseled out every time it occurs, even in our names.” He swallowed hard, hoping desperately that Aha would respond with shock and indignation. “Do you know anything about it?”
There was an interminable silence. Then Aha said defiantly, “I do. I wanted to save you from your errors, Father. The Aten demands to be worshiped alone. The days of Mother’s vile god are past.”
At first, Hani could hardly react. He doesn’t even deny it! The arrogance! He said in a carefully gentle voice, “I know you want to be useful to the king, son, but have you no limits? ‘Do not let yourself be sent on a mischievous errand.’ Remember that?”
Aha’s face grew ugly, and his voice burst out loud and harsh. “That’s what I hate about your religion, Father. It’s always ‘Do this’ and ‘Don’t do that.’ Nothing but stale aphorisms and frozen ritual. The worship of the Aten is full of love and... and passion. He actually cares about his children.”
Anger rose in Hani like the red wave of the Inundation. He was speechless with fury and disgust. He wanted to spit on his firstborn, on what he had become—this arrogant, impious Hesy-en-aten. But he was nearly paralyzed with pain, too, and with sorrow. In a voice little above a whisper, he said, “Do you know what it means to destroy a person’s name? It condemns his soul to eternal death. Is that what you wanted to do to us? To me? To your mother? To your grandfather?”
Aha began to bluster. His face was a boiling scarlet, and although his tone was self-justifying, he looked acutely uncomfortable. “No, no. I knew you’d redo it, but I... the king wants the land purified. There’s too much power in the hands of the venal priesthood of Amen. That god of the past is no longer part of what the Aten wants—”
“And how do you know what the fucking Aten wants, you pitiful bastard?” Hani growled. He could contain his rage no longer. It was all he could do not to advance on his son with his fists clenched. “You have dealt those who loved you the kind of hateful blow that can never be healed, Amen-hotep. Never. You’ve sold our souls for a little favor at court. And all you can say in your defense is some platitudinous drivel you’ve heard the king’s mindless henchmen spouting. You are my son no more, do you hear?” Hani’s temples throbbed with the sheer agony of the words, and he struggled not to shout. “Since you hold it in such contempt, you’re no longer part of our family. I disown you. I never want to see you again.”
Aha’s face seemed to have been blasted open, his jaw hanging, his green-lined little eyes wide. “But Father, surely you don’t mean—”
“I do mean it. For your mother’s sake, I cannot forgive you this. You’ve made your choice, and it doesn’t lie with us. I’ll see to it my will is formally changed. Don’t ever approach me again.” Hani’s breath sawed in his nose like a bull pawing the ground before its charge. He could hardly see. It was as if his anger had become something solid, a crimson gauze across his eyes.
“But your grandchildren—surely you don’t want—”
“I have no grandchildren.” Hani turned and stalked away, his heart dead within him. Like an animal wounded unto death, he strode through the court and out into the street, seeing nothing, hearing only his own words echoing in his mind. You are my son no more...
⸎
“You did right, Hani,” Nub-nefer assured him when, home once more, he sat down with her and told her the whole sordid story. “What Aha did was an unpardonable act of malice. Somehow, it doesn’t even surprise me. It’s been coming on for years.” Her words were calm, but her face was stretched into a mask of bronze. She’d wept at first—a storm of fury against her firstborn and fear for the loved ones he had endangered—but now her features were grim and fixed. “He’s been corrupted by those fawning grandees he consorts with.”
Hani heaved an enormous sigh that threatened to split his heart in two and folded her in his arms. “You are my djed pillar, my pillar of strength, my love. You might well have hated me for this.”
“Never, dearest. There’s too much hatred in our world already. I fear lest the gods abandon us for the evil of our rulers.”