Bird in a Snare

by N. L. Holmes

  A steam of frustration began to rise in Hani. Because no one knows what it is? Because it’s morally objectionable? Maybe both at once.

  He wondered whether the obfuscation and vagueness surrounding his mission was to conceal something his superiors knew he would not voluntarily be a part of or if it simply revealed that even the king didn’t have a coherent vision of the royal objectives. Over the top of the goblet he had been nursing for a long time without a refill, Hani looked around at the faces that laughed and drank and chattered about him. What was really going on behind those bearded facades? He cast a sideways glance at Pu-ba’alu, whose deep voice rose occasionally over the buzz.

  By the time the party broke apart and Hani headed up the stairs to his chamber, he was wearier than the hour justified. He realized he had been tense and vigilant the whole evening, watching, weighing, and trying to read every gesture and every word. His father’s advice to trust his gut kept circling in his mind. And what does my gut tell me? He thought about the extravagantly courteous manners of Pu-ba’alu, the atmosphere of hilarity at the banquet, and the frightened testimony of the young eunuch. And under it all was the absence of the man he’d come to see, who’d been informed of his arrival days in advance—a fact that Pu-ba’alu had not denied. Aziru knew why Hani had come, and he didn’t want to meet the emissary. Hani’s gut told him something was brewing.

  ⸎

  Hani awoke later than usual the next morning, and an unnatural quiet reigned throughout the palace. No doubt, everyone was making good on a short night’s sleep. Maya, he found, had been awake for some while. The secretary knocked and entered while Hani was being shaved by Milk-addi, who had to bend over uncomfortably to situate himself at face height with the seated Egyptian.

  “Here’s the latest diplomatic pouch from the capital, my lord,” Maya said. “I took the liberty of collecting it from the courier.”

  “Thanks, my friend,” Hani said, stiff-lipped under the bronze razor.

  Hani was silent as his barber finished up. At last, Milk-addi wiped off the blade and swept the suds from Hani’s cheeks with a damp towel.

  “Thank you, too, Milk-addi,” he said in Amurrite. He smiled at the young eunuch with a collaborator’s wink.

  The youth bowed, blushing with pleasure, and made his way out with an armload of basins, towels, and other tools of the barber’s trade. Eyeing him coldly, Maya advanced with a wicker chest full of documents, which he set on the floor. “How does he know how to shave?” he demanded. “He’s never had to put a blade to his face any more than a girl has.”

  “I’m sure even a girl could be taught how to shave someone, Maya,” Hani said with a pointed smile. Scenting Maya’s jealousy from across the room, he softened his correction. “I don’t think I’d want Neferet wielding a blade at my throat, however.” The mention of his daughter reminded him how much he longed to see the children, his father, and above all, Nub-nefer.

  “Shall I read you the letters, Lord Hani? Looks like I have a couple, too.”

  “I can read them myself this time, Maya. You’ll want to look at your own.”

  Hani began with the letters from his family. Nub-nefer, as always, painted an idyllic picture of life at home. Sat-hut-haru spent lots of time at her mother’s side, learning the household arts—Hani looked up to see Maya grinning, his cheeks aflame, as he perused his own letter, no doubt from Sat-hut-haru. Mery-ra added his usual postscript, this time to the effect that the tomb had been patched with plaster and repainted and that a guard now stood watch at the door.

  Among the letters forwarded by Ptah-mes was one from Mane. Hani stared in delighted disbelief at the address in Wasshukanni. Then he plunged into it with curiosity.

  My old friend. You remember the question you put to me and our comrade Keliya that night we dined at your house? I may have an answer for you. It seems that some three years ago, just as the men of Kheta were beginning to squeeze the inland states of Niya and Nuhasshe, vassals of Naharin, the kings of those countries decided they needed to arouse the neighboring vassals of Kemet to unite in their mutual defense if worse should come to worst. Our former king, in his last few years of life, was not interested in any kind of official show of force. Thus Naharin, a loyal ally of Kemet, was constrained to hold back as well. But being more immediately threatened, King Tushratta was willing to offer a certain amount of encouragement to this vassal initiative. There was even talk in Kebni of a Mitannian “incursion” into Simurru—perhaps this was before you became involved. Incursion is too strong a word, for my taste, but there were definitely Mitannian soldiers in Simurru. They and certain of our own vassals were conferring about some kind of defensive league among themselves. Could some of these fellows be the “Egyptians and Mitannians” our late friend was paying to protect him? Just a thought. Make of it what you will. Love to the lady of the house. Your increasingly old friend, Mane son of Pa-iry.

  “Well, here’s food for thought, all right,” Hani said aloud.

  “What’s that, my lord?”

  Hani summarized Mane’s letter for his secretary. The two men exchanged a long puzzled look, then Maya expressed what was in Hani’s mind as well. “But that still doesn’t tell us who killed Abdi-ashirta. Who were the Egyptians and Mitannians protecting him from?”

  “They were a league against Kheta. I suppose Abdi-ashirta wanted to obtain some defense for his hapiru, too, even though they weren’t an official country. The obvious but ridiculous answer would be that the Hittites did it.”

  “But...” Maya’s face was screwed up in an unconvinced grimace.

  Hani chuckled. “I agree. That makes no sense. Perhaps Abdi-ashirta hired some of the people informally as bodyguards. I suppose we’ll never know, now that he’s dead.” He refolded the letter, laid it aside, and pulled out the official response of Lord Ptah-mes. “Let’s see what our next move is.”

  “They’ll probably make us go to Kheta Land. I’ll be an old man before I ever beget a son,” Maya grumbled.

  Hani smiled, but his heart was saddened for the boy. “If I ever get out of the diplomatic service, you can continue to work for me, Maya, if that’s what you want.” His smile broke into a short laugh. “With all the gold I save by not bribing everyone in the Hall of Royal Correspondence and half our vassals, I can pay you well.”

  Maya shot a quick glance at him as if to check whether he was being sarcastic or not. Hani grinned, and Maya laughed, too. Hani refolded Nub-nefer’s letter and was about to set it upon the table when he glanced at the outside. As usual, under the original address was a notation by Ptah-mes—Forward to Simurru. Below that, in Yanakh-amu’s neat little hand, was another forwarding address—Beruta. And below that, yet another hand had written Simurru.

  Hani stopped for a moment, trying to make sense of the warning that sounded in his head. At last, he said in a flat voice, “It was Yanakh-amu. He knew we were in Beruta. I told him I was coming here.”

  “What’s that, Lord Hani?” May looked up from his letter, still half grinning.

  “The men who attacked you. They knew we were in Beruta because Yanakh-amu told them. He was the only person who knew I was coming to see Rib-addi.” The empty scabbard—it has to be him. Yet he was in Azzati when Maya was attacked in Akhet-aten. Or was he? The commissioner had told Hani that Yapakh-addi had rarely been back in Kharu since his youth, yet Hani had encountered him in Ullaza, of all places, and Milk-addi said he came often to Simurru. Was Yanakh-amu lying, or had he been genuinely ignorant of Yapakh-addi’s travels? Had Yanakh-amu, in fact, been in Kemet when Hani had made his report? Suddenly, Hani didn’t know what was true and what was false. He put his hands to his temples as if he could physically shake out the contents of his head.

  Maya’s smile had slid off, and he was staring at Hani, eyes round and mouth agape. “Lord Yanakh-amu? But why would he try to kill us?”

  “Maybe I’m wrong,” Hani murmured, hoping fervently that was the case. “Maybe it was the courier or someone who saw the add
ress on the letters. Maybe there’s a spy in his office.” They stared at one another for what seemed like an endless space of time, but Hani wasn’t seeing Maya. He pictured the competent little commissioner of Djahy—his cheerful, boyish face and slight physique, his pleasant, unpretentious manners, and the shebyu collars around his neck. Yanakh-amu had had the late king’s trust. He was a Fan Bearer. And a decent man. Loyal, surely. Hani didn’t know what to think. He remembered Milk-addi saying that Yanakh-amu was among those being paid by Yapakh-addi, and he realized he’d completely dismissed the statement because he hadn’t been able to believe it. He still couldn’t.

  “How do we test this?” he muttered.

  Maya shrugged, helpless.

  “We set a trap for the assassins, and then we make them talk,” Hani answered himself mirthlessly. “I’ll be the bait. The duck in the cage. The bird in a snare.”

  ⸎

  They were preparing to return to Kemet, but that wasn’t why Maya sauntered through the courtyard of Aziru’s palace. He wanted to be seen by the soldiers readying their departure—and especially by the two would-be assassins. At his heels, the gangling young eunuch who was so enamored of Lord Hani traipsed along, according to his instructions. Every so often, Maya would turn and say to him loudly, “We’re going to be making a little trip out on the marshes from Beruta—just Lord Hani and me.” And the slave would nod gravely, his hands clasped. In fact he didn’t understand a word Maya spoke, but he’d been coached carefully. The hunted had become the hunters.

  Hani had remembered that Abdi-ashirta had once invited him to go fowling in the marshes of his own region, and what better setting to tempt the murderers than an excursion out on the waters? Hani and Maya would be alone, leagues from anywhere, presumably unarmed. It seemed like a desperately dangerous scenario to Maya for precisely those reasons—two against two. Thus, they’d impressed the eunuch to help, but he was such a spindly-looking specimen that Maya found it hard to imagine him wrestling anyone to the ground or knocking the knife from a malefactor’s hand. Yet whom else could they trust in Simurru?

  Late in the afternoon, Maya thought he caught a glimpse of the darker of the two bravos, with his quilted soldier’s scarf covering his head. Sure enough—rising from shaking out his sandal, the other man, in his wide belt, popped up at his side. Maya had little fear for his safety in a court full of the king’s troops. He drew near to the pair but kept his gaze from meeting theirs, as if he were unaware of them.

  “You know, Milk-addi, Lord Hani and I are planning a little hunting expedition into the marshes when we reach Beruta,” he said in a voice designed to carry over the clangs and thumps of the preparing soldiery.

  The slave made a polite noise of inquiry, as if he had comprehended the words.

  “Yes, that’s right, just the two of us. Lord Hani wants to see the famous marsh birds here.”

  “Kishn, Rab Maya,” Milk-addi murmured obediently. Yes, Lord Maya. Maya rather liked the sound of that. He only hoped he survived this desperate ruse to bask in it.

  Beginning to enjoy his role, Maya said, “We’ll leave at dawn the morning after we arrive in Beruta, so be sure everything is ready, all right?”

  “Kishn, Rab Maya.”

  Maya wished the eunuch didn’t look quite so anxious, but who cared? He was a slave. What concerned Maya was that the lad find enough courage in him to be of some help when it counted. Satisfied that his “indiscretion” had been overheard, Maya led the way back to their chamber, where Hani awaited him.

  Hani looked up from where he stood over a table full of strange equipment. “Any luck?”

  Maya beamed, pleased with himself. “They were there. I’m almost sure they heard me.”

  “Well done, son. Here are our tools. We want to look as if we really are out to catch birds.”

  Maya surveyed the array of baskets and spring-loaded snap nets, throw sticks, and pots of lime. He pushed back his wig and scratched his head uncertainly.

  “And here,” Hani continued in a darker tone, “are our weapons.”

  Hani held out a stout walking stick to the secretary. Maya hesitated. Once this was in his hand, he was committed to their plan, with no hope of backing out. His fingers closed around the sturdy wood, and he drew a deep breath of resolution. He looked Hani boldly in the eye. “Ready, my lord.”

  “Milk-addi.” Hani turned to the slave and handed him a staff as well, addressing him in his own language. Maya was learning it, but he only understood a few words yet.

  The eunuch swallowed painfully and nodded. “Kishn, Rab Hani.”

  Hani shot his two confederates a conspiratorial stare. “The marshes are inland between Ullaza and Beruta, in the valley of the River Natanu. We’ll turn off to see them as we pass on our way south. I’ve bought us a little boat to seem more authentic. If our two fellows are pretending to be part of the army, they’ll see our departure and manage to follow. The commandant is apprised of what’s going on, and he’ll see that a few trustworthy men trail after us just in case. In fact, he offered me a soldier to be our donkey driver, and I think I’ll accept.”

  Maya could feel an uncomfortable warmth rising to his cheeks. The trap, which part of him viewed as a colorful adventure, was nonetheless fraught with deadly peril. Two scribes—one of them half the size of everyone else—and a eunuch as big around as a carob bean, out on a boat in a vast marsh, with two killers stalking them. “My lord, why don’t we just have the soldiers arrest these two? I’d testify in court that they were the ones who tried to kill me.”

  Hani’s smile deepened, weary and a little sad. “Because that way, we wouldn’t get to question them without the soldiers torturing them, Maya. And you can’t trust what anybody says under torture.”

  ⸎

  The next day at dawn, they set out, as Maya had broadcast. At the pace of the foot soldiers and oxcarts, it was an entire day’s hard journey to Beruta, so the party would have to stay there overnight, and then the bird catchers would start for the marshes the following morning. Hani doubted that he would have time to greet Rib-addi, but King Ammunira had been alerted to their arrival.

  Aziru, of course, had never shown up at Simurru. Hani had made it clear that Aziru had better get himself to Akhet-aten if he had any pretensions to the good will of the living Haru, and then the emissary had left, as his reply from Ptah-mes had directed. His official mission, such as it had been, was over. Before they departed, he’d purchased Milk-addi from the hapiru and freed him, intending to leave him with Rib-addi after their trap was sprung. Mercifully, Pu-ba’alu had provided the diplomats with a litter, but the skinny ex-slave trudged beside them, huddled in a cloak, his face anxious.

  As they rocked along down the Way of Haru through the growing chill of early winter, Hani pondered what he was about to do. It was dangerous, he couldn’t deny, and he asked himself if an investigation the king had closed was really worth his life or that of his son-in-law. But he’d vowed to Ma’at that he would follow this case to the bottom. Lord Djehuty, protect your scribes. Bring us back safe to our loved ones.

  They arrived after dark, unloading their baggage by torchlight in the courtyard. Ammunira invited them all to the banquet hall for a copious late supper, where Hani saw Rib-addi haunting the edges of the room in something that looked as if it might be his nightshirt. Somewhat reluctantly—because he was weary and starving—Hani made his way over to the exiled king and bent to kiss his hand.

  Rib-addi patted him on the head. “Hani. I had hoped I’d see you again.”

  “Only briefly, my lord. We need to get to bed for an early start tomorrow.”

  Rib-addi nodded. He looked pitifully shrunken and frail and none too steady on his feet, and a stale odor emanated from him. He clutched at Hani’s shirt with a clawlike hand. “Tell our good god Nipkhuririya that I need soldiers, Hani. Tell him that. I’m trapped like a bird in a snare. Make sure he knows that.” Now that he was dethroned, his words no longer made perfect sense, as if he had sunk into a
refrain more of the past than of the present.

  Hani’s heart clenched with pity for the old victim of his own loyalty. “I will, my lord. You may be sure of it.”

  Rib-addi nodded. He patted Hani feebly on the shoulder. “My good little Hani.” Then he turned and tottered off into the dark edges of the room, which flickered with too few lamps.

  Hani heaved a sorrowful sigh and watched him disappear from the room. What would happen to him if Ammunira turned him over to Siduna? Yapakh-addi was still stalking him to his ruin after more than fifty years, still smarting from some humiliation older than Hani himself.

  Hani turned back to the tables spread for the party and settled himself heavily next to Maya. Hungry as he was, he was so tired he wasn’t sure he could eat. But in fact, that wasn’t the case, as he discovered as soon as the tasty scent of the hot flatbread and mutton stew reached his nostrils.

  ⸎

  A winter morning’s cold light had yet to slip across the horizon when Hani and Maya crept quietly downstairs to grab a bite from the previous night’s repast and head for the cart they had reserved in the courtyard. Milk-addi staggered behind them, his arms full of their fowling equipment.

  The court seemed deserted, their fluttering torch the only sign of life. Their cart had been harnessed, however, and the donkey stood chewing patiently, its nose in a feedbag, while in the dark, the driver—a soldier of Ammunira in civilian clothing—squatted, chafing his hands, at its side. A small flat-bottomed boat and a pair of paddles were tied down in the bed of the wagon. The driver rose expectantly at the sight of the three travelers. He was a sturdy-looking black-bearded fellow, armed—as they all were—with a massive walking staff, Hani noted with approval. If help were needed to fend off any attackers, he would be more valuable than Milk-addi. With a grunt, the servant heaved the snares and baskets into the cart, and the three men took their places beside the driver. The cold air of the month of Mehir was clean and pure. There would certainly be no rain that day. Hani could forget the dangerous nature of the mission and let himself look forward to seeing the birds. It was, of course, much too late to observe the fall migration toward Kemet and too early to view the northward return.