by Gary Corby
“What did you do?”
“I buried them, for the months that my father embalmed Psamtik. I spent the next three months assisting him, and helping the carpenters build the sarcophagus. Eventually my father declared the body ready to go in the sarcophagus. In fact he grumbled that much more time was needed, but the Persians had told him to be ready three days hence. That night I placed the crook and flail within.”
“Surely the Persians would look inside,” I protested. “They’d see the crook and flail.”
Maxyates added, “Your father could not fail to see them when he placed the body.”
“You are both wrong. I artificed a cunning hollow in the base of the sarcophagus, covered by a solid-looking board, only accessible from inside.”
“Clever!”
“Thank you. My father did not see it when we placed the body, or if he did, he made no comment. As I said, he was a wise man. The Persians would not see a thing. Once the body was in, you would have to lift it from its coffin to have any chance of seeing the secret compartment, and even then they would have to know what to look for. I thought this unlikely.”
“You were right, and this is wonderful news,” I said warmly. “Tutu, you have succeeded beyond all expectation. No one but you has had the faintest clue where to find the crook and flail. But now is the time for the Pharaoh’s insignia to return to the world.”
“I think you may be right.” Tutu nodded.
“Then tell us, where do we find Psamtik’s coffin?”
“I can’t be certain,” the embalmer said.
I groaned. “You don’t know?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You must know something,” Herodotus said.
Tutu said, with obvious reluctance, “I suspect, but I do not like to say what might not be true. You understand this?”
Herodotus nodded. “That is very natural and honorable.”
“Then hear my thoughts. A few days after Pharaoh Psamtik was delivered to our House, it was announced that the Persian King was to depart Memphis. He was to visit the Palace at Saïs.”
“Saïs?” Diotima asked.
“It is a city in the Land of Papyrus, what you people call the Delta. This was significant.”
“Why?”
“Because Psamtik’s father, the Pharaoh before him, who was called Amasis, was buried there. Of this I am certain. My family had embalmed Amasis a mere two years before.”
“Go on.”
“An enormous train of men, women and carts full of luggage accompanied the King. The baggage train was so long, they required an entire day merely to drive out of the city. We realized that the Great King did not intend to return. This proved to be true. From Saïs he went back to his own country. We were happy to be rid of him. But from Saïs we heard stories that upset my father a great deal.”
“Concerning the Pharaohs?” Herodotus asked.
“I told you that Amasis, the father of Psamtik, was entombed at Saïs. The Persian King had the body of the old Pharaoh removed from his House of Eternity. The body of Amasis was brutalized in ways that I will not mention. His ka and his ba were scattered to the winds. The ka-priest whose job it was to maintain the Pharaoh’s final resting place was executed. Finally the mummy was burnt to cinders.”
“Dear Gods, why do such things to a dead man?” I said.
Tutu shrugged. “Who can understand the mind of a Persian? You must know that to destroy a body by fire is the worst fate that can befall an Egyptian. The Persian had done everything in his power to offend Egypt.”
Tutu was a man in his old age, and this had happened in his youth, but even so he wept at the memory.
“My father was devastated. He it was who had prepared Amasis for the Field of Reeds, and now all was ashes.”
“They didn’t cremate Psamtik too, did they?” I asked. That would be disaster for us.
Tutu shook his head. “Psamtik lay in our House. He was with us long after the Persian King departed Egypt. In fact, he lay with us long after the sarcophagus was supposed to be collected. We had done the best we could in the allocated time, all was prepared. A month passed, but still nothing happened. My father was reluctant to remind the authorities, after what had happened to Amasis.”
“Understandable.”
“Then, one day, some priests came to the door. They were very polite when they spoke to my father. The priests made an extraordinary request. They said openly that they had no authority, but they asked for the body of Psamtik. They said they would treat him with dignity.”
“What did your father do?”
“He gave them the body!”
“Who were these priests?”
“They said they came from the temple at Siwa.”
The Blind General had mentioned Siwa. When we first met him, the General had said he was no oracle like the one at Siwa. I asked Tutu about this, but surprisingly it was Maxyates who answered.
“The oracle at Siwa is the most famous in Africa, a very holy place dedicated to the god Amun,” he said. “I have been to Siwa many times, as it is a place of learning. The temple was rebuilt in the days of the Pharaoh Amasis. He sent them much gold and resources and workmen to make the temple great.”
Tutu nodded. “It was this that persuaded my father. The priests of Amun are well disposed to Amasis. When they heard what had happened to their benefactor, they were determined to save the son.”
“That makes sense.”
“The priests carried away Psamtik in the dead of night. I never saw that sarcophagus again. Then another strange thing happened.”
“What was it?”
“Four months later, three Persian soldiers came to our House, a sergeant and two soldiers. The sergeant said he had been sent to collect the body of Psamtik.”
“That must have been awkward.”
“This was four months after the priests had taken the body; it was five months, mind you, after the time the Persians said they would be back.”
Herodotus chuckled. “Administrative error. It happens all the time. What did your father do?”
“He lied to them. He said other soldiers had come at the appointed time, five months before, and that these other soldiers had taken away the sarcophagus. The sergeant looked cross and went away. The soldiers never bothered us again.”
On a sudden impulse, Herodotus clasped Tutu’s hands and said, “Sir, you may have done Egypt a greater service today than any in your past. I thank you.”
Tutu smiled thinly. “Your words are kind. I must hope. But I am not hopeful. Things were better in the days of our forebears.”
“You seem to prefer the past,” Diotima said gently. “If you don’t like the way things are done these days, should you not plan for a better future?”
Tutu looked at Diotima with something akin to horror. “Young lady, I am an embalmer. An embalmer works only with that which has passed. The future and the people who live in it will be some other embalmer’s problem.”
“Oh. I see,” said Diotima, somewhat nonplussed.
“There is something else you must know,” Tutu spoke hesitantly.
“Go on.”
“When the work was complete I placed two scrolls inside the sarcophagus. The first was the Book of the Dead.”
“Which is?”
“Our sacred religious text. It contains instructions to the deceased on how to pass the various tests that will confront him on his journey to the Afterlife. It’s a standard inclusion in every proper burial,” Tutu said. “However, the second scroll was specific for Psamtik. It was a long list of curses that will befall whoever opens the Pharaoh’s sarcophagus.”
“What sort of curses?” Herodotus was making rapid notes.
“In brief, the man who opens that grave will suffer nothing but disaster for the rest of his life, and when he dies, his so
ul will go straight to the Devourer. Personally I would not want to be the one who opened that sarcophagus. I tell you this because whichever of you volunteers to open it will suffer these things. I hope your loyalty to Inaros is very great.”
I gulped. My loyalty to Inaros was close to non-existent. I wasn’t sure I believed in the Egyptian gods, but no man willingly takes on a curse.
Tutu’s words cast a pall over the group. We all wondered who would be the one to sacrifice himself—or herself—for the good of Egypt. There were no volunteers.
The Sparta Contract
We left the House of Tutu with much clasping of hands, kind words from the embalmer and our heads spinning from what he had told us.
“We must assume that Tutu’s idea is correct,” Herodotus said. “The sarcophagus containing the crook and flail is at Siwa.”
“Tutu is almost certainly correct,” Djanet said. “If Psamtik had been buried or cremated in Memphis, I would know it.”
This dogmatic statement caused us all to look at her askance.
“I made enquiries once, long ago,” Djanet explained. “Nobody could tell me a thing, not even the beggars, and they know everything that goes on in this city. Psamtik wasn’t buried in Memphis. Even a quiet funeral in the palace grounds would have been impossible to cover up; a soldier or a servant would be bound to talk.”
“So if it isn’t in Memphis, it must be at Siwa.” I said. “That makes sense.”
“Then that’s where we’re going,” Herodotus said. “Max, what else can you tell us about Siwa?”
“It is an oasis,” Maxyates said. “In the Egyptian tongue they call it the Field of Trees. Siwa lies very far to the west. So far west in fact that one must cross the desert. Siwa is in Libya, not Egypt.”
I laughed. “If Inaros finds out the crook and flail have been in his own homeland all this time, he’s going to kick himself.”
“And the oracle?” Herodotus prompted.
“It is most ancient and of the greatest holiness,” said Maxyates solemnly. “The Oracle at Siwa is like . . .” He thought for a moment. “You Hellenes have your Oracle of Delphi. Siwa is like that for the Egyptians and Libyans.”
“Then it is very important indeed,” said Herodotus.
“Yes.”
The matter seemed to be settled. I felt like a weight had been dropped from my back. We had a plan, and it took us out of Memphis. The whole party felt the same way; the mood became lighter.
Being in the southern part of the city meant we were close to temples that Herodotus was desperate to see. One of these was impossible to miss: a colossal statue of an ancient Pharaoh. Some fellow I’d never heard of, named Ramses. Like all Egyptian statues, the figure stood rigidly upright. Why couldn’t these Egyptians do a proper statue, like we Hellenes? But I had to give them credit for sheer size. This Ramses stood taller than any building in Athens. Standing at his feet, I had to look straight up to see his face.
“What did he do?” I asked, for surely anyone with a statue this big must be important.
“You’ve never heard of Ramses?” said Djanet, in shock. “What do they teach you Hellenes?”
“Mostly to quote from Homer,” I said.
Djanet sniffed.
“Ramses was the greatest ruler who ever lived,” Maxyates said.
“I thought that was King Menelaus, or Priam?” I said. “That’s what Homer says.”
“Ramses was greater than both,” Maxyates explained. “He was the greatest. At his mausoleum there is an inscription that says: I am Osymandyas—that was another name for Ramses—I am Osymandyas, the king of kings. If you would know how great I am, then excel me in my works.”
“Hmmpf,” I said. “That’s just saying, if you think you can do better than me, then let’s see it. Typical boasting.” Diotima quietly kicked me in the shins. This was her gentle way of reminding me to be polite to our hosts. Seeking to make amends, I added, “Well, I’m sure he was greater than our current crop of leaders. I can’t imagine anyone saying that about Pericles.”
We walked on to the gates of the Temple of Ptah. Herodotus wanted to go in. I said I wasn’t keen. All about the entrance were cats, too many cats to count. Every man and woman who passed through treated the cats with deference, to the point that they would walk around the felines to avoid disturbing them. The cats were a bad sign. The Tjaty had said that Ptah was the husband of Bast. There was too much chance I’d run into a bureaucrat in the temple of Ptah, maybe even a Head of Department.
Herodotus said stubbornly, “I didn’t come to Egypt to miss anything.”
A direct order from my employer was going to be hard to resist. But I would try. I opened my mouth to argue.
“May I make a suggestion?” Maxyates interrupted. “I will escort Herodotus to the temple. I know it well enough. You and Diotima can make your way back to our lodgings.”
“Good thinking, Max.”
The Trojan was a fine peacemaker.
Djanet said she had her own arrangements to make. If we were to depart Memphis on our quest for the crook and flail, then first she must see to some business matters she had in progress. Nobody was brave enough to ask what business she meant. The singer from Memphis was also an agent for a rebel prince, and the gods only knew what other dubious enterprises she was involved in.
Djanet went her own way.
Several cats lounged upon the top of the surrounding wall of the temple. They looked down on the visitors below them with an air of superiority. One of these felines was pure white. I had a feeling I’d seen it before. The white cat stared at me with a knowing look. I shuddered. I grabbed Diotima’s arm to drag her away.
As I did, she grabbed my arm back. “Nico, over there!”
I looked where she indicated with her eyes. There was a man walking out of the grounds of the Temple of Ptah. At first glance the man was a Persian soldier. He wore the flowing brightly checkered tunic with its enormous sleeves, the hat with gold braid and no brim, and the leather shoes with curled-up toes. Typical Persian infantry kit. Anyone would take him for one of the soldiers stationed here. But on his back, instead of the bow and quiver of a typical soldier, there was hung a crossbow and a packet of shorter bolts.
There couldn’t be two such weapons in Memphis, could there? Barzanes had made it clear enough that access to the crossbow was restricted.
No, it had to be Markos.
He hadn’t seen us. Markos turned east, in the direction of the White Fort.
“What do we do?” Diotima asked.
“We follow him,” I said.
He retreated into the distance. Diotima crossed the road, in case he turned that way, and so that we wouldn’t be recognized as a pair.
I kept my eyes firmly locked on the crossbow and walked after Markos.
As I walked, I worried. What had Markos been doing at the temple? Had he been visiting the same bureaucrats who had captured me? Had they captured him, too, and then released him as they had me? Why was he dressed as a Persian?
Markos’s route took him to the street on which lay the main gate to the White Fort. My heart constricted. For a moment I thought he would turn in. That would have been a development that made me pack up and run for home. But instead he walked past. The Spartan assassin took no notice of the guards who stood their duty, nor did they pay any attention to him.
It was remarkable how well Markos blended into the background, especially with the crowds of Egyptians all around him. He pushed them out of the way and swore at them in good Persian. I spoke the language myself and admired his accent, which was better than mine.
Markos turned a corner, going left. I hurried to follow. Diotima cut through a back alley. I reached the new street just in time to see him turn right. Diotima was closer than me. She made the turn.
I hurried to catch up. As I rounded the busy corner I ran smack bang
into my wife.
“Oof!”
I caught her as she stumbled forward.
“What kept you?” she complained.
“Well, he turned your way. What are you doing here?”
“He stopped. He’s in that tavern over there.” Diotima nodded in the direction of a seedy-looking building. In fact, everything looked seedy. Markos’s path had taken us to the docklands. Not the respectable part where commercial river boats came and went—this street ended in a pile of dingy fishing craft, dirty barges and dodgy-looking Egyptians who called out that their moldy row boats were for hire. I wouldn’t have got in one unless I wanted to catch a disease. Other men with shifty eyes lined the street. They were on the lookout for an opportunity, and I was determined not to be it.
This was a strange place for Markos to come. He had better taste than this.
“That tavern had a large window fronting onto the street,” I said.
“Most do,” Diotima replied.
“I wonder what he’s doing in there?” I asked.
“Nico!” Diotima said, urgently and as quietly as she could. But she was too late. I was already edging my way forward.
Though it was bright in the street and dark within the tavern, the sunlight shone through well enough that I could see Markos within. He sat at a table, with his back to a wall. He was drinking.
“Hey, mister! You and the lady friend, you are from Athens, yes?”
I looked down. A boy stood there. He had a runny nose.
“You from Athens?” he repeated. He spoke Greek with an atrocious accent, but I understood him well enough.
“I’m from Athens,” I said.
“Got a message for you,” the boy said. “The man inside says, wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you sat with him?” The boy spoke quickly, as if repeating his lessons. Then he added. “The man paid me to say that!”
I sighed. My wife, who had joined me, scowled. “Well, we may as well go in,” she said. “We can’t look any more stupid than I already feel.”