by N. L. Holmes
“Maybe it was one of Amen-nefer’s soldiers. A guardsman perhaps.”
“You may be right. If so, why would he have assassinated a Babylonian emissary?”
“Sent by someone who wanted to derail our alliance?”
Hani laughed. “We’re back to the Hittites.”
They reached their door and entered, Maya stepping back for Hani to precede him.
Hani jerked to a quick stop, his heart in his throat. A man was sitting on the bed. His first thought was The assassin! I’m next!
But the man rose and said pleasantly, with a polite bow, “Lord Hani?”
“Yes,” Hani said, forcing a smile. Beside him, Maya had grown pale. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
In passable Akkadian, heavily accented, the man replied, “Prince Hattusha-ziti, emissary of the Great King of Hatti Land.”
Maya shot Hani a look of shock, his jaw sagging. But Hani had already recognized the appearance of a man of Kheta, with his turned-up short boots and calf-length woolen tunic. Hattusha-ziti was exceedingly tall and fair skinned, his face reddened with long exposure to sun and wind. His graying brown hair hung down his back, not quite obscuring the ostentatious silver disks in his ears. He had a heavy-lidded gaze, squinting a little as if into the sun, and a wry half smile.
Hani collected himself quickly. “This is unexpected, my lord prince.”
“I just arrived. My apologies for not giving you any warning. Your commissioner sent me up here, thinking you were in your room.” He extended his hand, and Hani felt forced to grasp it. The Hittites were not altogether enemies—rivals might be a better way of putting it—but their relationship with the Two Lands was far from cordial. And Hani regretted that fact. Still, sweat broke out on his forehead at the thought of how a secret meeting with the emissary of Shuppiluliuma might be interpreted by Hani’s superiors.
“What can I do for your master?” Hani bade his guest be seated and took a seat next to him. “I have no powers to negotiate, since I’m here for a very specific purpose.”
“I realize that, Lord Hani. All I ask is that you hear my message and take it to your king.” His smile deepened—a frank, intelligent smile—and Hani thought appraisingly, He’s considerably more likable than most of the Egyptians missioned up here.
“And what is your message, Lord Hattusha-ziti?” he asked in Neshite, the language of Kheta.
The Hittite threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve heard of your skills in our tongue. It’s partly why I was instructed to speak to you—although that’s not the only reason.” He locked eyes with Hani.
Is he referring to the Crocodiles? The rebellious priests of Amen-Ra had made overtures to Kheta, he knew. But flattery was a classic way to soften up a negotiator, and he didn’t intend to fall into that trap.
“Speak, my lord,” Hani prompted, with a thin smile of his own.
“Our Sun the Great King of Hatti Land believes the chilly relationship between our two nations is a waste of potential. You may or may not be aware that he’s been making overtures to your king almost from the moment of his coronation. They’ve been met with no particular warmth, but Shuppiluliuma understands that a new king has many things to think about. There’s no reason why our lands, the greatest on earth, shouldn’t be friends—equals—and trading partners. He wants to try again to open diplomatic discussions with Nibkhurirya. Peace is considerably less costly than war, my lord.”
I couldn’t agree more, Hani thought. “It’s difficult to speak of peace while you continue to pressure our vassals to defect, Lord Hattusha-ziti.”
“But, Hani, if Our Sun’s intentions were really hostile, would he have sent Aitakkama back to rule his city as your vassal? We could have snapped up Qadesh right then. No, your vassals, like ours, have their own agendas. They’re for whoever seems to suit their needs at the moment. We don’t have to pressure anyone.”
“Rumor has it that you’re in league with the hapiru to stir up trouble on our borders,” Hani persisted, knowing the man would deny it and that his words would mean nothing.
But Hattusha-ziti said candidly, “We’ve treated with the hapiru, yes. They’re a problem to us as well as to you, and we’d like to make them think more friendly thoughts toward us. But our goal has assuredly not been to stir up trouble on your borders. What we want is that the border should become a place of cooperation, porosity—a gateway for trade.” He smiled, and the corners of his brown eyes crinkled. “We’re a nation of traders, Hani. I won’t be giving away any state secrets if I tell you our homeland is poor in resources. All our expansion has been to secure those resources. But conquest is costly. We would much rather exchange goods peacefully. And together, I daresay, we could control the hapiru much more effectively.”
“How do you feel about the alliance between the Two Lands and Sangar—Karduniash, as you would say?”
The Hittite shrugged. “Another example of friendship being more fruitful than enmity. We’re allies with Karduniash as well. Why should there be competition between us over that?”
Hani tipped his head, considering. It was all perfectly reasonable, of course, although he doubted if many in the bureaucracy of Kemet would see it that way. “I think your recent dismemberment of Naharin may weigh against me trusting you.”
But Hattusha-ziti said matter-of-factly, “Naharin was already moribund, torn apart by corruption and civil war. It now has the blessings of a stable and competent government. Consider us peacemakers in Naharin, Lord Hani. Its people, like us, are hungry for the fruits of peace.”
Hani pondered that idea. At last he said, “I can’t promise you anything, my prince. The king will make whatever decision he sees fit to make.”
“Just repeat what I’ve said. If he shows any openness to the idea at all, we can send emissaries to negotiate.” Hattusha-ziti stood up, impressively tall at Hani’s side, a lanky, broad-shouldered man with an easy way about his movements.
Hani wondered if the Hittite would be so friendly if he knew that Nefer-khepru-ra was planning to invade Kharu and yank its recalcitrant kinglets back by force.
“Good night, my friend,” said the prince. “I hope this may be the first of many amicable discussions between our two kingdoms.” He extended a big red hand sparkling with rings, and Hani grasped it.
“I, too, Lord Hattusha-ziti,” he said amiably, but he watched the other man with measuring eyes. How did he know I was even here? Not just any old emissary but me in particular. Hani wondered if the Crocodiles had said anything. They were espousing much the same kind of commercial alliance.
The prince left, and Hani could hear his hard-shod footsteps clattering down the corridor and into silence. Hani stood for a moment, his thoughts racing.
Maya said from behind him, “I can’t believe it! Do you suppose he was the one who killed that Babylonian?”
“I doubt it. But it’s certainly strange. How did he know I was here? Why meet in secrecy?” He just hoped no one back home heard about such a meeting, or his own loyalty might be questioned. The sooner he could get back to court to report to the vizier, the safer he would feel.
“Do you think he was telling the truth about Kheta’s benevolent intentions?”
Hani chuckled. “Not altogether. But then, how benevolent are our intentions toward Kheta? Although I must say, neither of us really wants to swallow the other up. Personally, I think a treaty would be a very good idea.”
Maya’s eyes widened. “You do?”
“What’s the alternative, my friend? Be locked forever in this quasi-enmity that drains us both of blood and of gold? There’ll be no winner.”
Maya pulled a considering face.
“The real enemy is those hapiru,” Hani said somberly. “They’re bent on disruption, even though it may be for the legitimate reason of their survival. I wonder if that Shum-addi, or whatever his name is, shouldn’t be permitted to become a king. At least we’d have someone to negotiate with.”
“But where would t
heir kingdom be?”
“I haven’t thought this out, you understand,” Hani said, grinning. “Perhaps somewhere out there on the eastern fringes. I don’t know who claims the Yardon Valley, where some of them seem to be camped now.”
Maya grunted, frowning. He seemed reluctant to accept the possibility that Kheta and the Two Lands could ever be allies.
Hani turned back into the room, rubbing his hands. “But before we do anything else, we need to find out who killed Shulum-marduk. I’d like to talk to the servants, see if they saw or heard anything that night that might give us a clue.”
“Would you want me to talk to some of them, my lord? That way, we could get through them faster.”
“That’s a good idea, Maya. You can start with our friend Zalaya—at least we know he speaks our tongue. He may be able to suggest others who do too. I’ll take on the ones who don’t.”
“Right you are, my lord.”
Maya was already heading to the door when Hani had second thoughts about sending his son-in-law into what might become a dangerous situation. He called after Maya, “Be careful, my boy. The man we’re after is inhumanly violent.”
⸎
Admittedly, Lord Hani’s words sent a little frisson of apprehension up Maya’s neck. He could imagine only too readily the kind of death the Babylonian had suffered.
But what reason had he to take care of himself? Sat-hut-haru was still angry at him—so angry that she hadn’t even sent a letter with the latest dispatch. He’d tried to laugh it off, but it was gnawing at his vitals. In more than seven years of marriage, the two of them had never exchanged a cross word. Well, perhaps he’d been cross a time or two; he had an irritable nature. But Sati was such a sunny person that his momentary anger was a like a brand thrown into the River, extinguished immediately. He couldn’t even think of a particular collision that had precipitated their quarrel of silence. It was a sequence of little things, he supposed. Little grievances that, left unvented, had built up.
Maya had managed to forget about this secret misery for brief periods of time, caught up in the excitement of travel and the thrill of an investigation. But it was always there, a canker eating him out. He hoped Lord Hani hadn’t noticed, because how was he going to explain it to him, Sat-hut-haru’s father? Hani would necessarily side with his daughter, and Maya couldn’t bear the thought of losing his esteem. Hani was the father Maya had never known. Through Hani’s patronage, Maya, as a promising student, had been able to attend the Per-ankh, the scribal school that gave him access to the world of something better than keeping the books for his mother’s goldsmith workshop. If he and Sat-hut-haru should part, it would be the end of his dreams, the sign that he’d tried to lift himself too high. To dare to think he could work his way up to wealth and prestige. To dare to think that a beautiful girl like Sati could actually find attractive such a one as he...
He sniffed back the tears that threatened, sparking in his nose. I should write to her. Apologize. Explain how much I love her and the children. But part of him was miffed that she hadn’t written to him and was making him feel compelled to back down first. Surely, the father of the family had some dignity to maintain. Still...
Ahead of him, walking around the corner and heading away, Maya saw Zalaya’s narrow back. “Hold up there, Zalaya,” he called.
The slave turned, and despite the heavy leather sack in his arms, he came meekly to Maya and gave an awkward bow. “My lord, how can I serve you?”
“Put that thing down a moment, my good man. I have some questions to ask you on behalf of Lord Hani, the Master of the King’s Stable.”
Zalaya’s eyes widened uneasily, but he put down the sack with a clank and stood with his hands clasped at his waist, his shoulders slumped in a servile posture. “Yes, my lord?”
Maya noticed once more the bruises on the slave’s round face. That must have been some blow. I bet he lost teeth. “The night the Babylonian emissary was killed—it’s been more than a week now—did you happen to notice anything unusual in the corridor? Any person you didn’t know hanging about? Any footsteps at an unusual hour?”
Now Zalaya looked distinctly worried. “My lord, it’s my duty to notice nothing.”
Irritation flashed across Maya’s attitude of casual authority. He said sharply, “Yes, but you’re a human being. You have eyes and ears. It’s the king’s emissary who is asking you this, man. His orders supersede whatever your masters here have told you.”
The slave swallowed hard. His worried eyes grew more and more fearful. “I... I saw nothing, my lord.”
“No soldiers, perhaps? A guardsman? No one carrying a blunt weapon?”
“Nothing, my lord.” Then he added in a feeble voice, “People go up and down the halls all the time, even at night.”
“So someone did come up here?”
“N-No. I mean... I don’t know if anyone did. I don’t remember.” He was cringing so abjectly—as if trying to make himself even shorter than Maya—that Maya wondered if the slave were going to wet himself. Zalaya was a young man, but there was something old and broken about him.
Maya gave a snort of disgust and stepped away. “Well, if your memory should come back, let me know. This is serious business. If we don’t find the murderer, there may be war with Sangar.”
“Yes, my lord.” Bowing profusely, the slave backed up and hoisted his sack once more. Still bowing, he scuttled away while Maya watched him in annoyance.
He knows something, may Ammit take him. But then Maya realized he’d forgotten to ask which others of the servants might speak Egyptian. He let out an irritated snort. What do I do now? Finally, Maya marched down the stairs and out into the courtyard, where soldiers, scribes, and slaves passed back and forth, engaged in the tasks of daily life.
He shaded his eyes and squinted into the glare of pale-yellow stone and pale-yellow earth. Even the sky had grown hazy and yellow. Something’s coming. The words chilled him. I hope it’s only a storm...
Maya marched over to a pair of servants squatting in the shade of the enclosure wall, sharing a gourd of water. They scrambled quickly to their feet and began an orgy of bowing, but he said tersely, “Enough. Do either of you speak Egyptian?”
They each raised a hand simultaneously, as if it were a choreographed move, and Maya thought, These people are all so cowed. I’ve never seen the like. “I am the secretary of the Master of the King’s Stable, Lord Hani. He’s here to investigate the assassination that took place within your walls a short time ago. He’s bade me ask you some questions.”
The two men exchanged a look that fell between conspiratorial and terrified. “Yes, my lord,” said the older of the two, a wiry little man with a narrow face and an overwhelming nose.
“Do you serve in the commissioner’s residence or elsewhere?”
Again the two slaves looked at one another, and the younger of the two said in a deep bass voice that surprised Maya, “In the residence, my lord.” He was a broad-shouldered man in his thirties, but despite his redoubtable build, he had the same hunched, abject carriage as all the others.
At the end of his patience, Maya said loudly, “Stop making me pull the worms from your nose, you two. What do you do there? If you aren’t forthcoming and honest, I’ll see to it the commissioner hears about it.”
The slaves froze. The older dropped his eyes, his hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles were white. He licked his lips. “I’m employed in the laundry, my lord.”
“And I’m body servant to my lord commissioner,” the big younger one added.
“Now we’re getting somewhere, you two. Did you see or hear anything unusual the night of the murder?”
“Unusual? N-No, my lord. I have a day shift.” The big-nosed man’s teeth were practically chattering.
He’s lying, or I’m six cubits tall. “And you?”
“Nothing, my lord. Nothing the night of the murder.”
Maya rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Very well. You can go. But if you t
hink of something that might be relevant—if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary—it’s your duty to tell me, so the king’s justice can be done. Do you understand?”
With much bobbing and murmuring of “Yes, my lord,” the two men hurried off, almost tripping over themselves in the effort to get away.
Maya watched them go with a steam of anger. This had to be the shadow side of the perfect discipline that seemed to reign in the commissioner’s palace. “Now what?” He suspected he’d better leave the soldiers to Lord Hani. They might well object to being grilled by an underling—and they might well enjoy heaving a nosy dwarf over the wall somewhere.
He drifted down into the work court of the residence. A small group of men, clad only in loincloths, were beating the laundry on the edge of a cistern. It was heavy work, and Maya wondered how the little man he’d just spoken to managed it. However, slaves were generally strong, or they didn’t last long. He asked himself if it was worth his while to try to talk to any of these people, but they were clearly occupied. He was hot, the humidity had become uncomfortable, and he was getting nowhere with his investigation. Maya’s temper was fraying. He found himself thinking about Sat-hut-haru and how she refused to write to him, and he was so frustrated he could have slammed his writing case to the ground. Instead, he pushed back his wig brusquely and mopped his forehead.
“Ah, Maya,” Lord Hani called from the service doorway of the residence. “There you are. How’s it going?”
Maya looked up at him, hoping his discouragement didn’t show.
Hani lumbered toward Maya with his heavy, rolling gait. He was a formidable-looking man—until one saw the friendly twinkle in his little brown eyes. “Have any luck?”
“No, my lord,” Maya said with a loud exhalation through his nose. “The slaves are all terrified and tongue-tied. No one saw anything, to hear them tell it. But their very demeanor made it clear to me they know more than they’re telling—they’re just afraid to say it.”
Hani buckled his thick eyebrows in thought. “I’ve had the same experience. Is this the price of perfect discipline? Our commissioner must rule with a bronze fist.”