by Overton, Max
* * *
Scarab nodded to herself in satisfaction--here was her brother's tomb.
At once, another problem presented itself. The tomb needed decorations and the complex set of instructions that governed the afterlife, for how else could the soul negotiate the many perils that awaited it. Normally, painters and sculptors would work on site, but she could not trust that many people. She had panels made of odiferous cedar and employed village artisans in half a dozen places to paint the necessary scenes and inscriptions. They would be carried to the tomb and put in place toward the end of the seventy days.
Scarab had taken a fast boat downriver to the old City of the Sun, Akhet-Aten, now crumbling back into the desert sand, though hundreds of people still clung to the hope that the wealth and prosperity of Akhenaten's day would somehow return. There she found Neb the sculptor and sounded him out. A day later, they sped south again, aided by a brisk northerly wind, the little boat laden with paints and the other tools of his trade. A shaped wooden coffin was easy to come by, every noble needed those, but the ornate and elaborate painting and engravings that would turn it into a personal royal vessel called for skill and circumspection. Neb was overjoyed to contribute and would accept nothing in return.
In fact, Scarab had remembered all except one aspect of the burial and that aspect Nebhotep took it upon himself to provide. He disappeared halfway through the seventy days, reappearing five days before the end with a very old man in tow, bringing him to the hovel on the outskirts of Behdet which they called home.
Scarab looked up from her perusal of the parchment on the table, where she was marking off what had been done and what remained. She caught sight of the physician and smiled before a puzzled expression came over her face. She rose to greet the two men hesitantly.
"Welcome, Nebhotep...and to you, stranger..." Her voice trailed off and her jaw dropped. "Aanen? Is it possible? I felt sure...I mean, what are you doing here?"
"You thought I was dead? Well, soon, no doubt, though the sons of Yuya and Tuya are strong. I hear my brother Ay is still healthy enough."
"He is," Scarab said sourly. "But you I'm glad to see. I'm just not sure why you came. Didn't Nebhotep tell you it was dangerous?"
"He did, but he did not need to tell me, for I would have come anyway. Have you forgotten I am a priest of Amun? How would you bury your brother the king without the blessing of the god?"
"I...I had forgotten." Scarab hung her head in embarrassment. "How could I have forgotten that?"
"All things have a purpose," Aanen said. "Especially if the gods are involved."
Nebhotep nodded at the list on the table. "It looks as if you had a lot else on your mind."
"When is the burial, Scarab?" Aanen asked. "And where? What else do you need?"
"In five days. You'll forgive me if I don't tell you exactly where for now, but it is in a tomb worthy of a king. We have arranged everything, I think...well," she smiled sheepishly, "everything but the priest. Thank you for coming, Aanen. I do not like to put you in danger."
"It is a brave man or a foolish one who harms a priest of Amun. My brother Ay might risk it, but I'll take that chance. Smenkhkare must have all the proper rites."
"Rest and gather your strength then. We have food and beer, even a little wine. I must leave tonight for Waset. We are cutting it a bit fine but everything is ready now except for the king himself. I go to bring him from the House of the Dead to his tomb."
"You will need me then. He must be conducted on his last journey with prayer."
"I will say them. I worship the Nine of Iunu and they will listen to me from Waset to Behdet. I would like you to take over from Behdet to the tomb."
Aanen looked at Scarab with calculation. "I have heard tales," he said softly, "Though no doubt the half of it is merely peasant superstition. Are you a priestess?"
Scarab laughed. "When would I get the time to study? That is a profession one starts at an early age."
"You do not choose to be a priest. The gods choose you."
"Well, they have not spoken to me." Scarab frowned though, thinking.
Aanen nodded. "Then I will say no more."
Scarab left Behdet two hours later, picking up Khu, Huni, Sepi and Hapu on the way down Iteru. The others were guarding the tomb and making last minute preparations. The little boat scudded downriver on the swift current, taking two days to make the journey. Suitably disguised, they split up on reaching Amun's City and sought lodgings as nothing could be accomplished until sunset. The city was in mourning, officially for the death of Tutankhamen, but many mourned the loss of the young man they remembered from before and now would not see again, Smenkhkare.
Under cover of a star-filled sky, the five met by the side entrance of the East Gate House of the Dead. Scarab scratched softly on the door and it opened quietly, Rekhmire beckoning them inside into the pungent halls and chambers where the dead lay asleep. Khu would not have displayed fear in front of Scarab for anything, and Huni had his position of authority to uphold, but the other two soldiers sidled along the dark corridors, jumping at every noise and gazing fearfully about, convinced that the spirits of the dead hovered around them. Ipuwer welcomed them into a back storeroom and removed a large linen sheet from the table in the middle of the room.
"Behold the king," the old embalmer said.
The body of Smenkhkare lay still and serene, larger than in life for he was wrapped in layer after layer of fine-woven linen from which resins had oozed, colouring the whole an amber brown. The arms of the king were folded over his chest and they clasped the crook and flail of kingly authority. Over the face rested a mask of beaten gold, thin and fragile, but capturing the essence of the dead king. Painted, the mask glowed with serene and majestic life, the eyes of the king turned forward to eternity rather than back toward life. On his brow lay the uraeus and from his chin jutted the false beard that every king wore on formal occasions.
Scarab gasped and the others uttered low cries of awe and astonishment. "It...it is...incredible," Scarab said. "I thought it would be no more than bandages, Ipuwer. This is a work of art." Abruptly she frowned. "Who did it? Are you sure we can trust him?"
"With my life," Ipuwer replied. "It was my son Rekhmire." The old man proudly placed his arm around the abashed young man standing beside him.
Scarab took the young man by the hand and stared earnestly into his eyes. "Rekhmire, you have performed a service for your king that will never be forgotten. I do not know how to thank you, but if there is ever anything I can do for you, you have only to ask and if I can do it, I will."
"Er, there is one..."
"Hush, boy." Ipuwer cuffed his son lightly on the side of his head.
"What?" Scarab asked. "What did you want to ask?"
"Could...could I have some of your hair? Just a small piece."
"I'm sorry, my lady. My son Rekhmire is getting quite carried away..."
"No, that's alright," Scarab said with a smile. "Huni, lend me your dagger." She took the proffered blade and cut a lock of her red-brown hair, handing it to the blushing Rekhmire. "It is a small reward," she said. "My offer still stands."
"Thank you, my lady," the young man whispered.
Khu stared enviously at Rekhmire, wishing he had thought of asking, but wisely said nothing. Instead, he murmured to Huni, "We need to get going."
Huni nodded. "The hour is late, Scarab, and we have a long way to go."
"How are you going to transport the king?" Ipuwer asked.
"By water," Scarab replied. "We have a fast boat at the docks."
"Were you just going to carry the king through the streets? You will be seen, for the Medjay are active these days."
"We could wrap the body in something?" Hapu suggested.
"I thought perhaps your planning may be lacking, so I have prepared a wicker body basket such as the lower classes often use. I took the liberty of acquiring one with the emblem of the North Dock House of the Dead on it. It is quite distinctive and
if you are stopped, it might be enough to allay suspicions."
The wicker basket was well made, sturdy yet lightweight, and the jackal emblem stood out on the lid. The body of the king fit snugly into the basket, and the thin gold mask was tied carefully into the lid.
"If the lid is removed, be carefully not to overturn it. No family who can afford gold would be using North Dock."
It was as well that Ipuwer warned them, for they were stopped twice on the way to the docks. The first time, Scarab slid into the shadows as the torches of the Medjay patrol hove into view. She watched with her hand on her dagger, weighing the odds if they were discovered. Huni talked with the officer, telling the story of the son of a minor and impoverished noble who died of a fever while visiting relatives in Waset. The family had arranged for a cheap burial and sent the four of them to collect the body. The officer checked the jackal emblem on the basket and nodded.
"They do good work, and are cheap." He waved them on, calling his troop together and jogging away down the street.
The second patrol stopped them on the edge of the water, as they lowered the wicker basket gently into the boat. This officer was more suspicious, wanting to know why they were disembarking in the middle of the night, rather than waiting until daylight. Huni spun the same story as before, adding only that the House of the Dead had delayed finishing the wrapping by nearly two days. They were hurrying to get home as their master would not accept such a legitimate excuse, but would believe they had dallied in the taverns of Waset an extra day or two.
The officer commiserated but ordered the basket opened and he stared down at the bandaged body, commenting on the quality of the work. One of the troopers, holding a sputtering torch, leaned close to see, and the officer rounded on him.
"Keep that torch away, you fool. Can't you smell all those resins? One spark and the only way you'd put him out would be to tip him in the river."
An hour later, the little boat was out in the middle of the river, struggling to make headway against the current despite the efforts of four men on the oars. The lights of Waset were still in sight and there was almost no noise on the starlit river except the dip and splash of oars and the gurgle of water under the boat. "It might be quicker by land," Huni panted. "Unless we get a breeze."
"I will ask Shu for a wind," Scarab said.
Khu grunted, digging his oar into the water again. "Make sure to ask for a northerly. We don't want to be blown back to Waset."
Scarab gave him a withering look, lost in the darkness, and turned away, facing the north where Iunu lay. "Great Shu," she murmured. "Firstborn of Atum, Lord of the Air and Master of the cool breeze from the North, hear the prayer of your servant. Send us the North Wind that we may bring the body of our king safe to his tomb." She waited, staring into the blackness of the north for a long time, waiting for that faint whisper on her face that would tell her the prayer had been answered. At last it came, even as the dawn light drew back the cover of night, a faint zephyr, growing by the minute, steady and strong, cool from the North until the tiny boat, sails spread like the wings of the sacred ibis, and oars shipped, raced south on the broad expanse of Iteru...
* * *
Dani hesitated again, staring for long minutes at the tiny hieroglyphs. Marc coughed and cleared his throat as if to speak, but Dani shook her head.
"It's alright. I can continue."
It was another few minutes before she did, however, and for a time after that she stumbled over the words as if reading from her memory rather than the painted symbols in front of her.
* * *
Shu's wind remained strong for two days and nights, driving them upriver. They took it in turns sleeping on the cramped boards of the boat, eating and drinking as they travelled. On the evening on the second day, the wind died within sight of Behdet and they rowed into the western port of the town under the cover of darkness. Aanen and Nebhotep were waiting for them with a bullock cart and by the next dawn they had travelled inland, climbing slightly to the base of the distant cliffs.
They camped and watched the sun come up on the seventieth day after the death of Smenkhkare. Sitting around a small fire that kept the chill from their bones in the grey light, they ate a small meal together and talked of the future.
"I will go north to Zarw," Scarab said. "I have not seen my son Set for six years. I will find Paramessu, marry him and raise a family."
"What about Ay?" Huni asked. "You could not live openly."
"He will not live forever."
"I think I will go north too," Huni said. "The army is my life so I'll see what I can find. Maybe a post at some quiet little fort."
Hapu snorted. "You? The quiet life? That'll be the day. Try for something a bit more exciting and Sepi and I will accompany you." Sepi nodded his agreement.
"What about you Aanen?"
"I am an old man," the priest laughed. "What future have I got except retirement? Perhaps I can find a chair in the shade, a pot of beer beside me, wine on feast days, and someone to talk to from time to time."
"Come to Zarw, good Aanen," Scarab said, leaning across to touch his arm. "There will always be a place in my house."
"The north for me," Nebhotep said. "I have had enough of war. There are many diseases in the cities that interest me, and the Khabiru have knowledge I would investigate. You'll probably see me in Zarw too."
Scarab laughed. "Is everyone going north to Zarw? What about you, Khu?"
Khu shrugged, turning his head away. "I might go and see my family first. Then maybe Nebhotep might want a pupil--if he'll have me."
"Gladly, Khu." The physician clapped the young man on the shoulder.
When dawn broke, Aanen offered up the morning prayers to the reborn sun and they set off again, angling south from the line of vegetation toward where a thin cleft cracked the wall of the western desert. They left the bullock cart at the base of the cliffs and ascended the trail that entered the cleft, climbing up past enormous boulders and loose rubble slopes, bearing the wicker basket with the king and baskets of food and drink for the funeral feast. Toward the top of the towering cliffs, just when it seemed the faint trail would become too narrow to continue, it opened out into a tiny ledge measuring no more than ten paces by six. At the rear of the ledge an oblique crack split the rock face, the sun lighting no more than the first few paces of the narrow entrance.
"That's it?" Aanen asked, looking slightly horrified. "This is the tomb fit for a king?"
"Wait till you get inside."
They left the king on the ledge in the care of Huni and Sepi, the others bending and shuffling through the narrow entrance. The passage opened up within a few paces to greater than a man's height and nearly as wide. A fire pot near the entrance still smouldered and Scarab took a prepared oil lamp from beside it and lit the wick. It burned steadily with a smokeless flame though it crackled slightly from the salt in the oil.
Aanen looked about him and ran his hands over the sides of the passage. "Man-made?" he asked. "Though possibly it started as a natural cavern. How did you know of it?"
"One of my brother's friends found it on a hunting expedition years ago."
The faint sound of voices echoed up the long dark passage that sloped gently downward. Scarab led the way, the others picking up oil lamps and following. Khu counted his steps as he descended but was distracted when Scarab spoke, losing count at somewhere around a hundred and fifty paces. Scarab pointed to the first of the decorations.
"I could not have artists and masons coming here to prepare and paint the walls, so I arranged for cedar panels to be made and painted in the same way."
At the bottom lay a chamber. Kahi and Pamont laboured there, with Neb the sculptor, setting up the interlocking doors of the shrine that would enclose the king's coffin. The sides were intricately carved, though in different styles, and depicted the solar disc in all its forms and at the corners stood winged goddesses, protectively stretching out to cover the shrine. The coffin was carved also, more or le
ss human in shape and the upper part depicted the serene features of Smenkhkare in headdress with the uraeus on his brow, the formal beard jutting from his chin and his arms crossed, holding the crook and flail of authority. The whole of the carved wood coffin had been covered with beaten gold and inlaid with red and blue chips of paste.
"Magnificent," Aanen said. "Incredible. You managed all this in seventy days?"
"Hundreds of people had a hand in it," Scarab said softly. She pointed to the objects in the room, beautifully carved ornaments and articles of furniture in a variety of woods. Treasure lay stacked against the far wall--ingots of gold, a hand in length and half as wide, over a thousand of them. Chests of wood were stacked there too, containing gold dust, uncut gems and linen bags of incense. Ivory tusks, both of the giant Abu of the south and the more familiar pehe-mau, formed great heaps of white and yellowed logs. "The king's treasure house, prepared for eternity."
When the work in the tomb was finished, Aanen led the party back out to the open air and on the ledge, as the light of the day faded; he started the ceremonies that would culminate in the sealing of the tomb. Smenkhkare's body, with its overlay of gold and paste was gently placed upright against the cliff face, gazing east to where the first stars were coming out. Alongside it was placed the Ka statue, carved from ebony wood and gleaming with gold.
Scarab listened to Aanen working his way through the prayers to all the gods and she found herself remembering all the good times she had shared with her older half-brother. Memories of Waset in kinder times flooded back, the games they had played, the people they had met, the lessons he had taught her--now would only exist within her. She brushed away a tear and realised Aanen had fallen silent. The old priest of Amun was holding out something to her and with a shock she realised it was the Pesheskef, a forked instrument of rose quartz.
"I can't use that," she stammered.
"Traditionally, the heir opens the mouth," Aanen said gently. "You are the king's only relative. It is your duty."
Numbly, Scarab took the instrument and walked forward to stand in front of the Ka statue. Its black eyes rimmed in gold stared back blankly. She raised the Pesheskef and touched it to the statue's lips, repeating the words of the prayer as Aanen uttered them. The priest took the instrument from her and gave her an adze made from meteoric iron, the Seb Ur sceptre. Scarab touched it to the Ka statue's lips and murmured the next prayer before repeating the actions with the Ur Hekau sceptre and voicing its specific prayer.