City of the Dead

by T. L. Higley

  The high priest shook a fist at Khufu. “Then why have the gods punished you by taking the Great Wife from you with violence?”

  I could remain quiet no longer. I stepped in front of Khufu and raised my staff over their heads. “Get out! All of you! You dishonor yourselves and the gods you serve with your insane accusations! The queen has died at the hands of a human evil. If the gods are truly worthy of our devotion, they do not deal with man as you would have us believe!”

  The high priest moved toward the throne, but I met him halfway with my staff held aloft like a club. The priest’s eyes were cold with hatred, but he stopped.

  “You will not be rid of us so easily,” he hissed. His glance went to Khufu. “We will be heard!”

  “Not today,” I said, with a flourish of my staff. “Get out!”

  They backed away in clusters, the high priest the last to turn and stalk out of the Great Hall. When he was gone, I lowered my staff and turned to Khufu, my chest tight with anger.

  The king had regained his throne and sat stoop-shouldered, eyes closed. He looked both small, like the young boy I remembered, and old, like his father who had many years ago gone to the west.

  “They will calm down in time,” I said. “But there is something you must learn from this incident.”

  Khufu rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. “What must I learn, Hemi?”

  “The people will be just as quick to assign reasons for Merit’s death. And Mentu’s. You must reassure them of ma’at, of justice and order, or they will lose heart. And they will lose respect.”

  Khufu straightened. “You speak out of your own grief, hoping to neglect your duties to chase the unknown in hopes of revenge.”

  “Revenge is undertaken by men who would repay in kind the evil done to them.”

  The king raised his eyebrows. “Exactly.”

  “But justice is the restoration of divine order,” I said. “It requires the guilty to pay because they have transgressed the divine order, not because they have caused hurt to a single person.”

  Khufu sighed. “I do not want to argue such things with you, Hemi.”

  Then allow me to do what I must. “I will admit to you, my king, that in my heart, I desire revenge. But revenge for the deaths of those I loved will be accomplished by restoring ma’at. And this is what is best for Egypt.”

  “But the pyramid—”

  “Without ma’at, we have nothing.”

  Khufu closed his eyes again and stretched the muscles of his neck. “And you believe that you hold the power to restore order and find the truth?”

  The question stayed with me after the king had dismissed me with a grudging permission to investigate the two murders. The question followed me to the rooftop of the palace where I escaped to my own thoughts. I stood at the edge of the rooftop and gripped the low wall. Before me, the royal estate was an oasis in the desert.

  Revenge. Justice. I had not thought of the difference until I articulated it to Khufu, but now it seemed a truth to me. It was justice I sought, justice I believed in with every part of my being. The goddess Ma’at, in whose name I ordered my life, demanded it.

  I looked northward across the desert to the pyramid. It accused me, as though I were a negligent father more interested in children who were not my own. On the distant southern horizon, several other pyramids poked up from the desert, mute reminders of the greatness of Khufu’s father, Sneferu, and my father, Grand Vizier Neferma’at, who had built the Saqqara pyramids together. I had vowed to Khufu five years ago that our pyramid would be the greatest the world had seen.

  Was I willing to risk that? And for what? To ask questions that may have no answers. I dropped my gaze to study my hands on the wall.

  I had carefully structured my world to avoid such questions. In my heart, I feared the unknowable. I much preferred my charts and equations.

  From the palace rooftop, one could see clearly in every direction. And I saw my choice clearly in that moment as well. To restore the justice and divine order I believed most sacred, I must face my fear of the unknown and perhaps the unknowable.

  The wind carried sand across the desert in the distance and released fragrance from the chamomile in the garden below me. The scent reminded me of Merit, and I knew my decision was made.

  No matter the cost, I would find justice for Mentu and for Merit. I would restore the divine order, the ma’at of Egypt. I would find this murderer.

  And I would make him pay.

  NINE

  The embalmer’s hall, the Place of Purification, jutted from the valley temple like a broken finger—attached but at odds with the beauty of the temple. I entered and paused inside the entrance to accustom myself to the smell. The task would not be an easy one.

  The room was small, with hard lines and sharp angles, only large enough for preparations on one body at a time, though ancillary rooms held vats of natron salt for the required days of purification. Paintings of Anubis weighing the heart after death, and tending the body in the presence of Isis, decorated the interior wall.

  I pushed inward and greeted the physician-priest with a quick nod. The priest was unknown to me, yet he apparently recognized me. He straightened from his work over a body and set his instruments on the table.

  “Grand Vizier,” he said, grim faced, “how can I serve you?”

  “I have come to examine the body of Mentu-hotep.”

  “Examine?” The priest’s bushy eyebrows drew together.

  “I am looking for anything that might point to his murderer.”

  The priest shook his head. “I do not believe I can help you.”

  “You are new to Giza?” I asked. “From Memphis?”

  “Yes, my lord. I am Urshé. I understand that I owe the honor of my position to you.”

  “It is Pharaoh who has moved the center of worship from On.”

  The priest lowered his head. “Yes, of course.”

  I gestured to the body. “May I?”

  Urshé extended a hand. “You are familiar with the process?”

  “I have not seen the early work of the priests, only the end product,” I said, thinking of the black-resin-wrapped body of my mother, years ago. I drew in a breath and faced the body, reminding myself that the ka of my friend had departed already. The body was simply flesh and organs, waiting to be reawakened.

  Mentu’s body looked much the same, though in the intervening days it had begun to decompose, as evidenced by the stench. I paused and swallowed.

  Urshé handed me a small cloth. “Put it to your nose.”

  I inhaled the spice-laden cloth with gratitude.

  Urshé waved me closer, to stand beside the embalming table which, if not for its gruesome purpose, would have been a beautiful piece. Two white calcite lions stood conjoined, their determined faces looking west, with a smooth top resting on their backs. At the base, surrounded by the lions’ tails, a deep bowl had been carved into the table. The tabletop slanted slightly toward the bowl.

  Urshé noticed my glance at the bowl. “The body must move into the afterlife completely intact.”

  I nodded.

  He said, “The bowl collects the blood and bodily fluids as we remove the organs.”

  I breathed through my mouth and brought my gaze back to Mentu’s face.

  “Today is the fourth day since his ka departed,” Urshé said. “So today we begin the extraction.” He held up a small bowl and a narrow bronze instrument with a hook at one end. “I have already removed the brain through the nasal cavity. It is of no consequence and so is the only part of the body that can be discarded.”

  I bent over the body, spiced cloth still at my nose, to more closely examine the throat. I tried to see the wound without noticing the blood, which was impossible. “What can you tell me about the cut here?” I asked.

  Urshé scratched his head. “Not much. It was made with a sharp knife, such as is used for slaughtering sacrificial animals. The cut was quick and decisive. There are no superfic
ial wounds around it, only the single death stroke.”

  “Can you tell me if his attacker was taller than he? Shorter?”

  “I am afraid that is beyond my expertise.” Urshé left the table and returned with two alabaster canopic jars, one with the carved head of a man and the other a baboon. “For the stomach and intestines,” he said. “I will begin extracting the organs now. Please ask any questions you have as I work.”

  I focused on Mentu’s upper body. The blood at his neck had crusted by now and seemed less gruesome than the cavity Urshé opened with his black flint razor.

  “Any other markings on him? Bruises?”

  “Not that I observed.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “This means something to you?” Urshé said.

  I took a spice-laden breath. “Perhaps. It would seem he did not struggle with his killer. So either the killer was known to Mentu, or the attack was so unexpected there was no time.”

  The priest focused on widening the body cavity. A steady dripping sound began at the base of the table as the bowl collected fluid. I regretted the breakfast of garlic and leeks I had eaten before coming. I searched for a safe place to focus my gaze, but my eyes fell on the priest’s white skirt, spattered with blood and gore.

  I was aware of Urshé lifting things from the body with forceps and placing them into the two jars.

  I bent over Mentu’s hand. “The finger,” I said, swallowing and blinking rapidly.

  “Yes?” The priest moved away and returned with two more jars, with heads of a jackal and a falcon. “Liver and lungs,” he said, with the delight of a teacher who enjoyed his work.

  “Cut with the same knife, do you think?”

  “Impossible to say. But some type of knife, yes.” He watched me through the narrowed eyes of a physician diagnosing. “The finger will be replaced,” he said slowly. “It will not be difficult. He will be whole.”

  I nodded.

  A gold disc, engraved with the wadjet eye, lay on the table near Mentu’s head. The wadjet eye and eyebrow were painted in green, with the swoop underneath in black. “What is this?” I asked, grateful for the distraction.

  “After the organs are removed, the body cavity will be rinsed with palm wine. Then consecrated oil, pounded myrrh, and other fragrant plants will be packed into it. When it is stitched closed, the wadjet eye will be placed upon it, to declare the body intact.”

  “And then the seventy days?”

  The priest smiled. “Your friend will be well cared for, Grand Vizier. All the incantations will be spoken over the body as it purifies in natron.”

  “I have no doubt you will be thorough, Urshé. Thank you.”

  Urshé brought his razor back to Mentu’s chest and lengthened the incision across the sternum.

  I wrapped my arms around myself and noted the cold dampness of my bare chest. The lightheadedness I had kept at bay thus far would not be put off. I searched for something to count or straighten. Why had I not brought my staff?

  When Urshé reached into Mentu’s chest and pulled out his heart, a black shroud fell over my eyes, and the Place of Purification turned on its side.

  * * *

  I awoke to the jackal-headed god Anubis leaning over me, peering into my soul.

  I have crossed to the west myself.

  “Grand Vizier?”

  It seemed strange that Anubis would call me by my title. Strange, also, that Anubis’s head was crafted of clay.

  And then the head lifted from its shoulders, and the face of Urshé the priest appeared. “Did my mask startle you?” he said. “It is worn for the final steps of the preparation, to invoke the god’s blessing.”

  I realized that I lay on the temple floor, and I propped myself up on my elbows. “What happened?”

  “The smells often cause a certain faintness,” the priest said. “No reason to feel shame.”

  I had fainted. I clambered to my feet.

  “Slowly, my lord. There is no rush.”

  “I am fine.” I brushed imaginary dust from my clothing. “Fine.”

  Urshé held my arm lightly, as if to steady me. “I am afraid I have not been of much help to you.”

  “You are a faithful servant of Egypt, Urshé. Thank you.” I eyed the clay mask in his hand. “Where is the mask that was found on Mentu’s body?”

  Urshé pointed to the corner of the hall, where the gold piece lay on a table with other instruments.

  I retrieved the mask and studied it. “I will take this,” I said.

  “As you wish.”

  The priest pushed the spiced cloth into my hand once more before I left. “Take it with you, “ he said. “The smell often lingers.”

  I nodded my thanks and escaped the embalmer’s hall into the windswept air. I was not sure I could perform the same examination on Merit. Not much had been learned anyway.

  But this mask. And the other …

  I inhaled and cleared my lungs.

  Somewhere in the Two Lands was a talented artist who had fashioned two beautiful death masks. An artist who was either a killer himself, or had met the killer.

  It was a place to begin.

  * * *

  It was unavoidable. I had to address concerns at the pyramid. Senosiris had undertaken his position as Mentu’s replacement, but he could not be expected to fill the role without any instruction.

  I spent the afternoon at the base of the pyramid, making certain that the hordes of men dragging quarried stone up the ramps were being overseen properly. Their rhythmic chants, keeping time with their feet, tightened my muscles and made me anxious to escape. My usually well-ordered days had become a jumble of questions and fears, further evidence that ma’at had been forsaken.

  “Go,” Senosiris finally said.

  I shielded my eyes from sun and peered up at the project. “Where?”

  “Wherever it is that you’ve been itching to run since you arrived.”

  I gave the older man a half smile. “I apologize. You have my full attention.”

  Sen shook his head. “Don’t need it. We’re on track here. You go.”

  I gave a last glance at the ramps, then slapped Sen on the arm and left the work site.

  I’d hidden Mentu’s mask in a small tent I used as my base during the workday. I retrieved it, secured it in a leather pouch over my shoulder, and left for the workmen’s village on foot as usual, my staff in hand.

  Twice on the way to town, I looked back at the pyramid in progress, as though by the force of my unwavering attention I could maintain order there and force the angles ever upward to meet in the precise center.

  At the village entrance I pushed through a noisy line of young boys and women bartering for and offering baskets of breads and fruit and tanned animals skins. Not so many men milled about the village today, I noted with grim satisfaction. Already Sen was proving his worth. I strode toward the southern end of town, where lay my best chance of gaining information.

  “Grand Vizier!” A small child hailed me as I moved through the town. The child’s mother held a water pot in one arm and pulled the boy back from the street with a shy smile. I lifted a hand in greeting but would not be distracted from my task.

  The mask is all I have.

  I had brought the best of the Memphis school of artists to work on the pyramid. Sculptors, carpenters, goldsmiths, painters. They were all housed at the southern end of the village and worked in commissioned shops, where they were closely watched by government guards who protected the precious materials from looters and made certain none of the artists helped themselves to government supplies. It was to one of these workshops I now walked, looking for a particular artist.

  I stepped out of the sunlight, into the dusty shop, and let my eyes adjust. Sculptures in various stages of completion cluttered the front room, which was empty of people. A small fire burned in a wall shrine to Ptah, god of craftsmen. I could hear conversation from the room in the back. I leaned my staff against the wall.

  “Donkor
?” I called.

  “Donkor is here, for anyone who seeks him,” came the reply, in a high, clear voice. I rolled my eyes and joined Donkor in the back room, which was filled with the sounds of tiny tools chiseling fine details out of stone.

  “Grand Vizier!” Donkor stepped from behind a large block of limestone and clapped his hands together, releasing a puff of dust. “It is a most propitious day for me!”

  Artists were valued for the skill at reproducing the official art of the Two Lands. Creativity was not a requirement. But Donkor seemed to be bursting with it, and his workspace screamed with color and exotic sculptures that would never be purchased by any Egyptian with self-respect.

  Two other sculptors worked in the room, both dressed in customary white skirts. Donkor wore red and yellow, with a large belt draped low on his hips and a full wig framing his face.

  “Donkor,” I said in a low voice, “I’ve come to speak to you about something.”

  Donkor sidled forward and brushed limestone dust from his forearms. “If it’s about your tomb sculpture, you are just going to have to be patient, I’m afraid. I am simply not ready yet. Not ready at all—”

  “It’s not about my tomb sculpture.” I eyed a piece in the corner, a bust of a woman draped with a piece of yellow-dyed linen.

  Donkor followed my gaze. “Oh no, you cannot have that piece! To take it from me would break my very heart!”

  I snorted. “I have no interest in that piece. I was only wondering if that is the sort of work I can expect in my sculptures.”

  Donkor laughed and tapped my arm with his fingertips. “Oh, don’t pretend that you are not hoping for something just as creative, Vizier. I knew it the moment I met you. Nothing ordinary for you.” He grinned slyly. “And I know that is why you commissioned me as your private tomb sculptor.”

  I shrugged.

  “But we are in no hurry, my lord, are we? You have many years to serve Egypt yet before your journey west. You will see. We will create something grand for you, for the grand vizier!” He laughed at his little joke, another high-pitched sound that scraped across the nerves.

  I looked over my shoulder to ensure the two other sculptors were busy at their work, and I pulled the strap of my pouch over my neck. “I have something I’d like you to see.”