by Mike Ashley
Baki, surveying the guests, felt the Pharaoh must be bereft of most of his friends, since he counted many Imakhu there, ministers in charge of trade in the Lands of Punt and Cush, or in charge of Pharaoh’s army. Some had summer palaces at Abydos, others would return to Memphis in the morning; it was not wise to be too long from Pharaoh’s sight lest his favour should fall on another.
A tall, angular man with cheeks so sunken they made dark triangles on his face in the torchlight acknowledged Baki. This was the Tjati, spoken of by Metjen, long-time friend to them both.
Baki greeted him with mock deference. “Ramose, Chief Judge in Memphis, Lord of the Treasury, Lord of the Granary and so on.”
“How is the living god you serve? Will you be able to preserve his life indefinitely?” murmured Ramose.
“At least until his tomb has been cased with the white limestone of Tura and the red granite of Aswan and the capstone set in place.”
“I understand sculptors are busy carving an outcrop of rocks into a giant sphinx, its human head bearing the features of our beloved Pharaoh.”
They both hid a smile. Khafre was the first Pharaoh to assume absolute power and to call himself “the great god, the son of Re”. In imitation of the gods he had taken as consort his sister Khame-re-nebti.
“No man is a god to his physician,” muttered Baki.
Ramose raised his brows, but said no more. Jealous ears were everywhere and to speak against Pharaoh was high treason and carried horrendous penalties.
A gong summoned guests to the tables. Men and women sat apart from each other. Serving girls, naked but for the leather pouches that concealed their private parts, brought exotic dishes to the tables. Onyx, basted in balsam honey, antelope and goose flavoured with herbs and spices, lumps of fat served with cumin, radish oil and juniper berries. Metjen served his guests no fish for to him as a priest it was traditionally unclean, but he denied them nothing else. Beer was flavoured with figs, mint and honey. Duck from the Nile was served with celery, parsley and leek. Brown beans, wild sedge roots in olive oil and lotus seeds were set out in bowls. Girls danced to the music of lutes, zither and sistrum.
True to Metjen’s prediction, the little monkey made a nuisance of itself, chattering, screaming, leaping along the tables, snatching food off plates and clawing at wigs. Horiheb rose from his place at the end of Metjen’s table and beckoned one of the guards. The monkey eluded capture, creating more havoc among the guests and screaming defiance, but was eventually seized and carried away by the guard, not before it had sunk its teeth into Horiheb’s hand.
“You must let me look at that,” offered Baki. “A monkey’s bite has been known to hold a latent poison.”
From her place among the women Iras glared at Horiheb, her expression more poisonous than any monkey bite.
As the feast progressed she frequently summoned the wine steward, laughed and talked loudly and even hummed while a male harper urged the guests in song to enjoy the pleasures of the hour and have no regard for the morrow. The Lady Meret was shocked. Not only were they guests of Metjen-hotep but of the gods and should behave with decorum.
As the last course was being served, dates, grapes, honey cakes and jujubes accompanied by palm juice, the dancing girls again performed their slow, stately dance. To everyone’s embarrassment, Iras rose and joined them, her body twisting sinuously, seductively. The buzz of conversation abruptly shut off and all eyes turned to Metjen. He smiled indulgently, but clapped his hands. The music dwindled away, the dancers fled, leaving Iras alone. The Lady Meret tried to persuade her to rejoin the other women, but Iras stalked out of the hall.
“Your wife compromises your dignity, my lord Metjen-hotep,” murmured Ramose.
“What should I do? Have her beaten? She is young. Sadly, the cure for that will come all too soon.”
Ken-hotep rose and left the hall. No one marked his going; with so much wine and beer flowing the latrines were in constant use. No one but Horiheb, who presently followed him. Why this aroused Baki’s curiosity he could not say, but he too excused himself from the table.
Out on the terrace, the night winds were sultry and the Nile sparkled darkly in the distance. Peering over Horiheb’s shoulder as the scribe hovered in the doorway, Baki saw the pale glimmer of a woman’s dress, the glitter of jewels on dusky skin, suddenly concealed by a tall shape. As his eyes became accustomed to the night he saw Ken-hotep and Iras pressing their bodies fervently together, nuzzling each other’s cheeks and throats and whispering words of passion.
“I think we should leave,” advised Baki. “This is not our concern.”
Horiheb started at the sound of his voice, but said, “It is my lord Metjen-hotep’s concern. They have spat on his honour.”
Iras, looking over her lover’s shoulder, saw them in the doorway and hastily pushed Ken-hotep away. Horiheb strode back to the hall, Baki following.
“I beg you will say nothing to Metjen.”
“You must have witnessed Ken-hotep wrestling the hippopotamus. You must have also seen the lady Iras as I did. When I saw her eyes I knew she had spat on Metjen’s couch.”
“If you must run to him with your tittle-tattle, wait until he is alone.”
“No, he should learn of her betrayal before all his friends.”
By this time they had reached the feast hall. Seeing the expressions on their faces, Metjen rose abruptly. Again, the chatter among the guests broke off.
“My lord Metjen-hotep, Chief Architect of Pharaoh, High Priest of Ptah.” Horiheb extended his upraised palm. “Allow your scribe to speak.”
Metjen frowned in irritation. “What is it, Horiheb?”
“As Lord Baki, Physician to Pharaoh, is my witness, just now I saw your wife and your so-called son in lewd embrace. They spit upon your name and on your house in the presence of your friends . . .”
“You lie, Horiheb.” The woman’s imperious voice cut across his. “My lord and husband, I speak the truth. I went out onto the terrace to cool my brow. Ken-hotep came upon me and tried to lie with me by force. I fought him off . . .”
Baki, glancing instinctively at Ken-hotep, saw him recoil in shock.
“Is this true, my son?” demanded Metjen tremulously.
“Should I refute the lady’s virtue?” Ken-hotep’s gaze scorched his erstwhile lover’s face, his naked chest rose and fell in panting breaths, the melted incense gleamed on his shoulders. “Should I say her tongue is forked like a serpent’s fang, one fork dripping honey, the other poison?”
“Is it true?” Metjen rapped out.
“Think what you will,” muttered the youth.
Metjen glared from one to the other, at their smeared cosmetics, at the rent in his wife’s robe. His face darkened.
“Go from this house, Ken-hotep. You are no longer my son. If your shadow falls across my threshold again, my servants will beat you away with rods. Hand-maidens, walk behind him as he leaves, brush away his footsteps with your whisks, so there will be no trace left of him in the house of Metjen-hotep.” He turned to Horiheb. “Come to my chamber tonight, bring your implements. I wish to change my choice of inheritance.”
Again, the scribe extended his palm. “All men can see how righteous you are.”
As he backed away Baki murmured in his ear. “Don’t gloat. He will not love you for this deed.”
In compassion and deference, the guests continued their feasting and drinking but in a more subdued manner. Iras disappeared and reappeared with a fresh robe and her cosmetics restored. Her behaviour was faultlessly decorous for the rest of the evening.
When Metjen was retiring he drew Baki to one side. “What did you see? Who was the seducer: Ken-hotep or Iras? Or both?”
“I would not hurt you for all the wealth of Kem,” Baki said reluctantly.
Metjen nodded as if satisfied by the reply. “I will need to play my flute long hours to ease my soul.”
In the chamber allotted to him, Baki divested himself of his finery and washed away
his cosmetics. He tossed restlessly on his couch. Metjen was not a man to make enemies, but what if news of this scandal should reach Pharaoh’s ear? He could lose his exalted position. No man could bear such humiliation. He would serve himself well if he put away his errant wife.
He was drifting into sleep when his door burst open. Iras appeared beside him, her hair hanging down her back, her face distraught.
“Come quickly, my lord physician. My husband loses blood.”
Baki threw on his clothes, seized his box of medicines and followed her.
“I went to his room to humble myself before him, to beg him to take me to his bed in token of forgiveness. ‘I found him lying on the floor, face down, blood spreading from beneath his body. I pray to Isis he still lives. Use all your skills, physician.”
When Baki turned the body over he saw at once that Metjen had embarked on his journey to the Afterlife. He was still fully dressed in wig and leopard-skin, his cosmetics intact. His limbs were convulsed, his eyes protruding. Imbedded in his breast was a dagger with a gold hilt in the design of a sag, half-hawk, half-lion. He glanced from the peculiar contortion of the limbs to the stain of blood on the antelope skin on the floor.
“Whose dagger is this?” he asked, although he felt he already knew the answer.
“Has my lord Metjen-hotep’s soul fled?” whispered Iras.
He nodded. “Have your handmaiden fetch Lord Ramose.”
Servants drawn to the hall outside were already wailing and tearing their robes.
“Go to your chamber, my lady Iras,” Baki requested. “We will bring you the results of our investigation.”
She stole a glance at the body before she left the chamber, but did not meet his eyes. Her lips, devoid of ochre, had an ashen, almost bluish tinge.
When Ramose, stern and stately, even in just his loin-cloth and without his wig, entered, Baki was scanning the floor. The Tjati took in the situation with a glance. “That dagger belongs to Ken-hotep. It was a gift from his father because the youth was always hunting the sag in the desert, but in vain.”
He walked out onto the terrace and looked over the wall. “A man as young and agile as Ken-hotep could climb this wall, commit the deed and then escape the same way.”
“Leaving behind a dagger that would incriminate him?” Baki made a wry mouth.
“Perhaps the knife caught in Metjen’s breast-bone, or he could have heard someone coming.”
“Like the lady Iras. Why not avenge himself on her?”
“It’s possible that that embarrassing scene was concocted between them to delude us all, while all the time the lady Iras was conspiring with Ken-hotep to murder Metjen for his wealth.”
“She hated Ken-hotep. It was on her lips and in her eyes while she watched him wrestling the hippopotamus and hoped he’d die.”
“You are always cynical about women.” Ramose came back into the chamber. “What are you seeking?”
“Metjen’s flute. He always played it before he went to his couch. I can’t find it.”
“Is it under his body?”
“I’ve already looked. He’s not wearing his sandals.”
“He may have kicked them off for comfort.”
“Or . . .” He drew up Metjen’s robe. “Look there. A tiny nick above his ankle, a slight trickle of blood. His sandals were removed in case they were stained and drew attention to the wound.”
“What does that signify when the dagger in his breast killed him?”
“If the nick had been on his arm, nothing. It could have been a defence wound. But on his ankle, that signifies something else. It explains why Metjen did not see the serpent that killed him.”
“But the dagger . . .?”
“Was placed there by someone who wanted to disguise that he had been bitten by a serpent and to incriminate Ken-hotep. See, the dagger comes out quite easily and the wound bleeds little.”
“It was opportune for someone that the serpent chose to invade Metjen’s chamber this very night.”
“Not so opportune. Not by chance. If it hasn’t been removed, I think you will find its basket below the terrace wall.”
“And the serpent?”
“Has curled up in a corner somewhere.”
Baki was amused at the nervous glance the dignified Tjati cast about the room.
“Don’t be alarmed. A flute player will draw it out presently.”
“Are you saying the serpent was deliberately loosed on Metjen?”
“And lured by his playing,”
“By whom? Ken-hotep?”
“Ken-hotep had already left the hall when Metjen announced his intention of changing his will. We have both heard, my lord Judge, of husbands adopting their young wives as daughters to ensure they will safely inherit. I think we should talk with Scribe Horiheb, who claims to be Metjen’s son.”
“A foolish piece of tittle-tattle. Metjen tolerated it because it amused his pride that other men might think he was able to procreate.”
“I thought as much. Metjen came to me many times for a cure for his infertility.”
A second, wholly unexpected shock awaited them in the scribe’s room. Horiheb too lay sprawled on his sleeping mat with a dagger thrust through him.
“You cannot tell me this is not Ken-hotep’s revenge,” said the Chief Judge, grimly. “Or will you search his body for a serpent’s bite?”
Baki was silent for a several minutes, utterly disconcerted by this new turn of events. “Is this also a dagger belonging to Ken-hotep?”
“I don’t know,” replied Ramose reluctantly.
“I shall examine his body, more precisely his finger. See the black smudge. He wrote to Metjen’s dictation last night. Where is the roll of papyrus, where the changed will of Metjen-hotep, Chief Architect to Pharaoh, High Priest of Ptah? Search the room, my lord Ramose. I trust you will not stumble across the serpent.”
Ramose dealt him a sour look, but complied. The physician continued to examine the body, noting traces of vomit on the pillow beside the mouth. The scribe’s lips, usually flesh-coloured and barely discernible on his face, were blue.
The Tjati suddenly summoned him in an altered tone. Lying in a corner was the monkey, dead, a dark fluid issuing from its mouth.
“That explains the vomit on Horiheb’s pillow and the colour of his lips. I thought it might have been occasioned by the knife thrust, but I was mistaken. I would refrain from partaking of the dates in that dish beside Horiheb’s sleeping mat.”
“We must return to Metjen’s chamber and see if we can discover the scroll.”
“I fear it will have already been stolen.”
Again, he was mistaken. Beside Metjen’s body knelt one of the two servants who always attended him. He was rocking himself with grief and smearing his face with ashes.
“Where is your friend?” Baki asked him, gently.
“He has gone across the river to Abydos with a letter for Lord Ken-hotep.”
“From whom?”
“From Lord Metjen-hotep, dictated before he died. When Ken-hotep quarrelled with his father he always sought out a certain house of pleasure in Abydos to burn away his rage. My friend was sent to seek him in this house with the letter.”
“Do you know what the letter held?”
“No, but I can guess. My lord would have offered Ken-hotep reconciliation and begged him to return.” He gave a wan smile. “This has happened before.”
Baki and Ramose exchanged glances. Of one accord they went to the chamber of the lady Iras. With her hand-maidens she was on her knees, wailing and strewing her hair and garments with ashes.
“Lay aside your grief, my lady,” said Ramose, quietly. “We know it is false.”
Her eyes flew open. “Have you arrested Ken-hotep?”
“Ken-hotep did not kill your husband,” intervened Baki. “Your other lover Horiheb instigated his death.”
“Horiheb!” She shrank from him.
“After he had written the letter to Ken-hotep for Metje
n, offering reconciliation instead of the change of will removing his son’s name and leaving you, his wife-daughter, all his wealth, which you had promised to share with Horiheb. It had been planned long before, Horiheb had the serpent to hand, the humiliation scene was played out before Metjen’s friends, Ken-hotep banished. How galling it must have been to Horiheb when Metjen dictated the letter begging him to return. When Metjen began playing his flute, his scribe vindictively released the serpent. You were waiting in Horiheb’s room, eager to hear of the change of will. Why did you bring your monkey? To jest with him about the game you’d played at the feast to make everyone think you hated him. When he told you what he’d done you were furious. He had prematurely engineered a murder that no one would have suspected yet Ken-hotep’s name had not been removed from the will.
“You didn’t just bring your monkey to his room. You had long plotted to remove Horiheb from your path. Your own weapon was to hand. You brought the poisoned dates and wine to his chamber. Did you feed him death with your own fingertips between your caresses? Push dates into his mouth with your tongue? Is that why your lips are blue. When he was dead you put the dagger in his breast. It was a mistake to leave the monkey in the room.
“You realized Metjen suspected you, so you did nothing to prevent his death. It was clever of you to disguise the serpent-bite with a nick of the blade, clever too to plunge into his breast the dagger you had stolen from Ken-hotep. Not so clever to remove the flute, since its absence drew attention to the possibility that we were being deluded as to the real cause of Metjen’s death. You should have left well enough alone – no one would have suspected it was not an accident – but you wanted to incriminate Ken-hotep of both murders and be Metjen’s sole heir.”
Iras had sprung to her feet, panting, her eyes darting from side to side, like those of a trapped wildcat.
“You will be taken to Memphis bound with cords and tried before me,” pronounced Ramose. “If you do not confess you will be beaten with rods. When you do confess, such was Pharaoh Khafre’s love for his Chief Architect, his wrath against you will be mighty. You will be entombed alive with Metjen-hotep and there enjoy your portion of his treasure.”