The Mammoth Book of Egyptian Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  Inevitably, also, after a while his absences from quarters attracted notice. If Men-amun had no great enemies among his fellow lectors, he had no close friendships either. His excuses of extra studies were soon discounted. His colleagues split into two camps: those who pretended mock-sympathy and those who were overtly jealous of him stealing a professional march – for the Third Prophet’s interest had not gone unremarked either.

  Then as Men-amun sat one night in the cell’s dank rushes, he was almost overtaken by disaster. Labouring his way through a life of Nekhbet the Vulture, there came a rustling in the litter somewhere in front of him. He tried ignoring it, but the distraction grew and he detected movement. He could have stomached a rat – possibly even a scorpion – but suddenly a viper reared and surged over the lower end of No-name’s bag. Men-amun’s voice died. Abruptly, he got to his feet. The thing paused, searching, its tongue flickering. No-name was quickly restive. Seized with fear on both counts, Men-amun could do nothing but stretch a hand and point.

  “Ehhchh! Naughty!,” screamed the prisoner at the hestitating reptile, “Now Men-storyman upset!”

  He leapt from the bag, kicking as he went, dislodging the viper and flinging it some distance but, angered now, it came on again, swarming relentlessly straight for Men-amun’s feet and legs. But even as it poised to strike, No-name caught it by the tail, whirling it round in circles so that weight and momentum prevented it from curling or twisting. He cracked it like a whip, and the head flew off, smacking away into a corner.

  Galvanized, Men-amun shouted for help. His legs were threatening to fold, but he forced himself to stay upright, for fear this snake was not alone. No-name was peering inside his bag, which he tipped upside down and shook. Nothing fell out.

  They came fast, carrying light.

  No-name was pleased with himself.

  “See!” he told them and presented the long, limp body to Lord Sobek with a flourish, having, as he put it, “Made Men-storyman safe.”

  The cell was searched meticulously while No-name, back in his bag, demanded a return to Nekhbet. Not unsurprisingly, after a wobbly start, the vulture encountered a huge serpent, fighting and overcoming it – which No-name found highly entertaining, including repeats and embellishment.

  Afterwards Men-amun asked Lord Sobek how the viper could have got there, since the cell was all of smooth, close-fitted stone.

  “One wonders, true. Yet it happens. There was a cobra once – an enormous thing. He fed it and claimed to play with it a while – but when it annoyed him once he killed it the same way.”

  Men-amun felt sick. Whatever the cost to his future, he resolved that he had gone as far as he could.

  “Lord Prince,” he pleaded, being comforted and emboldened by wine, “I beg you to release me from this task! I came on all this by accident. Apart from what just happened, I am dredged empty of stories! I dread the visits. I cannot sleep. And besides, my colleagues grow hostile, by reason of your intervention. I can’t fob them off with excuses forever! I’ll be bound however you want, but I will not go back!”

  Sobek seemed pained.

  “But surely you have managed extremely well? Granted, this present shock . . . Can you not see the good you do? Your visits are the only sliver of pleasure this poor man has. He listens. He remembers. He goes over what you tell him for himself – I have heard him! Would he have lifted a finger for you tonight, if he did not cling to that brief reward of your coming?”

  Men-amun shook his head, stubbornly, in silence.

  The prince refilled his cup, regarding him gravely.

  “Very well,” he conceded reluctantly, “I do see we cannot ask more than you could honestly give. As for the situation with your colleagues . . . come with me tomorrow afternoon and that shall be remedied.”

  Never before had Men-amun been in the Royal apartments.

  Resplendent in leopard skin, the Prince steered him through sentried, cedarwood doors and pillared halls into a light, airy room with colourful walls, in which were several black and gilt chairs and two tables. One table was empty; the other – a substantial piece in granite – held a large, intricate model of an architectural project.

  He’d scarcely had time to look before three people billowed in through fine hangings on the further side: the First and Second Prophets of Amun-Ra, Hapu-seneb and Ipuyemre, and the muscular, rather coarsely severe figure of the architect in person, the Queen-Regent’s High Steward, Senenmut.

  Ipuyemre also favoured leopard skin. Hapu-seneb was cloaked in night blue sewn with silver stars. Senenmut’s pleated white shendyt-kilt was fringed with gold. On his solid shoulders reposed four heavy gold collars of honour.

  Men-amun removed his sandals in the presence of superiors. The Lords bowed to one another ceremoniously, pulled up chairs and sat in marvellous unison. Hapu-seneb put down a sheet of papyrus on the empty table. Men-amun stood in front of them and they all leaned back and stared.

  It was an interview – more, an examination – like graduating from scribe school, or when he’d done his time as wab-priest learning rites and prayers, before being picked for lector. They knew about him too: the paper on the table – which they referred to now and then – was abstracted from a personal file.

  He felt hemmed in.

  Dutifully, he confirmed the basics, and that his home was in the suburbs of The City. It seemed to please them that he’d passed out top of his scribal intake, awarded commendations for clarity and style. They liked also the idea of his father’s distinctions for military bravery.

  Ipuyemre, known for his literary leanings, understood Men-amun was gifted at narrative.

  “For what we have in mind, such facility would be an advantage,” he asserted ponderously.

  Men-amun waited nervously.

  Senenmut, silent so far and unmoving – watching him with his arms folded, cleared his throat.

  “Do little children put you off?” he asked bluntly. His voice rasped.

  Men-amun blinked.

  “I cannot imagine so, Lord,” he replied, “Though being young and unencumbered I must confess my experience of such isn’t wide!”

  The priests seemed mildly amused, but Senenmut looked thunder.

  “All right – don’t be smart! The small princess – Merytre – is aye, maybe six months short of starting education proper. But bright and lively . . . all over the place some days! The Queen is minded for her to be kept occupied of a morning: drawing; simple writing and counting; games; little tales. Nothing formal – more what would interest her happily. You would join the Household – naturally. I’m sure I need not stress the long-term benefits! Your duties would be light enough just now to leave time for some religious work, which Prince Sobek tells me you should. If the Princess takes to you – if your face fits – you could go far. Well?”

  It felt like the lifting of some huge oppressive weight.

  Men-amun bowed acceptance.

  “The Lord High Steward does me great honour,” he said.

  Senenmut scraped back his chair and stood up.

  “I don’t,” he retorted. “Her Majesty does!”

  Since Men-amun was virtually at the end of his current three-month duty, it was agreed he should take some, at least, of his due home leave. Their co-Majesties were travelling in the North.

  “You can have ten days,” Senenmut told him. “By then they’ll be back. Report to my scribes on your return.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “Her Majesty will, of course, require to have a look at you herself.”

  They left.

  Men-amun retrieved his sandals and lingered, examining the model: platforms, processional stairs, colonnades, chapels, capped by a central pyramidion. All of it was backed by an ingenious rendering in clay and pebbles of a concave cliff face. Quite suddenly, he realized where it was and what it would be. Work on it was already well in hand. He’d seen it from the ferries, across the river from Waset, The City. This was the Queen’s intended mortuary temple, ne
xt to and rivalling that of King Mentuhotep of antiquity.

  A manservant came to escort him superciliously out.

  Men-amun caught the first boat he could get, upstream to the southern suburbs. It felt good to be going home and at last he could relax.

  His father greeted his arrival with a shout of affection and an arm round the shoulders. His young sister-in-law, Inawt, who ran the household, was minded to make a fuss of him. All his recent difficulties slipped away. Even so, Men-amun waited until his brother Sen-re came home and they assembled for supper, before attempting to break the news of his change in prospects. Sen-re gave him the perfect opening.

  “How’s the priest business then?” he inquired breezily, pouring beer all round, while Inawt and the servant girl brought dishes.

  “Oh . . . fine . . .”

  When the activity diminished, he set down his beer and went on, “Actually – I seem to be in line for something new.”

  “Oh, yes?” Sen-re was dividing up bread and handing it round.

  “I’ve been interviewed. By all three Prophets and the High Steward Senenmut. What they are offering is the chance to start tutoring little Princess Merytre.”

  Inawt stared with her mouth open.

  “It’s a bit tentative, mind you. She’s too small for proper schooling just yet, but they have hinted I might secure the permanency if they think I’m right. Also, Prince Sobek reckons I should carry on with religious studies – which is good. I’ve got liturgy coming out my ears, but I’d like to branch into dream interpretation if I get the chance.”

  There was a buzz of excitement and congratulations. Inawt asked what age Merytre was, exactly, and impressed on him that he must take her some really nice presents when he went back. Only his father was a mite caustic.

  “What have you been doing, then – to get picked out for this?” he wanted to know.

  Men-amun shrugged.

  “I’ve submitted some papers lately – maybe Lord Sobek likes my writing! You might remember I left school top of the intake.” Well, it was half the truth.

  “Watch yourself then, son.”

  “How do you mean? Oh, come on, Pa, I thought you’d be no end pleased! They recalled your bravery decorations at the interview! This could be a huge step up.”

  “I’m pleased – of course I am. I can see it as the start of a big career. Didn’t Senenmut himself come up by way of tutor to the older girl? All I say is: watch out for yourself. Royal Household – that’s a separate world – right? They can suck you dry, then spit you out like a date-pit if anything goes against you. I know. I saw some when I did my stint in the late King’s own guard.”

  But, on the whole, it seemed a very good excuse to celebrate. And a day or two later they threw a big party for family and friends (Inawt was the brothers’s second cousin in any case), designed to show off Men-amun in his most glamorous light.

  On the last day of his leave, the four of them crossed the river with offerings, food and wine, to visit the maternal tomb.

  Men-amun went shaven and purified, and in his proper robe and sash. The whole family had loved their mother. He conducted the rites and read her a Letter to the Dead which he had composed specially. He took pains to do everything with affection and style. Afterwards – with her tomb door open for her spirit to join them – they set up shade awnings, laid mats and picnicked in peace. Through the heat of the day they all dozed. Later, Sen-re and Inawt wandered off on a curiosity tour of other tombs.

  “You did that very well,” his father complimented Men-amun. “The religious stuff. Your Ma’d be pleased! I hope you’ll do the same for me when my time comes . . .”

  “Thanks, Pa. I will, of course. You know that, surely?”

  After a bit he queried lazily, “How many brothers did the Queen ever have?”

  “Which Queen?”

  “This one. Hatshepsut.”

  “Phhhh . . . now you’re asking! Quite a bunch. Why?”

  “I’m interested. I need a sort of all-round picture considering what I’m going into.”

  His father scratched equably.

  “Well . . . five or six, if I remember rightly. Half-brothers, mostly. There were three very much older, for starters. Wadjmose, Amenmose and Ramose. All of them were from old King Tuthmosis I’s previous marriage to Lady Mutnofret. She was a princess, true, but a lesser one. Only when King Amenhotep had him marry the Great Heiress – his daughter Ahmose – did the offspring really count directly.”

  “Mhhm. And what came out of that?”

  “Eh . . . dear me! Ma’at-ka-re Hatshepsut herself . . . Neferubity her sister . . . Amenemes.”

  Men-amun pricked his ears.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Who?”

  “Amenemes, Pa!”

  “Died. Like the sister. That wasting sickness, where they cough. There’s a strain of that among them. Oh, and there’s your boss of course, Menkheper-re-sobek. He’s a half-brother. Can’t recall who his mother was . . . Then there was the one she married, obviously – Akheperenre – Tuthmosis II as was. He was interesting: the same age as Hatshepsut absolutely – to the day and hour. Odd, that! Also, you couldn’t hardly tell them apart as youngsters, they were so alike. They used to play tricks on people, did you know? Little devils . . . !” he chuckled reminiscently.

  “Ha! What happened to the first three?”

  “Wadjmose was an army man. He commanded my unit once. Killed in action. Amenmose . . . an accident . . . scrunched by a chariot. Ramose was the quiet one – went to be a priest but he had the coughing disease.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m not senile! As far as I can be, yes.”

  There was a pause.

  “Anyone else come to mind?” Men-amun asked.

  “No. Who else could there be?”

  “And when you were in the Guard . . . did you ever have to do – or hear tell of – any special kind of duty?”

  “No, I did not! What is this?”

  “Just trying to build the picture, Pa.”

  “Well, how about building it back there? You’re the one in the Temple. If you doubt my word, go and look things up in Archives, yes? Now – can I please snatch another spot of zizz before those two get back and we all start packing up?”

  Like probing pain in a tooth, Men-amun’s mind kept touching on the problem of No-name.

  At home after supper, with Inawt stitching away at something small in blue imported silk – bending close to lamps augmented by polished metal discs – he remarked obliquely, “I suppose King Tuthmosis II did die?”

  Sen-re looked astonished. Their father snorted angrily.

  “Are you back on that? Yes – he did! You were at the funeral – in the procession of priests. Hadn’t you just been given your lector’s sash? I was there. Didn’t they call me back to help sort out the Honour Guard? Weren’t most of the rest of us there, in the viewing spots along the route I got them? He had twelve good years of rule, and the Queen loved that man! Everyone knew that.”

  “Sorry, Pa.”

  But this time his father was not to be put off.

  “You were nearer than most. Weren’t you lot processed right to the tomb? Didn’t you all file right past the bier? Was there any reason at all to think it wasn’t a genuine body – albeit wrapped and masked and whatnot?”

  “Yes, Pa . . . no, Pa!”

  “So then . . . was the Queen not distraught enough for you?”

  “Pa . . . honestly . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Didn’t you witness yourself the choosing of the male heir by Amun-Ra in oracle?”

  “Yes. Look, I’m sorry . . .”

  “I should hope you are! No one in this house goes round insinuating that the Queen faked anything! Understood?”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  Inawt bit off thread.

  “There,” she said, mystified and anxious to restore harmony, “finished. I swore I would – so you can take it tomorrow.”

&
nbsp; It was a child’s waist-belt neatly edged in bright colours. On the lappet ends, enclosed in gold thread cartouches it read twice: “King’s daughter – Merytre.”

  Men-amun was presented to Their co-Majesties in the Appearance Hall of the Palace, the morning following his return. He had a long wait, being the very last person called to the Presences that day, and there had been a large foreign embassy to receive – the more exotic of whose gifts had rather got out of hand. Meantime, some bossy chamberlain kept lecturing him on what he had to do.

  Finally Senenmut pronounced his name in loud, rasping fashion. Men-amun approached barefoot across what felt like a mile of glistening floor, gaze lowered as instructed, cast himself down prone in full obeisance and uttered the correct praise formula: “Life! Health! Prosperity! be to the Lords of the Two Lands.”

  Someone touched him with a wand, so he could kneel up. Senenmut relayed to Their Majesties that here was the potential new tutor for the Princess Merytre.

  They sat like statues, side by side, the woman and the adolescent boy – aunt/stepmother and nephew/stepson – weighted with gold and regalia – looking down on him from the combined height of dais and elaborate thrones. Behind the eye make-up they were quite startlingly alike: wide foreheads, high cheekbones, straight, fleshy noses, well-cut mouths, small rounded chins. Their top lips didn’t quite cover prominent upper teeth. It would be easy to assume, erroneously, that they were on the edge of smiling – when they were not. It was the Queen who wore the double crown of true governance; Menkheperre Tuthmosis III had the irridescent blue War Helmet.

  For a moment they regarded him with that sort of baleful hypnotic attention reserved by cats for mice – then the Queen nodded fractionally and Men-amun was free to stand, to bow his thanks, to accept his new Household armring and to back carefully away.

  He was allotted rooms to himself. One held a plain but proper bed with headrest – where all his life to date he had been used to sleeping shelves. The other was the schoolroom with a low worktable, two stools – even a chair for his own use. Men-amun’s box of personal belongings was sent over from his previous quarters, and a boy servant had been deputed to see to his needs and bring him meals.