by Mike Ashley
“How do you know?”
“Dead bodies don’t bleed,” Kames explained. “The blood was probably that of a chicken’s, poured into the mask at the last moment to make it look fresh. Also, her skin was cool.”
Slowly, Cleopatra laid down the kitten. If Renenutet had spoken to her at the beginning of the ceremony, when she passed across the amulet, but had been dead for some time after Benet examined the body, there was only one conclusion. She died during the ritual. Meaning the killer had contrived to use the Queen of Egypt as his alibi.
Another mistake.
Beside the Pool of Peace, with butterflies and bees swarming round the fragrant flowers in the urns and thunderclaps booming ever closer, Cleopatra’s memory travelled backwards in time.
It returned her to the soaring temple. Closing her eyes, she saw its star-studded ceiling, just as she had seen it earlier, the dynamic wall paintings flickering beneath the flaming torches. In her mind she once more inhaled the sacred incense, a rich blend of frankincense and myrrh, cedar and gum arabic, juniper, cinnamon and sweet flag. Her ears replayed the lazy beat of the drums – boom, boom, boom-a-doom-a-dum-dum. She was mounting the dais again, only everything now moved in slow motion.
“Homage to thee, Isis,” the choir sang, “whose names are manifold and whose forms are holy. Gracious is thy face.”
At the time, Cleopatra had hardly listened, concerned only that she had won over so powerful a body as the priesthood. With their support, the vipers in her Council could scheme until the sun set in the North and still not get their hands on the throne.
“You are the north wind that bloweth in our nostrils. Your word is truth.”
Beside the pool, Cleopatra’s head pounded. From the heat, from the weight of the gold, from the hot heavy wig. From wondering how on earth Renenutet could have been killed beneath her very nose. She concentrated on re-living the ceremony . . .
“O, Isis of a thousand names, who watcheth over us.”
The nightingales had finished their chant. Silence had descended over the sanctuary. The flames on the torches had been dimmed. From a side door, a score of acolytes entered, each carrying a small gilded cage in reverent, outstretched hands. Gliding in long pleated skirts, they mounted the steps of the platform. The cages were lined up, side by side on the floor, the eyes of the occupants flashing like fire in the gloom. With a synchronized click, the catches were sprung and twenty temple cats tumbled on to the dais in honour of Bast. Renenutet, Cleopatra remembered, had gone forwards to feed them.
She recalled, too, how Renenutet and Tamar assisted the High Priest in his divination. Supporting him when he fell into his trance. At his side when he pronounced how beneficent Anubis had shown him how the heart of the Pharaoh was happy, how the heart of Osiris was glad, and how the two halves of Egypt would always be one.
“May Isis embrace you in her peace, Yntef,” Cleopatra had replied solemnly, using the ankh to make the ritual gesture over his head. “For the ka of her High Priest is holy and Anubis has shown him the truth. The heart of Isis is full of joy at her servant’s devotion.”
Translation: Yntef would be richly rewarded for throwing his support behind the throne.
She pursed her lips in concentration. Remembering how Yntef, unsteady still from his trance, had been helped away by Tamar as Renenutet bestowed upon the imperial wig the sacred crown of Isis, the solar disc cradled between the twin horns of the moon. The priestess’ breathing beneath the replica mask had been laboured, Cleopatra recalled. But she was certainly very much alive –
“Your Majesty?” Benet’s shadow fell over the pool.
“Ah, Benet, just the man!” The royal headache had vanished. The gold weighed as a pectoral of feathers round her neck, the plaited wig a gossamer veil.
“Have you worked out how the trick was done?”
The Captain of Archers returned the smile. “I have indeed, your Royal Highness.”
“Good,” she said. “Because if you can tell me how, I can tell you where and when.”
Between them, it should tell her who.
The how had been ingenious. The trick as audacious as Cleopatra had ever known.
“The key,” Benet explained, “is a metal spike hammered into the brickwork at the junction of the wall of the House of Scribes and its flat roof. Wrapped round the spike were these.” He held out a few coarse fibres of hemp from a rope.
An elaborate pantomime had been staged, he explained, which hinged upon no lesser person than the Queen of Egypt witnessing what was supposed to have been a dramatic suicide. Renenutet on the roof, her arms outstretched. Renenutet jumping to her death.
The killer, though, had reckoned without Benet.
Benet was the Queen’s spy and spies never take one damn thing at face value.
“The murder was carefully planned,” he told her. “During the ceremony, that spike was hammered into the brickwork and a short piece of rope attached to it, with a noose at one end.”
Cleopatra’s heart twisted. When that first lazy drumbeat began, Renenutet had no idea her thread of life had less than an hour to unravel. Except . . . the priestess of Bast had sensed danger! It had been with force and urgency that the sacred amulet of Isis had been pressed into the Queen’s hand. At the time, Cleopatra dismissed it as a token of Renenutet’s acceptance of herself as Queen of Earth and Heaven. She should have realized. No priestess, especially one of Renenutet’s standing, would need to pretend her sacred panther’s tail had become entangled, had the gift been open and above board! Renenutet had passed the amulet in secret.
“Now I shall tell you when and where Renenutet was killed,” she said.
After she passed Cleopatra the amulet, the ceremony had continued as scheduled. The choir extolled the virtues of Isis (in other words a public proclamation of the priesthood’s support), then the lights dimmed.
That was the moment Renenutet’s thread was severed.
As she slipped out of the sanctuary to fetch the procession from the Sacred Cattery, two people were waiting. As one snatched off the silver mask, the other threw a sheet over her head.
“What odds her skull was crushed by her own metal mask?” Cleopatra said. “The sheet would contain any splatters of blood.”
The killers had no time to waste cleaning floors. One was already clad in ritual robes. All she had to do was don Renenutet’s mask and run swiftly to the Sacred Cattery. Only a few seconds would have been lost and while she was fetching the feline procession, her accomplice carried the body away, arranging it beneath the House of Scribes.
“She?” Benet queried.
“Definitely,” Cleopatra confirmed. “The killer had to impersonate Renenutet for the remainder of the ceremony. Only a servant of Bast could possibly have known the routine.”
In due course, when the temple cats had been released from their cages on the dais and the lights went up again, who would suspect that Bast’s representative was not Renenutet? It was only, thinking back, that Cleopatra remembered how laboured the priestess’ breathing had been when she lowered the horned headdress on the royal wig. The killer’s hands had shaken slightly as well, she recalled. Not from the heat or exertion. But from nervousness!
“Afterwards,” Benet said, “the impersonator climbed up on the roof. She slipped the noose from the rope round her ankle. Waited until her Majesty was looking. And jumped.”
No wonder Renenutet seemed to hang in the sky, Cleopatra thought. That was precisely what had happened. The rope suspended the killer in mid air. Dangling like a fish on a line.
“The accomplice at the upstairs window in the House of Scribes threw another noose around her wrist,” Benet said, “cut the rope around her ankle and hauled her inside. Then they filled the cat mask with animal blood and stuffed it on Renenutet’s head. Plenty of time before anyone else arrived at the scene.”
For several moments, Cleopatra listened to the thunder, watched jagged spears of lightning cut through the charcoal sky. Lost in contempla
tion, she did not even notice as the first heavy drops of rain fell. Finally, she summoned the Head of her Bodyguard and together all three withdrew into the shelter of the painted portico.
“Kames, I want you to observe the priestesses of Bast and, discreetly, mark you, isolate the one with rope burns on her wrist and ankle. I suspect they are covered by bandages.”
Cleopatra almost regretted doubting the head of her bodyguard’s loyalty. Then again, to make assumptions about even her most trustworthy cohorts was to open herself up to danger.
“Her accomplice will be a priest or a scribe,” she added. “Someone with regular access to both buildings, strong enough to heave corpses around and he’ll probably have a bloodstained sheet beneath his bed.”
The killers would not have expected events to move so swiftly. They would not have needed to take extra precautions at this stage.
In less than an hour, Kames returned. “A novice priestess called Berenice and her lover, Ity, have been quietly removed from their duties,” he said. “Shall I send them to the Royal Torturer for confession?”
Cleopatra shook her head. “Have your men smuggle them out of the temple, take them into the hills. Oh, and Kames.”
“Your Majesty.”
“Be sure they bury the bodies deep.” As he left, she turned to her Captain of Archers. “Benet, I want you to remove a few handfuls of silver from the Temple Treasury, also a small but precious statuette. Have it put about that Berenice and Ity stole them and ran off.”
Caesar might not agree, but this temple was every bit a part of Egypt as Alexandria itself. Pharaoh’s justice would be served – only today it would be served in secret. Only a few hand-picked soldiers would ever know Berenice and Ity had killed Renenutet, and she imagined the ill-fated lovers would be regretting the deed long before Kames’ men had finished with them.
“Why?” Benet asked. “Why did they kill Renenutet?”
Cleopatra glanced across at her son, struggling out of his drugged sleep, and pictured the amulet tucked inside his clothing. An amulet set with carnelians, washed in the tincture of ankhamu flowers and fashioned from the trunk of a sacred sycamore tree . . .
“I doubt we shall ever know, Benet,” she said, tapping him cheerfully on the arm. “Now, off you go and rob the Treasury, there’s a good boy.”
She snapped her fingers and two handmaidens scampered forwards. “Fetch my litter,” she ordered. “We shall return to Caesar’s villa.”
I do believe Mark Antony has stood in the pouring rain for long enough.
Five days afterwards, Cleopatra was seated next to Caesar as guest of honour at the games inaugurated to commemorate Rome’s victories in Gaul. As befitting the Queen of the Upper and Lower Nile, she wore a gown shot with silver threads, a headdress set with amethysts and enough gold jewellery to turn Midas green with envy. The one hundred thousand Romans crammed into the surrounding tiers ought not to be disappointed, she thought happily.
Syrian lions roared from the pits. Baited bulls bellowed, bears snarled, wolves howled, elephants trumpeted their rage. First in the arena, a half-starved tiger, to be pitted against a trident and net. The human did not stand a chance. After that, beast fight followed beast fight in rapid succession, and Cleopatra’s gorge rose at the senseless shedding of blood, the death of so many splendid specimens.
Then it was the turn of the gladiators, their swords and lances gleaming in the sun. She watched, impassive, as steel clashed against steel. Blood spurted, bodies writhed, heels kicked up clouds of sand as Roman fought Roman to the death. From the corner of her almond eye, Cleopatra watched Caesar size up the crowd. How much did they back him? he was wondering. How far they would follow him? Would they accept a monarchy in place of their hard-earned Republic?
As always, Cleopatra pretended not to care. She slipped her small hand into Caesar’s. Showed the people – and the Senate – that it was Caesar she loved. Only Caesar . . .
To the backdrop of trumpets, attendants dressed as gods of the Underworld hauled the mangled corpses away in chains, threw fresh sand over the blood. The crowd was insatiable. Stamping their feet, they bayed for the next treat, the despatching of murderers and rapists by wild animals.
There seemed to be some activity at one of the gates. Guards conferred hastily. Glanced at the Queen. Conferred again. Then one of them made a decision. Marching over to Cleopatra, he pressed his clenched fist to his breast in salute.
“One of the prisoners insists there has been a mistake, my lady. We don’t believe this is the case, but – well, he is Egyptian and swears your Majesty will vouch for him.”
“Bring him over,” she said, in her perfect Latin.
Two guards frogmarched the prisoner across. One eye was closed, his body bruised where he’d put up a fight.
“Your Highness,” he gabbled, “tell them they’ve got the wrong man. Last night some thugs set upon me and the next thing I know, I’m here. In a cage full of murderers awaiting execution.”
Whatever did you expect? she wondered silently. You plant seeds of dissension in the minds of two idealistic young lovers and incite them to murder Renenutet under the Queen’s nose. She leaned closer, pretending to examine his features. Features that fully expected to kill, get away with it – and then be shown the Queen’s mercy.
“I have never seen this man before in my life,” she told the guard.
“But your Majesty –! It’s me, Yntef! Your High Priest.”
Cleopatra smiled pityingly at Caesar. “My High Priest is on a boat bound for Alexandria,” she murmured. “To take up his new promotion.”
Let’s face it, one shaven-headed Egyptian looks the same as another to a disinterested Roman. Only the temple servants would know that Yntef had been replaced. And even they would not know the reason . . .
She watched impassively as Yntef was dragged away, protesting at the top of his voice. The crowd loved it. They would love it more, she thought, if they knew the full story.
Her mind travelled back to the beginning.
Coincidence that it was here, in Rome, that the priesthood chose to throw their support behind Cleopatra? Hardly. Had this happened in Egypt, that would have been different. But it all took place in the back of beyond, and why?
Because the priesthood did not back Cleopatra at all.
That most powerful of organizations had thrown its weight behind the traitors within her own Council. Oh, yes. The bastards planned to have her assassinated in Rome, knowing damn well the finger of blame would point to the Senate, who hated Cleopatra with a vengeance.
Just before the ceremony, Renenutet must have discovered Yntef’s treachery. That was the reason she pressed the amulet into her hands. Set with Isis’ sacred carnelians, washed in a tincture of the goddess’s consecrated ankhamu flowers and fashioned out of the trunk of her sacred sycamore tree, no object was more holy, more sanctified, more precious in Renenutet’s eyes than that which invoked the Great Mother’s protection.
The amulet had been the warning. That was why she’d passed it in secret. But that loyalty cost Renenutet her life.
Yntef knew she was on to him. Enlisting the help of two sympathizers to the cause (heaven knows how many more vipers there were in the nest, but Benet’s skills would root them out and Kames’ men would do the rest), the High Priest was forced to eliminate Renenutet in a way that would not arouse suspicion. Set some distance from the temple, the House of Scribes allowed ample time for his accomplices to stage their pantomime then pretend to come rushing up with the others.
Once Cleopatra realized who had killed the priestess of Bast, the motive behind the murder was obvious. Yntef would have known if anyone other than Renenutet had been holding him as he came out of his trance. That meant Yntef was in on it.
Oh, dear Yntef. All those hymns and blessings and public acceptance of the Queen as Isis incarnate, how they backfired. You see, it’s all very well to pretend the priesthood backs Cleopatra – provided Cleopatra is dead. Now they’ve made
their support public, the priesthood has no choice but to stand by their decision. The die has been cast. The Queen wins. Best of all, Yntef’s failure will have created division among the priesthood and the Council in a way that Cleopatra could only ever have dreamed of. Each would now suspect the others of selling them out. Trust among the conspirators would crumble like sand.
Instinctively, her hand reached for the amulet round her neck. In bestowing Isis’s protection, Renenutet had saved the Queen’s life at the expense of her own, but she would not go unrewarded. Plans for a sumptuous tomb were already being drawn by the Queen’s Architect.
The rewards also extended to the spiritual plane.
Two of Renenutet’s killers lay in unmarked graves, where, without proper burial rites, their souls were doomed to wander the Halls of the Lost for eternity. Now the third member of the trio was poised to look retribution square in the face. Kames’ men had done well in delivering him to the Roman arena.
With a snarl, a panther bounded into the arena.
Bribes had ensured the beast had been tormented with prods, whips and firebrands, and it had also been starved and denied water. Yntef screamed. Behind her, the crowd cheered and stomped on the wooden boards of the amphitheatre, unaware of what Yntef was seeing.
The figure of Bast incarnate. Leaping to avenge her devoted disciple.
As the panther sat back and licked its bloody lips, Cleopatra felt a brush of soft, white feathers against her cheek. Once again, the wings of Isis were beating in victory.
BRINGING THE FOOT
Kate Ellis
Now we leap a period of some 1,850 years. Had we gone back in time that would take us back to the time of Senusert III, in Keith Taylor’s story. But we’ve come forward to the Napoleonic era and the rediscovery of the treasures of ancient Egypt. The early Egyptologists included Jean-François Champollion and Giovanni Belzoni and it is the latter whose exploits are the basis of the following story.
Kate Ellis is a former drama student and playwright who turned to writing detective novels with The Merchant’s House (1998), which combined her interest in archaeology and crime. So does the following.