Abu was wearing a warrior’s short wig. He wiped perspiration from beneath it as he nodded.
“The lord sent me to assist you.”
“There’s no sense lying. Ebana has baited him again, and Father is seeing plots and threats in every word and movement.”
“The lord has great perception, and he’s usually right in his suspicions.”
“Yes, but this death appears to have been an accident, Abu. Qenamun said that the priest was an excitable man, anxious to succeed, and clumsy when agitated.”
Abu lowered his lashes. “True, and he hadn’t sent word of any danger to me, nor have I heard that he knew anything of import that could have gotten him killed. Nevertheless, Lord Ebana accused your father of having suborned Unas and would have stirred up trouble with the king had he not been prevented.”
“Why?” Kysen held up his hand to forestall an answer. “Either to bring embarrassment upon Father, or … No sense concocting imaginary tales when I don’t know the whole of it. Come, and don’t pretend you haven’t been sent to guard my back, Abu.”
They went to the house. Abu banged on the closed door, stepped back, and crossed his arms over his chest. Kysen rolled his eyes, for he knew the charioteer did this to make his arm muscles swell. He was flexing the sinews of his thighs as well. Whoever opened the door was going to be startled by aggressive flesh and gleaming bronze.
The door creaked, and a bent, leathery figure appeared. Another wail boomed out at them. Kysen beheld a fragile old man with wisps of silver hair and a kilt that sagged on his bony frame. Watery eyes blinked at Abu. Dry fingers gripped the door.
“The agent of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, the noble lord, Kysen, son of Meren, inquires of the family of the Osiris Unas,” said Abu.
At this formal announcement, with its customary reference to the dead, the old man stepped back, allowing them to enter. He made obeisance to Kysen, bending and lifting his hands.
“I’m the father of Ipwet, wife of Unas, lord.”
Kysen nodded but was distracted by the body, which took up most of the space in the small reception room. Beside it squatted a woman who rocked back and forth on her heels and sobbed into her gray hair, which was strewn with ashes.
“My wife,” the old man said. “Word came only a short while ago from our daughter Unas was my wife’s cousin, lord.”
Kysen glanced over his shoulder at Abu, who maneuvered both husband and wife away from the body. Kysen knelt beside it. Unas had been placed on his back on a litter for transport, and no one seemed to have touched the body yet, for it still bore a film of dust. Unas had been a hollow-shouldered man, light of frame, like most Egyptians.
What distinguished him was his shaved skull, which came to a rounded point at the back. The left side, at the back, had been cracked, leaving a hole that exposed the meat of his head. Kysen could see blood-smeared pulp. The flesh surrounding the wound was ravaged and flecked with pebbles and dust.
Though wrinkled, the priest’s kilt was hardly soiled except where he’d landed on it. His hands were empty and bore no traces that would signal a struggle. The man appeared to have sailed off the scaffolding so suddenly that he hadn’t even had time to grab for support.
Kysen brushed flies aside as he noted the pallor of Unas’s skin. It was waxy, and blood had collected in the portions of the body closest to the ground. His eyes had already flattened, and he was stiff. Kysen’s gaze swept over the figure. His nose twitched as he caught the smell of loss of bowel control. His bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed, blood pounding in his temples. He stood up before the smell made him spew his stomach contents over the body. Cursing Tanefer for urging him to drink the better part of a flagon of wine, he stood and signaled to Abu.
“I see no signs of violence.”
“The embalmers have been sent for,” Abu said. “They will come at any moment.”
Kysen hesitated. He would like to have the assurance of his father’s physician that Unas had indeed died from a sudden fall, but interfering with Unas’s embalming would draw the attention of Qenamun and Ebana and incite another confrontation between the temple and his father, and for little cause that he could see. He would have to trust to his training; provoked, the priests would throw up blockades to further inquiries.
“Allow them to take him,” Kysen said. “Where is the rest of the family?”
“There’s only the wife, Ipwet. She and Unas hadn’t been married long, a little over a year. The parents arranged the marriage in order to see Ipwet settled before they died. She’s their youngest. I believe she has seventeen years.”
Kysen looked down at Unas. The priest must have had two score years at least. Not unusual, considering how long it took a man to acquire the means to set up his own house. Many years were spent by most men in this quest, so that they could earn the privilege of taking a wife and begetting a family.
“Look about the house,” Kysen whispered to Abu, “but be discreet. We can’t justify acting as if this death were other than an accident.”
Abu barely nodded his head. “The wife is in the bedchamber.” The charioteer pointed toward the back of the house.
Kysen found the chamber empty except for two low wooden beds and a few furnishings. A portable lavatory sat in one corner. Against a wall sat a chest filled with clothing. Another, smaller box contained cosmetics. The floor was covered with woven rush mats. Beneath one of the beds, partially concealed by a cover that hung over the side, sat a wicker box.
Stooping, he retrieved the box and opened it. Empty except for a few buff-colored flecks of pottery. He closed the box and replaced it under the bed. Where was the wife?
He left the chamber, glanced at the common room, and then headed for the kitchen. As he approached, he heard a sob. A woman’s voice floated out to him.
“Poor Unas. Poor, poor Unas.”
Unas’s wife was in her kitchen, but she wasn’t alone. Kysen paused just to the side of the doorway to watch a young man drop to his knees beside the woman called Ipwet. Gathering the sobbing woman into his arms, he muttered soft words into her hair. Kysen remained still and quiet.
The young man couldn’t be much older than himself. Where Unas had been hollow of shoulder, with a splayed belly and pronounced knees, this man could have been a royal archer. Nor would he lack for admirers among women. The clean lines of his body and his obvious vitality must have intimidated a skittish and aging man like poor Unas. Poor Unas indeed. Kysen entered the kitchen.
At his appearance, the young man looked up. His eyes, under straight brows, widened, taking in Kysen’s rich garb. Ipwet stirred, then gasped as she beheld him. For a moment Kysen felt a twinge of guilt. Once, he had been one of those who started with fear at the appearance of a great one. He knew what it was to dread the wrath of those whose mere birth had placed them in control of his very life.
“I am Kysen, agent of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh. I’ve come to inquire into the circumstances of the death of the pure one called Unas. I offer condolences to the wife of Unas.” He glanced suddenly at the man. “Who are you?”
Blinking rapidly, the young man hesitated before answering. “I am Nebera. I—I am, was, a friend of Unas. I live next door.”
“What are you?” Kysen asked quickly. “And how did you spend this morning?”
Nebera opened his mouth, but Ipwet spoke for the first time.
“Nebera is a worker of metals and jewelry, an apprentice to a master in the royal workshops. He heard of Unas’s death when word was brought by the stonemasons there, and he came to offer comfort.”
“I must return to work soon,” Nebera added.
What was it about these two? It wasn’t just that they clung to each other with the intimacy of lovers. It was their habit of speech. Their conversation was like a tune sung by professional singers. First one sang, and then the other, in easy exchange, as if each knew his part and that of the other as well. These two reminded him of his oldest sister and her husband—twin souls in
harmony. Ipwet spoke for Nebera, and Nebera for Ipwet.
Kysen murmured his assent, and Nebera turned to Ipwet.
“I’ll return as soon as the day’s work has ended.”
Ipwet nodded, shaking the gleaming curtain of dark brown that was her hair. She lowered her gaze to the floor as Nebera left. Her hand toyed with the deep blue beads of her faience necklace. In the dim light of the one oil lamp, Kysen could barely perceive the slight flush on her cheeks. The kohl on her eyes had run when she wept, and her hair was mussed.
In spite of her disheveled appearance, Kysen could see why Nebera was so anxious to return to her. Ipwet had great doe’s eyes, plump lips, and lean arms and legs that spoke of limber strength and invited a man to imagine to what interesting uses she could put them. She also had an Egyptian woman’s frank way of meeting a man’s gaze with a look that spoke of fearlessness and pride. Kysen would have wagered that no husband of this woman would dare stray or mistreat her. If she was this formidable so young, what would she be like as a grandmother?
“Lord, why have you come? My poor Unas fell from the scaffolding of the statue of the living god, may he forever have life, health, and strength.”
“Formidable indeed,” Kysen muttered.
“Lord?”
“It’s naught. The Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh often inquire into sudden deaths that involve persons connected with the affairs of the living god, no matter how slight the association may be. How was your husband this morning?”
“The same as usual, lord. Agitated over his new responsibilities in the treasury of the god, perhaps. But Unas often grew excited about his work. He dreamed of rising in the service of Amun until one day—ah, but such dreams are of no consequence.”
“And you have noticed nothing odd about his manner in the last few days?”
“No, lord. He was the same. Diligent, remaining at his duties long after everyone else. The other day I scolded him for being out after dark. I was already cooking the evening meal by the time he came home.” Ipwet smiled, but tears quickly welled up in her eyes. “I scolded him for nearly ruining my fire.”
She turned and wiped her eyes. Her fingers came away black with kohl. Stooping, she picked up a rag beside the oven and wiped her face.
“Was he worried about some matter at the temple, that he would ruin your fire?” Kysen asked.
“I know not,” Ipwet said. “I was busy making bread, and he came in. To watch, I thought, but instead he threw broken pottery into my fire. Unas could be so irritating, always trying to please, so anxious, always hovering.”
Kysen furrowed his brow. “He threw shards into the fire? Why?”
“He said he was just discarding them. He was only trying to capture my attention, I think.”
Kysen said nothing. Meren had always taught him to look out for practices that were out of the ordinary, signs of inconsistency or lack of logic. Although Unas seemed to have been an excitable, jittery man, even one in fear of losing a much younger wife wouldn’t throw shards into a fire for no reason.
Or would he? Ipwet might have quarreled with him. If a vessel had been broken during the quarrel, some of the remains might have been tossed into the oven. It could be that Ipwet shrank from revealing the quarrel to a stranger. Then Kysen remembered the flakes of pottery he’d found in the box in Unas’s bedchamber The priest might have kept these shards in it. Such elaborate preservation of such humble objects—extraordinary indeed.
Kneeling before the oven, Kysen took a pair of wooden tongs and stirred the ashes. At first all he found were coals. Then, with Ipwet holding the lamp close, he scraped out several small, blackened shards. He was about to give up when his gaze caught a spot of buff and blue at the edge of the oven floor, away from the ashes. He fished it out.
It appeared to be a piece from the rim of a bowl, and it bore portions of a hieroglyphic inscription. Kysen lifted the fragment closer to the lamp flame. Two lines curved side by side like twin throwing sticks. Beneath the one on the left was a tick mark shaped like the tip of an arrow. Beneath the right one was another curved line like the one above it, only more rounded.
A common piece, this buff pottery. There were thousands upon thousands of such clay vessels in Egypt. Nevertheless, Kysen dropped the fragment onto Ipwet’s rag along with the blackened shards and folded the cloth, tucking it into his belt.
“Can you tell me why your husband went to the temple so early?”
“A boy came with word from the master sculptor asking to meet early at the statue.”
“Did you know this boy?”
“No, lord. I thought he came from the sculptor.”
“And such a message,” Kysen said, “it was unsurprising?” Ipwet was beginning to look at him with curiosity.
“The request was unexpected, but not unusual. Is aught wrong, lord?”
Kysen shook his head. Seneb hadn’t mentioned sending for Unas, and he was convinced that the sculptor would have done so if he’d been the one to request an early meeting. He would have to question the man again.
“There is nothing wrong. May the good god Amun comfort you in your grief, mistress.”
At his words Ipwet’s lips trembled, and fresh tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
“I thank you, lord. My husband was not a great man, nor was he—comely—but his soul was gentle, and he took humble pleasure in doing good work.”
Kysen watched her large eyes narrow in a wince. In that moment he understood that Unas’s wife was suffering, but she was suffering much more from guilt than from grief. He withdrew from the kitchen, found Abu, and left.
“Send for the master sculptor Seneb,” he said as they walked away from Unas’s house. “Unas received a message given by a boy that is supposed to have come from Seneb requesting an early meeting.”
“You think the message was false?”
“Seneb said nothing of the message to me when I talked with him, but he could have been avoiding trouble. I know what it’s like not to want the attention of the great. If the message is false, this death may be more than an accident.”
“Which means …” Abu paused while he avoided a group of women balancing tall water jars on their heads. “Which means we begin to look for someone who knew Unas’s habits, who knew that the porter neglected his watch for sleep, who knew the route of the temple sentries and when the artisans would arrive for work.”
“A priest,” Abu said. “Or the wife of a priest, or a friend. Unfortunately, there are countless possibilities when dealing with a murder that has occurred at so well-traveled a place as the god’s gate.”
Chapter 6
The king had retreated from the blast of the afternoon sun to an audience chamber. For this Meren was thankful, but he would have rather remained by the reflection pool than endure this bickering among pharaoh’s advisors. Tutankhamun had summoned support for his side of the argument, so now several of the younger men were gesticulating in front of a weary Ay. Meren’s gaze traveled from the short and wiry Ahiram of Byblos to Tanefer, Djoser, and Rahotep.
His concern mingled with that for Kysen. Something was wrong at the temple of Amun, something that had so disturbed Ebana that he’d brought the matter to court. Now Kysen was in the midst of inquiries that would pit him against Ebana and possibly Parenefer.
Far more powerful men than Ky had lost their lives in such struggles. There had been sudden deaths by poisoning, purported accidents that cut a life short, unexpected scandals that ruined reputations. The reach of the temple of Amun was high and deadly.
Djoser rose abruptly from his kneeling position beside the king, distracting Meren from his worries. The king’s brow furrowed as he directed his stare at Djoser. Meren could see that he was confused by Djoser’s lack of zeal for battle. Raised in the tradition of warrior pharaohs, Tutankhamun hadn’t the experience to understand a man who preferred tranquility and the rhythmic cycles of the farmer to the glory of court and battle.
Meren sighed and rubbed the sun-disk
scar on his inner wrist. He caught himself and shoved a thick warrior’s bracelet down over the wound. He bore much of the blame for the king’s headstrong desire for conquest. Knowing how great was the Hittite threat, how easily barbarians could invade Egypt and prevail over a people so used to peace and good living, he had taken care to train the king for battle.
The king’s father, Amunhotep the Magnificent, had built great temples and ruled by divisive manipulation of allies and enemies alike. Thanks to his neglect and that of Tutankhamun’s older brother, however, such tactics would no longer suffice. The time for war was coming.
So now he was faced with a young stallion kicking at the stable door, who threatened to injure himself in his efforts to gain freedom. Meren rubbed his chin and stared down at the plastered floor. He stood in the middle of a painting of a reflection pool. A yellow-and-blue fish goggled at him from between reeds of deep green.
His attention snapped back to the group surrounding the king. Ahiram of Byblos and Prince Rahotep were arguing—again. No matter the issue, they were never on the same side. Ahiram had made a point for the war side, which Rahotep immediately rebutted.
Ahiram balanced on the balls of his feet. He was a small man, but powerful of build. He wore his curly hair longer than Egyptians did and cultivated a pointed beard that grew at the tip of his chin. Meren had always thought it gave him a goatish appearance, but had spared Ahiram his opinion.
Not so Rahotep, who criticized anyone except pharaoh with the brutal honesty of a child of four. No matter who was offended, Rahotep would offer his views. Perhaps Rahotep disliked Ahiram because of their similarities. Both felt the sting of imagined insignificance, Rahotep because of his peasant mother, Ahiram because of his foreign birth and lost throne. With natures based on such weak foundations, neither man seemed capable of reaching peace of the ka.
A warning trumpet blew in Meren’s head when Rahotep suddenly jumped to his feet. Ahiram stuck his thumbs in the belt of his kilt. His bearded chin jutted forward so that the tip pointed at his adversary.
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