Murder at the God's Gate

by Lynda S. Robinson

  Nebera, apparently unconcerned, escorted Kysen through the house. The front rooms seemed undisturbed, but the bedchamber looked as if a herd of goats had blundered through it. Chests sat with their contents strewn around them. Kysen stepped over shifts, loincloths, and kilts. His sandal hit a necklace of glazed ceramic beads. He sifted through the coverings of the bed, which had been ripped from it to reveal its base of leather straps. The headrest lay on its side under a short-legged chair.

  A casket rested on its side by the bed. Rolled or folded papyrus lay scattered around it. Kysen picked up the documents and examined each of them. Unfortunately they were the same household records he’d seen before—records of expenses, several family letters, receipts, a copy of Unas’s meager will. He stuffed the papers back in the casket.

  Then he picked up a faience kohl tube and put it back in the cosmetic box. The box sat beside an tall, overturned stand that had once supported a water jar The jar lay in pieces on the floor, forcing Kysen and Nebera to avoid stepping on jagged shards. The vessel had been painted—a frieze of blue lotus flowers on a buff background. Next to the shards lay an oil lamp, also broken, with its contents spilled over the plastered floor Some of the oil had seeped into the plaster.

  “Very well,” Kysen said as he knelt beside the cosmetic box. “Tell me what happened.”

  Nebera dropped down beside him.” I was sleeping on my roof three nights ago and woke when I heard a crash. I knew Ipwet had gone to stay with her parents and plan for Unas’s burial, so it couldn’t be her. I thought it was a thief who had heard that the house was uninhabited.”

  “So you went to catch a thief alone? What if there had been more than one?”

  “I—I didn’t think. I was so angry that someone would steal from Ipwet when she was bereaved that I crossed from my roof to the other house. I went half way down the inner stairs and listened. I heard someone moving around in the bedchamber, so I went all the way down the stairs and crept up to the door. It was dark, but I could hear someone moving around and cursing.”

  “Whoever it was must have stumbled into that stand and dropped the lamp he was holding,” Kysen said as he examined a perfume jar shaped like a fish. “You’re sure the thief was a man?”

  “Aye, lord. Though he kept his voice to a whisper it couldn’t have been a woman. He stumbled around in the chamber while I hid at the door. I think he was trying to find the way out, because he worked his way along the wall until he came to the threshold. I jumped on him as he came out of the room.”

  “And fought with him, I see.”

  Nebera gave him a pained smile. “I grabbed him from behind and got my arm around his neck, but the cur jabbed me in the gut with his elbow, and while I was bent over, he hit me a couple of times and then ran.” Nebera touched his purple cheek. “By the time my ears stopped ringing and I could stand without growing dizzy, he was gone.”

  “So you never really saw him.”

  “No, lord.”

  “But you touched him,” Kysen said. “You were close.”

  “Yes, but there was no light.”

  Kysen sighed. “When you grabbed his neck, did you have to reach down?”

  “No. Oh, I see.” Nebera sat back on his heels, and his gaze drifted blindly across the ruined room. “No, I had to reach up a little.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Aye, lord, the man had to be tall, taller than I am.

  And—and he was smooth.”

  “Smooth?”

  “He wore only a kilt, and his upper body was well cared for. You understand. His skin wasn’t that of a common laborer who works under the sun all day and cannot afford many baths and oils.” Nebera’s gaze came back to Kysen, and his eyes widened. “By the gods, he smelled of the perfume in skin oil. Not much, but some.”

  “Could you distinguish the perfume?”

  “No, lord. But it contained scents I’ve smelled before—like scent-cone smell.”

  Kysen nodded. Scent cones were a common luxury. Placed on top of a person’s wig, a shaped cone of ox tallow bearing herbs and spices melted, giving the wearer relief to sun-tortured skin and filling the nostrils with pleasurable scents. One of the most common was that which blended thyme and sweet marjoram. If the intruder had used a scent cone, some of the oil could still be on his skin.

  “So,” Kysen said. “This clumsy thief is tall and can afford oil or scent cones and labors not in the sun.”

  “And I know he wasn’t a metal worker.”

  Kysen stared at Nebera, who rushed on. “Those who work over crucibles full of liquid copper or gold, their hands and body catch the bitter smell of the metals.”

  “Can you remember aught else? What of his hands?”

  Rubbing his chin, Nebera lapsed into silence for a few moments.

  “I don’t know, lord. He was gone too quickly. Not a common thief, nor a practiced one. And now that I think upon it, perhaps not a thief at all. He must have been looking for something particular, although I don’t know what.”

  “And you can think of no reason why anyone would have cause to secretly search Unas’s house?”

  “No, lord. Unas was so unremarkable, and of no great importance. He had no riches, no secrets, no power of any magnitude. He worked diligently. He was devoted to Ipwet, but in truth, he was more fascinated with sacred writings and dusty old texts than anything else.”

  When it was apparent that Nebera had nothing more to tell him, Kysen rose and inspected the rest of the house. The cellar, kitchen, and roof seemed untouched. He even studied the oven where he’d found the pottery shards, all to no avail.

  Nebera accompanied him, but remained silent. His remarks had solidified Kysen’s opinion that Unas had been a man of honest tedium. And any man who thought that his diligence and store of mythical tales could rival the devotion of a strong young buck like Nebera was a fool. Or had Unas known about his wife and Nebera all along? If he had, would the knowledge have driven him to throw himself off the scaffolding?

  He would sooner believe that Nebera had decided to eliminate the inconvenient husband. It was unfortunate that Nebera’s innocence had been attested to by a dozen royal artisans, for although Unas hadn’t been wealthy, Ipwet would no doubt inherit the house and its contents. Since Nebera had yet to establish his own household apart from his parents, such a windfall would save him years of labor. A sufficient reason for murder to some.

  Nebera was familiar with Unas’s habits. He might have lain in wait for the priest on the scaffolding and pushed him off it, then gone to his labors in the royal workshops. Nebera would have expected the death to be seen as an accident. Such misfortunes happened all across the Two Lands, where work on monuments to the gods and to kings comprised much of the labor of the empire.

  How troublesome that the man couldn’t have been a murderer Nebera, however, seemed an honest man. His reputation among his neighbors and fellow artisans was good. He was a skilled worker, easy of nature, content with his lot. Kysen had formed a like opinion in his dealings with him.

  Nebera was like many young men he’d known, satisfied to be born into a station at the behest of the gods, who placed men in ranks from birth so that the kingdom functioned in perfect balance. Few rose above their birth, and when they did, it was according to the will of the divine ones. However, sometimes people grew to resent their fate.

  He had to consider other possibilities regarding Unas’s death. There was the demeanor of Ebana and Qenamun. Had they merely been taking advantage of the priest’s death to kick a hornet’s nest into Meren’s face? Or were they hiding a greater secret?

  When Unas’s house had been invaded, where were Ebana and Qenamun? Futile to ask them—they would no doubt produce a gaggle of priests to attest to their presence elsewhere. Too bad he couldn’t send a swarm of men to question their friends, neighbors, fellow priests—but that would provoke a political furor.

  Kysen left Nebera to close the house and stepped out into the street. The last coolness of ni
ght had vanished while he’d been inside. For a brief moment he was alone. He lifted his face to the rays of the sun god, his eyes closed, and watched the red glow on the backs of his eyelids. Then he turned and began the trip back to the quay, where he’d take a ferry across the river.

  He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when he was forced to avoid a steaming pile of donkey droppings. He slowed, then darted to the side, his shoulder brushing the wall of a house. Unfortunately, he hadn’t seen the second pile. He cursed and leaped forward over the noxious hillock. As he landed, he heard a loud thud and turned to find a chunk of masonry the size of his head embedded in the dung.

  Kysen whirled, backpedaled into the open street, and gazed up at the roof from which the masonry had fallen. The only other occupant of the street was an old woman asleep on her doorstep. Furious, he was about to charge into the house when reason intervened. He was alone. Anyone, any number of men, could be waiting inside that house.

  Launching into a run, he swept down the street, around an intersection, and down an alley that bordered the house. He shoved past a gaudily dressed Syrian merchant and his retainers while a man pulling a cart of wood scurried out of his way. The alley ended in a sharp turn that gave out onto the street he’d come from. Kysen searched the length of the alley and all the roofs. He was rewarded with the sight of a mother hanging out washing while screeching at several children, but little else.

  The man with the wood was turning into Unas’s street. Kysen stopped him.

  “Have you seen a stranger rush from that house?” he asked, pointing to the one from which the masonry had come.

  “Only yourself, good master.”

  Kysen nodded, dismissing the man, and fell to inspecting the house again. It was an old one, as were most in the neighborhood, and its mud brick was crumbling in many places. In a few years the owner might be forced to tear down the walls, level off the foundation, and build again.

  He fought the urge to go inside alone. Tempting as it was, he’d been warned about such impetuous behavior by Meren and Abu. And he’d done something like it before and almost been killed. That had been at a deserted temple that served as a refuge for Libyan bandits. He’d nearly lost an ear, and his life.

  He should have listened to Meren and brought charioteers with him. Now he’d hear about his recklessness from every captain, aide, and groom under Meren. He thought about not revealing the incident, but knew he couldn’t conceal the truth. The falling masonry might have been an accident, but it might also have been an attempt on his life. Which meant that he shouldn’t be standing in this alley by himself.

  Kysen made his way west toward the riverbank and soon found himself in a market near the quay. He joined crowds of customers, vendors, and foreign merchants moving in small rivulets between stalls laden with Egyptian and imported goods. In the shade of a building a barber shaved and cut hair. A Nubian stacked elephant tusks in front of a stall along with small incense trees. Under awnings vendors hawked bread, fish, melons, onions. Kysen edged between the booth of a woman selling beer and a group of her customers, huddled around a common jar from which protruded clay drinking straws.

  In the distance he could see one of the great royal trading ships coming to dock with a load of timber from Byblos. He worked his way between the beer vendor and her customers, his gaze fixed on the royal ship, his thoughts on that block of masonry. He shouldered his way through a group of shoppers, only to have one of them reach out and grab his arm. Kysen whipped around, yanked himself free—and came face to face with his adopted cousin, the priest Qenamun, and a bevy of lesser pure ones. They surrounded him, forming a wall of white kilts and bald heads.

  “My noble cousin. How fortunate is this humble cupbearer of the god to find you here.”

  Kysen wondered how was it possible to grow cold under the heat of the Egyptian sun. The hair on his arms almost stood up as he glanced around the circle of priests.

  “I missed you as well, Ebana,” Kysen said.

  Ebana’s raptorlike smile looked artificial. He drew nearer, coming within an arm’s length while the priests tightened their circle.

  “One would think,” Ebana said, “that one of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh would be too occupied with royal business to go shopping in the markets on this side of the Nile.”

  Kysen glanced around the circle of bald heads. There were five pure ones, none of whom looked as if they spent much time in scholarship. Thick necks, chests as wide as barges—they could have passed for mercenaries. They stood still in the middle of the market and formed an island before which waves of citizens parted. He knew better than to let them see his uneasiness. He’d been right in not chasing after whoever had dropped that masonry.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked. It was a demand. Ebana’s false smile vanished.

  “Watch your tongue, boy.”

  “Someone just tried to drop part of a house on me.”

  “So you fled to the east bank?”

  “It happened here,” Kysen said. “After I left the house of your pure one, Unas.”

  He kept his gaze fixed on Ebana’s face, but all he perceived was a brief squint of his eyes, quickly gone. Then Ebana smiled a smile of true pleasure and spoke in tones of spice and sweet wine.

  “What say you, Qenamun? Is my cousin not unfortunate? You should perform a divination for him or study his birth day. After all, he should be warned of approaching dangers so that he can stay home and avoid them.”

  Qenamun fingered a pleat in his kilt. “It would do me honor to serve the son of Lord Meren.”

  The last thing he desired was a magician priest of Amun delving into his fate and fortune, performing spells about him, divining the future of his ka. A man like Qenamun could do great harm with his knowledge of the mysteries of the gods.

  “I don’t need magic,” he said. “I need the truth.”

  Ebana lost his smile again. “Are you accusing—”

  “There you are. I found her. Taste these and tell me I’m right. I have the best palate in Egypt, and these are the best honey cakes in Thebes.” Rahotep pushed his way into the circle around Kysen, his arms full of round loaves covered with honey glaze.

  “Kysen,” Rahotep said. “What luck to meet you. Now you can settle a wager. I say Ebana should hire the baker of these honey cakes, for they’re fit for the good god.” He shoved a cake into Ebana’s hands.

  As the circle of priests loosened, then broke and dissolved, Kysen took one as well. To cover his relief, he bit into the cake.

  “You’ve been in the market with Ebana?” Kysen said.

  “Yes. You know me, always hungry, and these cakes come to me in my dreams. If Ebana doesn’t hire her, I will.” Rahotep tried to stuff an entire cake in his mouth.

  “How long have you been with him?”

  “How long?” Rahotep gave him a curious glance. “A goodly time, I suppose. What do you mean?”

  “Oh, naught, my friend. It’s just that I didn’t know you and my cousin were such comrades.”

  “Ebana is going to sell me two foals from his black thoroughbred. You know I’m the best judge of horses in the Two Lands. They’ll make a wondrous pair for my war chariot. We’ve agreed on a price, goods worth one hundred deben of silver.”

  Kysen had been watching Ebana while Rahotep boasted and swaggered, but the man revealed nothing. He stood with a honey cake in his hand and stared back at Kysen with his lips quirked in a half smile, unruffled as the golden Horus falcon, cool as the waters of the Nile at night. Taking up the challenge, Kysen listened to Rahotep, his gaze never wavering from Ebana’s, and ate every bite of his honey cake. At last Ebana’s voice cut across Rahotep’s narrative.

  “Perhaps you’ve had a warning from the gods, cousin. It may be that you should remain on the west bank. I would be grieved to find one day that you truly had gone into the west, to the land from which no man returns.”

  Kysen turned on his heel and walked away. “Fear not. If I do die, I promise to c
ome back as the winged ba bird of the soul and take you with me.”

  Chapter 9

  By the time Meren reached the palace precinct, the king had already finished his sacred duties and was at one of the practice areas near the royal quay on the west bank of the river. As he dismounted from his chariot, Meren surveyed the temporary encampment of the king’s war band. Shields set into the earth formed a perimeter patrolled by the royal bodyguard. The fourth side of the rectangular enclosure was formed by the riverbank. Within the enclosure, grooms had unhitched horses from their chariots and tethered them to munch from feed baskets. An open tent had been erected where the king’s campstool, armor, and extra weapons lay.

  Near a stand of palms, two of the younger officers wrestled to the taunts and jeers of their fellows while others from the Valiant Bows regiment embedded five copper targets in the earth at the opposite end of the camp. Meren glanced over the riverbank. One of the royal warships had anchored offshore. Sailors stood watch on its deck for crocodiles and hippos, as did dozens of others in skiffs that formed a ring around one bearing the king.

  Tutankhamun was standing between two older officers. He saw Meren, shouted, and waved the staff he was holding. Meren bowed to the king, then handed the reins of his chariot to a groom and walked to the riverbank to join Horemheb and Tanefer, who were among the king’s advisers in attendance. Charioteers of the king’s war band lined the bank on either side of this group to watch the coming contest.

  Cheers rose from the group surrounding the wrestlers. One of the men had been pinned to the ground. Meren glanced at them as he greeted his friends. Horemheb nudged him with an elbow and nodded in the direction of three priests hovering at the edge of the water Meren recognized the first prophets of the gods Ra, the sun falcon; Montu, god of war; and Set, who ruled chaos and the desert. The priests watched the king, their bodies arching out from the river bank, noses almost twitching with unrest.

  “Fools,” Horemheb said under his breath. “Every time the king engages, they fall to praying as if they’ll be blamed for each cut and bruise. They’ve already performed their sacrifices. What else is needful? The gods will watch over his majesty without their hovering.”