Eater of souls

by Lynda S. Robinson

  When he felt the muscles in his face loosen, the tension fade from behind his eyes, Kysen gave Labarnas a stare he hoped was as regal as his father’s. Labarnas had been embellishing on his opinion of Egyptian corruption and treachery, but he sputtered into silence as Kysen refused to respond and assumed an expression of haughty distaste. To Kysen’s amusement, Labarnas reddened and spat out an order.

  “Speak, Egyptian.”

  “I have the unhappy responsibility to tell you, general, that Prince Mugallu has been killed.”

  “I knew it!”

  Kysen went on as if the Hittite hadn’t spoken. “Apparently he was pursued by some evildoer through the streets, cornered, and attacked.”

  “Where is the killer?” Labarnas growled.

  “We don’t know, but the Eyes of Pharaoh seeks the criminal as we speak. No evil deed escapes the inquiry of the Eyes and Ears of the King. The city will be closed off: the docks sealed, the desert routes patrolled. No one can escape.”

  “Not even me,” Labarnas said.

  “An unfortunate consequence of my father’s vigilance in searching for your prince’s murderer, nothing else.”

  The general pounded the bronze plate strapped to his chest. “I won’t be slaughtered like a sacrificial goat.”

  “Had pharaoh decided to kill you,” Kysen said gently, “you’d be dead, and your body cavities filling with desert sand, general. You would not be standing here shrieking insults at me like a hysterical tavern woman.”

  Labarnas blinked at him, then snorted to cover the grudging respect that came into his eyes.

  “General, there is more.”

  Respect vanished in the face of wary distrust. “What more?”

  Feeling like he was trying to converse with a bull whose bowels were blocked, Kysen described where Mugallu had died, the white feather. “He died of… of a wound to the chest.”

  When he finished, every Hittite was still and silent, even the general. Kysen forced himself to wait, to remain undisturbed beneath the hostile stares, to observe with calm the straining of muscles that told of the Hittite desire to attack and kill. Finally Labarnas spoke.

  “Demon or man, the prince was slain by Egyptian device. The wrath of the great king of the Hittites will thunder across the sky, shake the foundations of pharaoh’s palace, making him cower beneath his throne. It will rend the ears of his subjects and make them fall to their knees to beg for my king’s mercy.”

  “In Egypt we have an ancient teaching that says a wise leader holds his judgment until all is known. If he doesn’t, he risks appearing careless, partial—or worse, a fool—if his decision turns out to be wrong.”

  “We Hittites have our own saying, boy. It is better to strike first than to end up with your head impaled on a spear.” Labarnas stepped back and examined Kysen from head to sandal. “This Eater of Souls, this tale of a demon rampant among the living who happened to find my prince instead of another worthless citizen, it’s elaborate, full of misdirection. I should have expected a stratagem like this from Egypt. The world knows that behind all this, this magnificence—the gold-covered temples, the perfumed linen, those elegant Egyptian manners—lies a nature full of artifice, craft, and guile.”

  Kysen inclined his head to Labarnas. “I didn’t know Hittites were so prone to compliments.”

  “You haven’t distracted me, Egyptian. You were saying this so-called demon stabbed Prince Mugallu.”

  “We don’t think the weapon was a dagger or sword,” Kysen said.

  “What, then?”

  “Perhaps an ax.” Kysen expected Labarnas to erupt into fury. Instead, the Hittite exchanged looks with his officers and gave Kysen a nod of satisfaction.

  “Your tale makes more sense now.”

  “It does?” Kysen said faintly.

  “It would take a war ax to subdue even an unarmed Hittite warrior.”

  What could he say to such reasoning? With so few men in his party, he wasn’t foolish enough to describe Mugallu’s death in greater detail. He glanced at the body in the linen sheet.

  “The evil one killed this slave too? Then the killer was here.”

  “We found her in the garden,” said one of the Hittite officers. “She was stabbed in the back.”

  “General,” Kysen said. “I must see the place in the garden where she was found.”

  “You should be hunting the killer, not wasting time in gardens.”

  “I am hunting the killer,” Kysen replied. “I won’t need long, and I should be gone by the time the prince’s body arrives.”

  “Get on with your hunt, then, Egyptian. I give you two days to bring me the killer. After that, I go back to the great king to tell him what pharaoh has done to his favorite and emissary.”

  Not far from the lake in the royal garden rose an ancient fig tree. It had grown so tall it could be seen over the garden walls. Broad, deeply lobed leaves furnished abundant shade. Meren favored this tree above all others in the royal garden because its thick, rough leaves seemed to block out more heat. His tale of the death of Prince Mugallu had just come to an end. He was kneeling beside the seated king. As Meren fell silent, Tutankhamun jumped to his feet to pace over the woven Syrian mat that had been laid under the tree.

  Tutankhamun stared across the hand-watered foreign blooms that formed long red-and-blue borders around the lake. He appeared to be fascinated by the blue sheet of water and the birds that floated on it. A line of green-winged teal paddled toward a lily pad in the water, each uttering that low, continuous quack that seemed to be their fanfare. Several pairs of swans floated in the opposite direction, scattering a flotilla of pintails.

  When the king abruptly turned back to Meren, his skin had lost the flush the Great Royal Wife had provoked. Meren had seen that look of bewildered fear when he’d broken the news of the desecration of Akhenaten’s tomb, and when Tutankhamun had learned of the treachery of one of his dearest friends. Few others had witnessed the transformation of pharaoh into a frightened youth. He heard the king’s ragged whisper.

  “No heart? Someone hacked out his heart? When Suppiluliumas hears of this, he’ll declare war upon me. I haven’t even been on a raid yet! How can I go to war?”

  “Be at ease, majesty—”

  “Ease? You of all my advisers know what might Suppiluliumas can summon. He conquered the Mitanni Empire, didn’t he?”

  “I beg thy majesty to listen,” Meren said. “Prince Mugallu isn’t the only one to have been killed in this same fashion. He’s only the latest.”

  Closing his mouth on a protest, Tutankhamun dropped to the ground beside Meren. “Go on.”

  “From what I’ve been able to discover, there have been others, majesty. A farmer visiting from his village, a tavern woman. There may be others. Kysen has gone to the prince’s residence to see what happened there and perhaps find out why Mugallu left the house alone at night.”

  Meren handed the king one of the porous jars sitting in stands by the mat. Tutankhamun accepted it, but the jar hung suspended by the neck in his hand as the king struggled to comprehend the implications of what he’d been told. All at once the youth tipped the jar over his mouth and drank long gulps of cool water. Then he let it splash over his face and neck. Wiping his eyes, he held out the jar for Meren to take.

  “In the Book of the Dead, the gods protect the justified from the power of the Devouress.”

  “Yes, majesty.”

  “How many dead, do you think?”

  Meren shook his head. “I know not, divine one. The chief of watchmen of the city is a lazy fool who seems to think a death important only if it involves a great one.”

  “There can be no harmony and balance in my kingdom if the farmer, the perfume maker, and the fisherman are slain!”

  “Thy majesty is wise.” Meren held out his hands, palms upward. “I am sure the wife and children of that farmer suffer.”

  The king’s gaze began to shift from Meren to the fig tree, to a dish of bread and dates, back to M
eren. “So you think there is one killer and many dead. And the streets boil with rumor that Eater of Souls has been sent from the netherworld to prey upon the living.”

  “Majesty, it may be that the evil one but hides himself behind the guise of the Devouress.”

  “And Mugallu?”

  “I don’t know, divine one. Perhaps he stumbled upon the evildoer.” Meren felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. “The other explanation is that he was meant to die all along.”

  “Why? Who would want to force a war between my majesty and the Hittite king?”

  They lapsed into silence, then met each other’s gaze.

  “Who at court is dissatisfied?” the king asked.

  “Perhaps, majesty, we should ask who would gain if pharaoh and the army were drawn out of Egypt to campaign in the north.”

  “Those who have been forced to give up office and rank,” Tutankhamun said. “My brother’s old ministers, corrupt officials who have lost their positions by my reforms, the priests of Amun, who won’t be satisfied until they rule instead of my majesty, any royal prince who thinks he should be pharaoh in my place.” The king sighed. “I don’t want to go on.”

  Meren forced himself to continue. “And if I discover that the killings are the work of Eater of Souls…”

  “Would that mean the gods are angry with me? With Egypt? Have I done something so terrible that they seek to punish my people, and through them, me?”

  He heard the strain in the king’s voice. “Majesty, you have worked to undo the damage wrought by your royal brother, to restore the old gods, repair their temples, cast out evil and incompetent judges, tax collectors, overseers, and priests. No. If Eater of Souls truly walks the earth, someone worked evil magic to summon her and set her loose among the living.”

  “Then we must fight the dark magic,” Tutankhamun said. “I will gather magician priests from the temples of Ptah, Sekhmet, and Isis.”

  “Yes, majesty. They must perform divinations in order to discover the true nature of this killer.”

  Tutankhamun picked up a bread loaf, tore a piece from it, and tossed it to a duck. “If the killer is only a man, he must still be possessed by some evil fiend to have done these things.” More ducks came waddling over in search of bread.

  “Of course, majesty, but at least it would be an ordinary evil, and not Eater of Souls.”

  “I suppose that would be a comfort.” The king tossed more bread to the ducks.

  Meren sighed. “I think an ordinary demon would be much easier to banish than the Devouress.”

  “Perhaps the magician priests can divine the hiding place of this evil one.”

  “Thy majesty must not be disappointed if they cannot. If divination produced solutions to such mysteries, my tasks as the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh would be much easier.”

  “True, but I will still put the question to the priests.”

  Meren bowed. There was nothing he could say, for he wasn’t certain of the kind of evil with which he was dealing.

  The king tossed the last of the bread to the ducks and looked across the garden. “Ah, I thought it wouldn’t be long before Ay came to us.”

  The vizier was walking slowly toward them on a gravel path. Slaves bore a palanquin over him to protect him from the sun’s rays.

  “I have thy majesty’s permission to increase the guards on the city walls and the docks?”

  The king stood. “Yes, and double the men on watch. I’ll summon the mayor and make certain he understands that the city police are to make themselves vigilant. My majesty will have no more of this laziness and failure to report evil.”

  Meren rose at the king’s signal and bowed.

  “And Meren, don’t think I’m not aware of your attempts to delay taking me on a raid.”

  Doing his best to look innocent, Meren said, “Delays, golden one?”

  “My majesty will remedy the matter as soon as possible. Neither of us has a choice anymore, do we?”

  The king had discerned a consequence of this disaster Meren hadn’t considered. He gave pharaoh a reluctant smile.

  “I fear thy majesty is correct.”

  It was dusk. High clouds drifted over Memphis, white, flat-bottomed, their undersides bursting into hues of pink and rose as the solar orb dipped below the horizon. Satet paused in the street beside the stall of a pottery vendor. Shading her eyes, she gazed up at the clouds. She had always nourished her ka on the precious and brief beauty of clouds. This pleasure was even more necessary now that she had to endure Lord Meren’s silly questions about Hunero.

  Who remembered what daft old Hunero said so long ago? On the farm Satet had more important concerns than the whereabouts of her sister. But now that she was in the city, she might as well find Hunero and go to live with her. It would be better than living at Lord Meren’s house. His daughter, Lady Bener, was an exacting mistress of the house. She wouldn’t let Satet instruct the cooks unhindered, and the girl insisted on making Satet rest at night when she wasn’t sleepy.

  Satet trotted down a street, passed through a gate formed by two old stelae, flat, round-topped stones carved with the decrees of viziers who had died before Egypt acquired her empire. It was good that Lady Bener allowed Satet to cook as well as instruct. A few days of the work had ordered her thoughts a bit, and it had occurred to her that the way to find Hunero was to find the best vendors of ingredients her sister loved to include in her cooking. She had been exploring the stalls in different parts of the city, and at last she’d located one whose owner had dealt with Hunero.

  The spice dealer had been a close-lipped man with eyes that seldom fastened directly on her own. Satet hadn’t liked him, but she understood him. Gain governed his character. If he could enrich himself by opening his mouth, he would, though doing so was contrary to his nature. Satet had simply given him a small faience bowl from the room Lady Bener had assigned to her.

  The bargain had produced directions to Hunero’s new house in the dock district. In the midst of the houses of ship carpenters and dock officials and buildings used to house offices and storage for temple traders, she found it. Hunero’s house was a narrow, two-story building that looked as if the taller buildings on either side were slowly expanding and compressing it.

  Satet examined the dwelling from threshold to roof with a disapproving scowl. “Humph. Left the old house for this, did she? That’s Hunero. Always seeking to better herself when she’s quite well off where she is. And what happens? She ends up with something not half as good as what she had.” She marched up the two steps before the door and banged on the dried and peeling wood. “Never satisfied. Never got over being the queen’s favorite cook. Always pining.”

  She got no answer, and all she heard was the buzzing of flies. Dozens of them sailed in and out of the grilled windows high above the door. Satet pounded harder. A woman poked her head out the door of the neighboring house, muttered a curse at Satet, and slammed the portal shut.

  “Donkey’s consort!” Satet retorted. She began kicking the door and shouting, “Hunero, I know you’re in there. Let me in!” Drawing back her foot, Satet gave the door another kick with the full force of her strength.

  “Owwwwww!” She grabbed her foot and pressed her free hand against the door.

  It gave way, and Satet fell through. She landed on her hands and knees, foot throbbing, in a dark space. What little light the dusk provided showed her a lamp beside the door. Several flies tried to land on her face, and Satet brushed at them absently. With care for her jarred old bones, Satet crawled into a sitting position, lit the lamp, and maneuvered herself to her feet.

  Picking up the lamp, she shut the door. “Hunero, I got inside, so there’s no use hiding.”

  Holding the lamp aloft, she directed the light around the room. More tunnel than chamber, it held the furnishings with which Hunero had absconded. On a raised ledge around the room sat beds that could be used at night, reed boxes filled with utensils, tools, and linens. Several low stools had been arranged aro
und a table bearing a senet game box. Two columns supported the roof, and beyond this living chamber lay the kitchen. That’s where Hunero would be.

  Satet marched into the kitchen, and there, kneeling before the small oven in the back corner, was her sister. “Ha! You thought I’d go away, but I found you. I’ll wager you were surprised to hear my voice when you thought I was still in…”

  Hunero hadn’t turned around. She hadn’t moved at all. Satet held the lamp out and walked over to the oven. Something was crawling on her sister’s back. Flies. The dim yellow light spread over Hunero’s back and landed on a blackened spot surrounding a hole in the linen of her shift. More flies darted in and out of the wound, and other insects. The lamp began to shake, distorting the light.

  Satet gripped it with both hands and continued to stare at her sister. Hunero had been kneeling before a ledge that formed a work surface in front of the oven. Her face was buried in a thick slab of dough. All Satet could see was the side of her cheek, sunken, dried, discolored with flour. Backing up, Satet continued to stare.

  Her thoughts slowed to the speed of the Nile current in a year of drought. Then they grew even more sluggish, like the mud slurry in a desert wadi after a storm. Loud buzzing to her left caused Satet to turn her head. Against the wall, a stairway led up to the second floor from the kitchen. Bay sprawled facedown, as if he’d fallen on his way up. He too bore a hole in his back and dark, clotted stains on the skin surrounding the wound. His body failed to hold her attention for long.

  Satet looked back at her sister. “Well, look at this place. Is this the kind of life you prefer to the farm?” She rocked back and forth on her heels while holding the lamp in both hands. “Don’t prattle excuses at me, dear sister. And don’t expect me to come here to stay with you. I’m taking some things for myself back to Lord Meren’s house.”