by Gill, Anton
The elderly doctor was not alone. Walking with him was a girl with the same intelligent face, but more delicate, subtle features. She had a clear, high forehead, framed by a mass of black hair dressed in a complex braid. Her large chestnut eyes were set under slender dark-brown eyebrows, and her fine nose above a generous mouth, curved in a smile which was partly defensive. Her chin was firm without being obstinate. She was tall - taller than Huy — and she had broad shoulders and full breasts, though her legs were long and slim, and her hips almost boyish.
Wooden folding chairs had been brought out from the shade of the house and set under a tamarisk tree, where house servants brought Dakhla wine, honey and figs. Horaha’s manner was hospitable and charming; but he could not disguise an inner lack of ease.
‘How private do you wish this interview to be?’ he asked Huy-‘I have not introduced you to my daughter. She is Senseneb, and since my wife’s death she has been my right hand — more. I have no secrets from her, and if anything she knows more about my affairs than I do myself.’
He was talking too much, too fulsomely; out of nervousness, Huy supposed. He smiled at the girl, but she did not relax her own expression. She would remain defensive until she knew whether or not he intended harm to her father.
‘Are you a doctor too?’ he asked her politely.
‘My father has taught me,’ she replied, non-committally.
‘There is no reason for you not to stay, if you wish,’ said Huy, and was pleased to see her expression unstiffen.
As their conversation progressed, Huy was happy to find that there was very little of the restraint that had surrounded his talk with Merinakhte. Or rather, the restraint was of a different kind. The unease he had been aware of in Horaha did not diminish, and though Senseneb said little she would occasionally dart her father a warning glance. To try to relax them more, Huy played the part of the bland bureaucrat, making routine enquiries for the record, given that the death in question concerned the most important person in the country. He affected a lack of interest in the question of the pharaoh’s successor, taking the line that whoever ruled, people like him would always be needed. This act went some way towards having its desired effect, though despite himself Huy was sorry to see that Senseneb was beginning to look at him with mild contempt. A large and indolent cat, one of two that were prowling around the table, leapt on to his lap and settled there, purring.
He wondered how old Senseneb might be. Not a girl any more, she might have been at the end of her third decade. Had she been married? Was she still? Did she have children? Her face told him nothing, and Huy fought his curiosity. It was not relevant.
They had come to the cause of the king’s death. Horaha exchanged more frequent glances with his daughter, and even their posture began to betray the anxiety they felt. Huy could not ignore this.
‘You tell me you believe Nebkheprure Tutankhamun died accidentally,’ he said. ‘But your faces and your bodies tell me a different story.’ He looked from one to the other, but neither would meet his eye. ‘Do not be concerned that this conversation will be repeated farther than is necessary. It is the truth that we want.’ Huy chose his words carefully, if you believe that the king died by someone’s hand, do you not think that his Ka will not see you as accomplices if you do not speak of it?’
‘Perhaps the Black Land has reached a point where the living great are more to be feared than the dead,’ said Senseneb finally. Her father bowed his head. Huy realised that he had played his petty official role too well. They would never trust him with open hearts. But Senseneb had already said too much.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked her quickly.
Her eyes blazed at last. ‘I mean that there is little room for truth.’
Horaha raised his hand too late to stop her speaking. Now he let it fall.
‘You had better tell me what you think,’ Huy said to him, but without threat in his voice. He wished he could be honest with this man, and tell him that in truth he represented the interests of the queen. He knew without being told that they thought the king’s death was no accident, and had sound reasons for that belief; but even if he were frank with them, would they believe him?
Huy told himself to be patient. Perhaps he could come back, once he had gathered more information, and lay it before them-Then they might exchange their knowledge for his, and he would have the foundations of a badly-needed alliance with which to help the queen. But for the moment he could not know, or risk too much intimacy. It was frustrating that a lack of trust kept him from knowing exactly what conclusions Horaha had drawn from his examination of the king; but perhaps it was as important to know that they existed. And unless they were past masters, both Horaha and his daughter were amateurs in the aft of subterfuge. If he had not been on their side, they had already given him enough to destroy them.
‘My father has told you all he can,’ said Senseneb as she walked him to the gate. ‘There is no doubt that the king’s death was a tragic accident.’
‘It leaves the queen badly exposed,’ said Huy, deliberately dropping his guard at this unexpected opportunity.
‘But that is simply the will of the gods,’ she replied, looking at him. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’
‘If Tutankhamun’s death was an accident, yes.’
She looked at him more closely. ‘Do you think otherwise?’ Huy did not answer. Senseneb’s expression changed, and he knew that she was wondering whether her first assessment of him was correct. He left her with the question in her mind, still unsure if the seeds of an alliance were here. His main concern was that he had impulsively laid himself open to betrayal. But he could not see Senseneb or her father as servants of Horemheb. And he hoped that they would not be left with the impression that he was.
It was late when he left the beautiful house in the doctors’ compound. What a perfect place it seemed, and yet how sad and confused were its occupants. Huy, thrust out of the quiet and secure life he had trained for, which was all he had ever wanted, had come with time to know that such a life does not exist. In such a house, in such a garden, he might still have believed it possible. But he knew that in the end the only quiet place, the only cool pool beside which he could sit in total security, was the one buried at the centre of his heart.
Unfortunately walls were not enough to shut out life.
He made his way under the lengthening shadows of the sycamores and acacias down through the town towards the harbour quarter, but he did not go home immediately. Instead, he headed for the string of eating houses which ran along the quay where the broad-bottomed bullion barges were tied up. A scattered light from their frontage was thrown against the implacable darkness which was gathering over the River. Very faintly, through the haze, the fires of the workmen engaged in their never-ending task of tomb excavation glowed on the West Bank.
Huy wondered how work on Tutankhamun’s hastily-prepared grave was progressing. He had heard that it was nearing completion. The burial would take place as soon as the body was ready, Ay’s messenger Ineny had told him. All the arrangements had been taken over by Ay, but no agreement had yet been reached over who should perform the rite of Opening the Mouth.
The smell of linseed oil, bak, and spices reached his nostrils as he approached the untidy line of buildings open at the front, with small tables sprawling out onto the quayside as far as the lantern light would reach.
A number of diners sat at each establishment. They were mainly rivermen, and the noise of the conversation and the mingled smells of cooking, the scurrying of the serving men and girls, and the steam and smoke from the fires and the clay ovens at the rear, created a chaotic and amiable inferno in which it was easy to hide. Threading his way through tables Huy found Nehesy seated near the back of the third eating house, an untouched bowl of duck and lentils in front of him, his hands clasping and unclasping impatiently. He half rose as Huy quickly sat next to him, placing a hand on his arm.
‘No one saw you arrive?’ asked Huy.
�
�They don’t know my face down here, or I’d have been mobbed. Everyone’s talking about the king’s death. I overheard more than one bargemaster say he wasn’t continuing on to the Northern Capital until he was sure who the next pharaoh was going to be.’
‘It won’t make any difference to them.’ it won’t make any difference to most of us; but we like to think it’s important that we know.’
Huy smiled. ‘Maybe we’re being optimistic to think that it won’t make any difference. Did you see the chariot?’
Nehesy glanced around quickly. ‘Yes. The guards weren't too happy about it at first, but as soon as I told them who I was, they let me in. Especially as I happened to take along a couple of antelope hides, which they were very happy to accept.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘That I needed to check the equipment — the sand shovel, what weapons were left — for my own report.’
‘And?’
Nehesy leant forward. He thrust his great head forward, placed his elbows on the table, and spread his hands wide. ‘In the confusion when we found the king and brought him back, I didn’t take in much detail, but I can tell you this now: the chariot is completely undamaged. There isn’t a dent on its shell. I don’t know if they’ve cleaned it — it doesn’t look like it because there’s still plenty of sand caught in the axle and around the wheel spokes — but there isn’t a trace of any blood, or hair, or skin. I saw the wound on the king’s skull. If he had struck it on the chariot there would be signs of where he got the blow.’
‘You’re sure it would have dented the shell?’
Nehesy spread his hands wider in impatience. ‘Look, those electrum chariots are feather light. The metal would bend if you blew on it. There is something else too.’
‘Yes?’
‘The harness has disappeared. All of it. Bridle, bit, reins, girth - all gone. The guards knew nothing of it, and it wasn’t returned to the stables.’
Huy paused for a moment, thinking. Then he said, ‘What will happen to the chariot?’
‘The story is that it will be buried with the king. The new officer in charge of the official inquiry has inspected it.’
Then there is nothing we can do,’ said Huy.
You can tell Ay what we’ve found out. What did the doctors say?’
Huy told him.
Then there is enough to go on. With that information, if Ay cannot block Horemheb…‘ Nehesy broke off in exasperation, as Huy continued to hesitate.
‘We can’t assume Horemheb is responsible for the king’s death,’ Huy said, finally. ‘He’s not the only one who stands likely to profit by it, and if he has no other virtue, he has shown himself to have patience.’
‘Consider this then,’ said Nehesy. ‘The man in charge of the inquiry is Kenamun. He is the new chief of police.’
Huy drew in his breath. He thought of the unsettled score he had with the former priest-administrator. In those days Kenamun had been Horemheb’s man; there was no reason to think that things had changed.
He did not notice a boatman at the next table rise and leave, his plate of food untouched.
SIX
As soon as she awoke she knew something was wrong. At first she lay still, trying to guess by the quality of the light what time it was. From the cold and the stillness, she knew that morning was still far away. Then she wondered what it was that had awakened her so suddenly, so absolutely. All that was left in her heart was the memory of a noise, or of the ceasing of a noise.
She was not frightened. She lay and looked at the window, framing white moonlight. Some spilled into the room, and she waited until her eyes grew into it enough for her to see her way without a lamp. When she was satisfied, she threw off the sheet and stood up, naked in the cool darkness, enjoying the sensation for a moment before she directed her attention to the silence around her; the noise of the sheet and the creaking of the leather bedstraps had been an intrusion, and now it had returned, more intense than before.
Suddenly she realised what had awakened her: the coughing had stopped. She pulled on her long robe and left the room, walking briskly along the verandah, open on one side to the sky, to her father’s room.
The house servant whose bed was placed outside it was already awake, and unable to decide what to do. Pushing him aside, Senseneb grabbed the handle of the door and opened it.
Horaha lay on his back, his neck reposing on a bone headrest, the oil lamp beside him still burning. His arms were splayed, his hands open, palms upwards. His head had fallen back and his lips and eyes were open. His body was still. The only movement was from the minute bubbles that frothed and broke at the corners of his mouth.
‘Get Hapu,’ she told the servant at her elbow, but even as he ran to fetch the chief steward she knew that her father was dead. She had probably known it the moment she had entered the room and seen him. A large yellow moth which had been fluttering around the lamp now left its rotating course and settled near Horaha’s eye. For a second Senseneb found herself hoping to see the cheek flinch, but the moth might as well have landed on a statue.
She was astounded at how calm she felt. She crossed the room to the body and checked pulse and breath as he had taught her, automatically, seeking refuge from her feelings, keeping them at bay through the actions she took. Soon enough the thoughts would pour in. She was an orphan and a divorcee, with no children and no other relatives. Though she knew enough to practise medicine, it would be hard here in the Southern Capital. She would have to go away, but where?
She pushed the door of her heart closed. For the moment it would be enough to find out what had happened.
There was a sound of running feet, bare feet on the wooden floor of the verandah. She turned to see Hapu, closely followed by the frightened house servant.
‘What has happened?’ the steward asked, scared himself.
‘Horaha is dead. We must make his Khat comfortable,’ she said. Her voice was firm. The commands that came from it calmed the men. They came into the room, glad to escape from the tumbling rush of their own feelings in activity.
‘Do what is necessary,’ she continued. ‘We must send for the embalmer at dawn. But I want to speak to him before he touches the body.’
‘Yes, Lady.’
She noticed the title they had instantly accorded her. Up until now, she had been Returned Daughter of the House. If was three years since her husband had divorced her on grounds of barrenness, and sent her back to her father. Her husband, a kind man, had even paid her the agreed divorce fund which had been settled at their marriage, and had not told her parents that he had other grounds for divorce: her adultery. Her mouth felt acid at the recollection. Seven wasted years. Why should she think of them now? Perhaps because she was alone again.
When they had done, removing the headrest and replacing it with a large pad of linen, then resting the arms on more linen pads, they went to fetch the linen sheet soaked in water in which they would cover the corpse to keep the insects away. Alone with her father, she leant close to his face and dabbed away the foam at his lips. It smelt rank.
She drew back, stood up, thinking. It was two days since that thickset investigator from Ay’s household had been here. He had tried hard to play the little official, but his eyes were too intelligent and his mouth too humorous to deceive her. They had fenced with each other, but there had been something in the air between them which had made them sense each other as friends. Who was he really? She had little doubt that she would see him again, but how soon? It seemed that she needed him urgently, and she did not know where to find him.
In the stillness, she sent a thought to him, concentrating hard. If it reached him, he would come.
Two days. Who had betrayed her father? Perhaps Merinakhte. But her refusal to sleep with him was too small a reason for such vengeance. There was no doubt in her mind that Horaha had been poisoned.
When had the coughing started? Early the previous day. Horaha had put it down to a chill caught at the bank of the R
iver during the Oblation to Hapy. The dry season was nearing its end and Horaha had been chosen as one of the officials to offer this year’s sacrifice for the flood. He had drunk the holy river water, but so had all the others chosen.
Horaha had taken no food or drink outside his own house since then that she had not taken too. Indeed, since the noon meal yesterday he had eaten nothing, taking only the herb tea he had prescribed himself. It seemed insane, she thought, that he had to die in the middle of the best community of doctors in the entire Black Land.
She knelt by her father, holding his hand, knowing that nearby two of the Eight Elements, his Khou and his Ka, would be standing in the gloom. His Ba would be preparing itself for the long lonely journey through the Twelve Halls. Struggling with her thoughts, she remained with Horaha until dawn, sending message after message to Huy. Perhaps it would work, though with the generations the Blacklanders were losing this gift of communication.
Then, shortly before dawn, she saw in her heart’s eye a stocky figure leave a house in a shabby street in the harbour quarter, and she knew that he had heard her.
Huy’s first thought was that the killing had been committed with such crude disregard for secrecy that it was meant to be taken as a warning.
‘You will have to heed it,’ he told Senseneb.
‘How?’
‘Keep your head down. Do nothing.’
‘How can I do nothing?’ she asked angrily. ‘Anyway, they will be watching the house. They will have seen you come.’
‘That is not unnatural. You did not summon me by any means they could track. As far as they are concerned, I was bound to come back here. If they are watching me - or you - at all.’
‘They must want to know what has happened.’
‘They will hear about it soon enough in any case.’
Senseneb was silent. Then she said, ‘What is this all about?’