by Anton Gill
‘Yes.’
‘Then you will perhaps have heard more than I could usefully tell you.’
What do you mean by that? thought Huy. It was what Duaf did not tell him that was revealing. The scribe was sure that the merchant knew all about his late colleague’s sexual taste. Had it been to this man’s benefit to connive at it? And what did Duaf think Iutenheb had told Huy? It seemed unlikely that he would suspect her of revealing her husband’s perversion to a stranger. But how clever was Duaf? How good a reader of men’s hearts was he?
Huy had not come to this interview unprepared. ‘You have a daughter,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ Duaf was immediately suspicious at this change of tack.
‘How old is she?’
Duaf met Huy’s eyes at last. ‘What has my daughter to do with Ipur’s death?’
‘That is my concern,’ snapped Huy. ‘And do not think that I come here entirely ignorant of what Ipur was like. I need not remind you that the governor has charged me to investigate his death. Others have chosen to be more candid than you.’
Duaf was about to reply angrily, but changed his heart and said, in a low voice, ‘My daughter Nofretka has seen sixteen floods. She is the same age as her mother was when she bore her.’
‘And Ipur? Was he a friend of the family when she was a child?’
‘Yes,’ replied Duaf levelly.
‘Did you trust him with her?’
Now Duaf was angry; but there was fear behind the anger. Huy wondered if he had gone too far, but he needed to do some flushing out. He had been to the city archive and looked over the record of criminal proceedings for the past decade. There had been five cases of children being raped. One boy and four girls. Two of the girls had died. The cold record described the manner of their deaths and the investigations that followed. The deaths had occurred three years apart. In each case the girl was six years old. In the earlier case, the attacker was not found; in the second, an itinerant riverman from the south had been arrested by the Medjays, but he had cut his throat in the cells. How he had concealed the flint knife was not explained. In charge of the investigation had been the priest-administrator, Ipur. Huy had searched in vain for the families of any of the five victims. All had moved away. Huy had considered seeking out Iutenheb again. How much of all this had she known? In a city of this size talk of the crimes would have been on everyone’s lips. Much of his sympathy for her had waned. But when he returned to her house he had found it shut up. Clearly, after his visit, she had hastened her departure. Had she regretted what she’d told him?
‘Why should I not have done?’ said Duaf.
‘Allegations have been made against him,’ said Huy, stiffly.
‘Against him now,’ replied Duaf with unexpected heat. ‘Now that he cannot defend himself.’ He paused for breath. ‘I can guess who told you,’ he continued more calmly. ‘Iutenheb is a bitter woman, Huy. That was an unhappy union; even so I am surprised that she should choose so evil a form of revenge.’
‘Well, she is gone now,’ said Huy.
‘Yes, and no-one will regret it. She was mad, you know. Ipur was obliged to keep her a virtual prisoner. He was too good to her.’
Huy said nothing more, and left soon afterwards. Thoughtfully, he made his way through the crowded streets towards the governor’s mansion. He could scarcely contain his disgust at Duaf, and he no longer knew what to think of Iutenheb. He was almost relieved that she was gone, but he found it impossible not to hope that she would be able to find some peace with herself.
There was a fish market in progress in the harbour square and the smell of the unclean creatures almost turned his stomach. He found himself longing for the fresh air and the dry heat of the Southern Capital.
There was a conspiracy here, he was sure of it. Ay must have had an inkling of it too. But was it connected in some way to Horemheb, or was it just a cartel of local gangsters interested in feathering their own nest? Either way it smelt as badly as the fish. It was obvious that Duaf had known all along about Ipur’s predilection for young girls – but who else knew? Kamose? And if so, why encourage Huy to investigate the death? Were they really so naive as to think he would not discover the murdered man’s secret? Ipur’s death was almost certainly the result of a revenge killing – the lapse of time between his last offence was easily explained by the need to organise and pay for such a thing. But there were stumbling blocks: there was no reason at all to think that Ipur had been responsible for every child abuse case recorded and if Iutenheb was to be believed he was certainly not the perpetrator of the attack on the boy-child. Oddly, Huy remembered, Ipur had been in charge of that case too, and though no-one had been arrested, the record showed that the crime had been investigated by the priest with great thoroughness. On the other hand, a city like this had a shifting population of sailors upon any of whom any embarrassing crime could be conveniently pinned. Had that been what had happened after the second child- murder?
There was little doubt in Huy’s heart that Ipur had been sheltered by all the chief men in the city to protect whatever business interest they held in common and in which Ipur had played his essential part. But that protection had not been enough to save him. Huy dwelt on the brutality of Ipur’s killing: was a warning to the others to be read into it? The records did not indicate where the families of the children involved had gone – but even if Kamose could tell him – or was willing to tell him – he would not be able to pursue his investigation that far.
He found himself at the top of the low hill on which the mansion compound stood. He was sweating and out of breath, but at least he was clear of the smell of the fish-market. He shook himself to gather his thoughts. With a shock he realised that he had allowed himself to be sidetracked. Though part of his heart longed for it, he knew that soon Ay would recall him to the Southern Capital, and he was still no nearer finding out what had happened to his son. The pharaoh would want him back in the Southern Capital soon, if only to discover what else Huy had found out in the City of the Sea. The scribe also acknowledged guiltily that for days now Senseneb had found no place in his thoughts. He looked around the sparse gardens of the compound. He seemed to be living once again in a dream. Was he losing touch with his own ka? Silently he said his Name to himself, and brought his breathing under control as he did so. There was a pounding in his head which he did not like. He wiped his brow with his shawl. He needed to bathe and to sit in a cool room. He would put off another interview with Kamose for the time being. He made his way towards his lodging, making himself walk slowly. He had sent Psaro with a message to Aahmes, giving her a report on his progress – or, more correctly, his lack of it – in his search for Heby. Now he found himself hoping that his servant would have returned before him. Being alone in this place was oppressive.
To his relief he saw Psaro hovering on the verandah of the little house Kamose had assigned to him – clearly on the lookout for Huy’s return. There was something in Psaro’s manner that made him quicken his pace.
‘What is it?’ he asked as soon as they were inside. Already he had thrown his shawl onto a chair, and, kicking off his sandals, he was preparing to take off his kilt. He needed to bathe. Perhaps cold water would cool his heart as well as his body.
‘I have been to see Lady Aahmes. I have delivered your message.’
‘Yes?’ said Huy, heavily. He was not looking forward to hearing Aahmes’ response to his lack of news. But Psaro’s voice was excited.
‘Scribe Huy, she has seen your son.’
Huy looked at him:
‘When?’
‘That is, she thinks she saw him.’
‘When?’
‘Last night. Near the house. She thought she heard a noise at the door and went to open it herself. It was late and the servants were preparing the beds. There was a moon last night. There was enough light to see to the end of the street. She says he was standing there.’
‘Did she call out to him?’ asked Huy, thinking, I must go to her at
once. Why did she not get word to me of this sooner?
‘You must speak to her yourself,’ said Psaro. ‘I could not ask her questions, only carry her message. But I think she was too astonished to do anything. Then he vanished.’
‘There was cloud last night,’ said Huy. Anxiety can make wishes seem to come true. ‘Perhaps she was mistaken.’
‘A mother would recognise her son,’ said Psaro.
Huy felt his own heart beating faster. He realised that a part of him had given Heby up for lost. Perhaps that was why he had not put more energy into the search for him. But there had been no trace to pick up. Now there seemed to be one in truth.
‘Get me some fresh clothes,’ he said to Psaro. He would have to go to his former wife as he was. He needed to speak to her while the memory was fresh. He was thinking, had Heby deliberately shown himself to his mother? Did Heby know that he was here, looking for him? Was he sending his father a message? He forced himself into a calmer frame of heart: this was not a time for emotion. It was much more likely that Aahmes was mistaken. And even if she had not been, the boy had disappeared again – and if he did not want to be found, Huy imagined that he would see to it that he was not found indeed. Or had it been Heby's ghost that she had seen?
‘Hurry.’
Within minutes they were hastening down the hill in the direction of the town. From the window of his work room, Kamose watched them go. At his elbow, his son-in-law Atirma watched them too.
Kamose wiped a thin film of sweat from his upper lip with a stubby finger.
‘Perhaps our little scribe has turned something up out of the dungheap at last,’ he said.
‘I think it is time to have him followed. Have him watched,’ said Atirma.
‘Yes,’ said Kamose. ‘But be discreet. We don’t want to startle the prey.’
‘If there is any.’
‘Oh, I think there will be.’
‘I have a man waiting,’ said Atirma, starting to go.
‘There’s no rush,’ said Kamose. ‘We know where he’s going.’
*
‘He was here,’ said Aahmes.
‘Can you show me? In the street?’ asked Huy. She took him through the door and along the road. The Seqtet boat was reaching the end of its daily journey, and for the present the street was deserted. Only the two servants watched curiously as they walked past them. Psaro loitered, unsure whether to accompany them or not. In the end he decided against it, but remained on the threshold, watching them. Huy followed Aahmes the short distance to the spot where she said she had seen their son. He stood next to her in the street rather helplessly, for he had no idea what he might be looking for, nor did the bare wall or the dusty floor of the street seem to offer any help at all.
He looked obliquely at his former wife. After the shock of their first meeting after so long she had appeared to him increasingly as a stranger, and now he studied her expression with a detachment that almost worried him. How could they have meant so much to each other once? Aahmes’ face was set, dull, but her eyes were intent and serious, as if she were searching the unhelpful ground and stone more energetically than Huy for some tangible proof or other that Heby had indeed been here. Huy followed her gaze, but he did not know what he might have expected to see. A shred of material from a soldier’s kilt? A copper buckle? Some small dropped belonging of Heby’s which Aahmes might have been able to identify positively as his? But there was nothing, not even a footprint in the dirt. A little further along there was, however, a narrow alley running at an abrupt angle to the street between two high garden walls. Huy walked down it a short way. It took another turn and from there he could see where it debouched several cubits further along into another street, where people were walking. If Heby had been here, it would have been easy for him to disappear by this route.
Slowly they returned to the house.
‘What does your husband think?’
‘He is not here. He has gone to the Northern Capital. There is some gold that we must sell.’ Her voice had that tone of quiet resignation common to those who have become used to despair. There was no hope in it; only an acknowledgement that ruin could be staved off a little longer. Might Heby’s appearance have awakened hope in her again? She led the way back through the empty rooms to those few still kept in use. Psaro stood aside to let them past but did not follow them.
‘I am sure I saw him, Huy,’ she said after they had sat in silence for a time.
‘Why did he not stay?’
‘I do not know. But he will have had his reasons.’ She looked at him. ‘I would like you to see him again. He is a fine man. You would be proud of him. He has your build, you know.’
Huy found himself more moved by her words and her expression than he wanted to be. He did not know whether to believe her story or not; but he knew that he wanted to. He wished he could comfort her, and longed to put an arm round her shoulders as he had done long ago when they were together, but something tense within her as she sat across from him, head bowed, prevented him from doing so.
‘When will Menuhotep return?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Will you tell him of this?’
She looked at him. ‘I am not sure. He has much to think about now.’
Huy was silent. After a time he drew himself to his feet and took his leave.
‘If he is here, he will know that I am too,’ he found himself saying. ‘And in that case I am sure he will show himself to me.’
‘He is not a deserter, Huy. He would not have returned if he was.’
‘No,’ said Huy, who in his heart was already trying to fathom his son’s plans. If his son was here. Ghosts showed themselves to their mothers, if they had been killed in battle, before the last journey to the Fields of the West.
He emerged into the late sunlight of the street and looked up and down for Psaro. Seeing him nowhere, he set off slowly in the direction in which Heby had been seen. Ahead of him Psaro emerged from the alleyway.
‘Look,’ said Psaro, and placed in the scribe’s hand a small copper buckle, such as might have been attached to a military kilt.
Chapter Seven
Nofretka had been half-fearful, half-relieved at Cheruiri’s news. She had never believed that Heby was dead, and even further from her heart had been any suspicion that he had deserted. If he had, she argued, then it was to fulfil some nobler purpose than fighting. He had not run away to save his skin.
She had hardly been able to contain her impatience since the time when Cheruiri, with the greatest secrecy, had first hinted to her that he might be able to bring news of Heby. But the news she had heard was not all good. It was like a boundary stone set in the desert: on one side blessings were written, on the other, curses. The blessing was that Ipur was gone, and that he had been destroyed by the man she loved. For the ten years since the priest had thrust his foulness into her six-year-old body she had lived in dread of him, though her father had persuaded her to keep silent, to endure her nightmares for the good of the family, and above all never to breathe a word of what had happened to her mother. She had obeyed, but the sight of Ipur, going blandly about his business in the city, had been a daily reminder and an insult. Her disgust at the man and his two arrogant sons had grown into loathing; but it had remained pent up within her until she met Heby. The curse was that in avenging her, Heby had put himself in danger of death.
It had been a chance meeting, at an official banquet at the governor’s mansion to which all the merchants of the town had been invited – Heby’s stepfather did not usually move in the inner circle of the city’s business people, and the talk was that Menuhotep was in continual difficulties with his affairs. She knew something of the proud young man’s background, and although she found him intimidating at first, she had soon sensed something vulnerable within him, hiding behind the set expression and the aggressive stance. She could not define what had attracted her to him. Perhaps it was that they both needed the same thing – someone
to confide in.
That, at least from her point of view, was how it had started a year earlier, though their meetings were infrequent and as secret as they could make them. She was sure her father was ignorant of them, and though at first she had been distressed to discover the friendship that appeared to exist between Heby and the sons of Ipur, no betrayal of the lovers had come from them. Nofretka and Heby had become lovers as soon as her modesty would permit – she needed him to exorcise the memory of Ipur from her body.
The shadow that still hung over her was the loss of her mother. Meritre had been more of a friend than a parent, far closer to her daughter in age than Duaf, whose fifty years seemed like a mountain of age on top of the remoteness of his character. Living with him alone was like being in prison, and Nofretka wondered how happy her mother had been. For the first time she wondered if Meritre’s normally serious expression hadn’t actually been one of sadness, and then she thought about the change that had come over her, how she had seemed to burn with a secret joy which she could not wholly contain, for a short time before her disappearance.
Had she had enough at last? Had she, too, found a secret lover and had she also found the courage to run away with him? Nofretka hoped so, however much she missed her. The news of Heby had made her own heart lighter, and she wondered if for her, too, the days in prison were numbered. They would have to be, she thought: she was not a fool, and she knew that sooner or later Duaf would want to choose a husband for her. She knew, too, who the most likely candidates were. The very thought made her flesh crawl: did the sons of Ipur know what their father had done to her?
She had been moving through the house too fast. Now as she approached the door of her father’s work room she slackened her pace. She did not know why he had summoned her to see him at this hour of the day, but the fact that it was unusual did not bode well. The servant sitting outside the door rose when he saw her, nodded solemnly – he was a self-important man who saw himself – erroneously – as Duaf’s right-hand man – and slipped inside the room, only to emerge again moments later and beckon her inside.