City of the Sea

by Anton Gill

  ‘The king is dying, you say,’ replied Huy, determined not to show Horemheb the shock he felt at hearing his own worst fears so baldly confirmed. ‘Someone must take responsibility. The Southern Army stands by the king. Your army still needs paying.’

  ‘You are well informed.’

  ‘It is self-evident.’

  ‘Why should I do this?’

  ‘You have great matters ahead of you. Do not leave anything behind your back.’

  Horemheb glanced across to where his secretary sat at a much smaller table.

  ‘Horemsaef,’ he said.

  The man looked up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Get out, will you?’

  Noiselessly, the man, his eyes lowered, picked up his papers and departed. Huy watched him go. Was this how people would be treated? He had given Horemheb credit for greater intelligence.

  ‘Now tell me what you know,’ said the General.’

  Choosing the manner and the matter of his telling carefully, Huy told Horemheb. When he had finished, the General smiled.

  ‘Have you been working for Ay?’

  ‘He gave me leave to seek my son.’

  ‘I am sure he did.’

  Huy spread his hands. ‘I am bidden back to the Southern Capital. I am sure you know that.’

  ‘Neferabu brought me letters.’

  ‘There is little more I can do here. besides, I do not have the power.’

  ‘You did well to tell me of this, Huy.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There will be work for you in the Southern Capital for as long as you wish it.’

  Huy inclined his head, and took his leave. Horemheb watched him go, and waited for a breath’s space before rising and crossing the room to where an archway gave onto a narrow balcony overlooking the town. Waiting for him there was Userhet.

  ‘I swear I had no idea Huy knew about the books,’ said Userhet.

  ‘You did not even know that they had gone,’ snapped Horemheb.

  ‘Meten was responsible for them.’

  ‘And you are responsible for Meten. And the others. You were ordered to look after my interest in this.’

  ‘And so I have. What if Huy has the books? Your name is not mentioned.’

  ‘I do not want you brought down, or Kamose. You are useful men.’

  Userhet spread his hands. ‘This alters nothing. The only ones who need to be punished are Senofer and Meten. I have told you what I suspected them of planning. This seems to confirm it.’

  ‘Huy is a man who digs deep.’

  ‘He will believe justice has been served if Senofer and Meten die.’

  ‘That depends on how much Heby told him.’

  ‘Yes. But even if Heby has named Kamose and me, your name is safe. Only Kamose and I know of your involvement.’

  ‘You have done well so far, Userhet. It is a pity Atirma sent his man to see the brothers. Heby need never have died. And yet perhaps it was necessary. He might have destroyed you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Userhet spoke tonelessly.

  ‘The gods mock us,’ said Horemheb. ‘There is now no need of the money from slave-running. We do not have to finance an army and fight for the Golden Chair. Ay is dying and I am the only man in the Black Land to wear the Double Crown after him.’

  ‘Truly,’ said Userhet, ‘you will be a worthy god-on-earth.’ He was a loyal soldier. He had served Horemheb in many campaigns. But in his heart a seed of doubt had germinated. And he felt sorry for Huy. He hoped the scribe would never find out the truth. In his own heart, he perceived that a terrible circle had been completed: Ipur and Duaf dead, and Heby dead. Now a trap was closing on the brothers, and Huy, unknowingly, would be both its bait and its operator.

  ‘Huy will want to try to find the books,’ said Horemheb. ‘I want you to discover whether the sons of Ipur have them. Get Kamose to send someone trustworthy to ask for them.’

  *

  It was late in the day when Huy and Psaro made their way to the drinking house in the harbour quarter. Huy had no desire to return to his lodgings – he needed to get away from everything that had to do with government and officialdom. He was three doors away from its entrance, his heart brooding on Heby, his body-servant at his heels, when someone leant out from behind a column and touched his arm.

  He stepped back swiftly and reached for his knife, realising that his nerves were more taut than he had thought. But he did not draw. The figure stepped out into the evening light and stood before him with lowered eyes.

  ‘Parenefer.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have much to tell me.’

  Parenefer hung his head. ‘I have been drinking. That is why I did not come to you earlier.’

  ‘You have done much damage by your delay.’

  ‘It was not my fault.’

  ‘What happened?’ snapped Psaro. ‘Why did you lose us? You were supposed to prevent our being followed.’

  ‘I know what I have done. I was following a man I did not know that day - a man from outside town, who works for Atirma. I think he must come from one of Atirma’s estates. He is a small, clever man, who can slip round corners like a cat; but I did not lose him until we were on the edge of the southern quarter.’ Parenefer had spoken in a rush; now he paused for breath. ‘He had just crossed the main east-to-west road and I was about to follow him, but at that moment two chariots appeared, clearing the way. It was for a column of prisoners-of-war being marched across the city. The gods know what they were doing in the centre of the town! They must have been landed at the city harbour by accident, instead of at the military jetties. I cannot think of any other reason. There were many of them. When they had passed, I had no hope of catching up, though I tried. I set off for the square you were bound for; but Atirma’s man must have been aware that I was following him. Somebody stepped out of an alley behind me and hit me. The next thing I knew, I was lying in the well of an old barge by the harbour, and it was night.’

  ‘You should have come to us immediately,’ said Psaro. ‘What do you mean by hiding yourself away and drinking?’

  ‘I was ashamed. Let me help now.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Huy. ‘It may be that you can.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Cheruiri left Ipur’s house filled with an overwhelming sense of excitement. Throughout the interview he had just come from with Senofer and Meten he had found it hard to conceal it, and to maintain a bland and disinterested exterior. It was as well that the brothers had seemed just as eager not to prolong their talk, as Cheruiri was eager to be gone almost as soon as he had arrived, for he had much to do and little time to accomplish it in. Kamose would be expecting him back at the governor’s mansion immediately after leaving the brothers, and it was not Cheruiri’s intention, with the information he was sure he now had, to go straight back. At least he would not have to seek Huy out: they had already arranged a rendezvous in advance; and Cheruiri knew that he was not followed: Kamose’s trust in him was unquestioning.

  Even so he took back routes. He did not want to meet by chance anyone he knew. As he hurried along he reflected on what he had learned.

  Only a few hours earlier – it seemed much longer ago – an agitated Kamose had ordered him to go to Senofer and Meten and demand the official accounts of the slave-trading transactions. Horemheb had asked to see them without delay. Carrying the governor’s badge as his authority, but dispensing with the small escort he might have chosen to accompany him, he had made his way to the brothers’ house without delay. It was clear from the first moment that Senofer and Meten did not have the books. They were not yet properly drawn up, they had said; Duaf’s calculations had to be checked. Meten would have a full fair copy drawn up for the General by the same time the following day, if the General would be patient. Primed by a meeting with Huy the previous evening, Cheruiri was sensitive to their mood, and he knew that the scribe had been right.

  Huy was waiting for him impatiently in the aft cabin of the falcon-ship Goddess of Truth in which N
eferabu had been sent to fetch the scribe back to the Southern Capital. Boarding the ship, Cheruiri rejoiced at the feel and the smell of it, the texture of its wood, the railings and steering-oar, the pitch between the deck-boards, the towering superstructure to the stern, the soaring prow. He imagined himself on board her as she hoisted her sail for the voyage south.

  Quickly he told the scribe what he had learned.

  ‘Heby was telling the truth,’ said Huy. ‘They have neither the official falsified accounts or the true ones which they drew up. Not that either would be any good to them without the other.’ He pondered. ‘Heby did not have them, nor did he know where they were. They must have tried to find out in vain. If they still thought he knew, they would not have killed him.’

  ‘Don’t forget that Kamose, Userhet and Atirma are involved as well.’

  ‘They will be brought down if the brothers find the books and use them to strike at them. How is Kamose?’

  ‘He is worried.’

  ‘Watch him, Cheruiri,’ said Huy. ‘This may go deeper than we think.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cheruiri, in truth not certain what the scribe meant, though prepared to go along with it. ‘But surely our first concern is to find the books before they do. We have lit a fire under them.’

  ‘We are fortunate to have Parenefer. He will get us into Duaf’s house.’

  ‘What do you hope to find there? It is sealed up, in any case. Even a house servant will not find his way back inside.’

  ‘There is a way,’ said Huy. ‘I could not find it again but Parenefer knows it. I must use it quickly. Do not worry about the brothers. They will think they have exhausted every possibility of finding the accounts, and their concern now will be to produce something to satisfy Horemheb by tomorrow, if he agrees. You must carry your message from them back now to Kamose. Do so without delay. We want to keep Senofer and Meten dancing on hot embers.’

  ‘When will we meet again?’

  ‘At the governor’s mansion, I have no doubt. We need not appoint a time. I am sure Horemheb will arrest the brothers. His suspicions are aroused. He may also arrest the other three. Just watch the situation. Tell me what you see.’

  ‘You want the brothers more than anything, don’t you?’ asked Cheruiri.

  ‘Yes,’ said Huy. ‘I am convinced they killed my son.’

  ‘He was like you,’ said Cheruiri. ‘He believed in the same kind of justice.’ He left then. Huy looked into his heart. He was not sure that he liked what he saw there, but there was little time for reflection, and none for turning back, if the play was to be played out. And this was the only route he knew to a conclusion.

  Equally, he was sure that Nofretka was still alive. He hoped that it would not only be the books he found at Duaf’s house.

  He allowed Cheruiri time to make a start towards the governor’s mansion, and then left the ship himself, reassuring the anxious Neferabu that all was in hand, that his departure should not be delayed longer than a day. To himself he said that if he had not resolved this within another revolution of the sun he never would, and that, satisfied or unfulfilled, he would be making his way south by that time tomorrow.

  Parenefer had told Huy where the dive was that he had used for his drinking, and they met there. It was a dark place, unventilated and so hot that a man could scarcely draw breath. Parenefer was waiting near the entrance and joined Huy immediately.

  ‘No-one has seen you?’

  ‘No. I am certain.’

  ‘Then let us go.’

  They made their way hurriedly through the streets to the River and followed it upstream until they reached the small boathouse where the tunnel emerged. Parenefer had already stored torches there. He kindled a flame and lit the pitch in which he had dipped them. Then they slid back the flagstone and descended.

  The tunnel seemed shorter going in this direction, but no less sinister. In both their hearts was the thought that the brothers might have placed a heavy weight on the trapdoor opening into the storeroom in the house; though that seemed less likely as no similar precaution had been taken to close off the entrance in the boathouse. Perhaps the brothers needed the tunnel. Perhaps they were using it now.

  Huy carried the short bronze knife he had had for years and which was the only weapon he possessed. He had been taught to use it by a riverman he had known years ago but he had rarely had occasion to. However he was good with a knife and proud of this, for a scribe, and especially for the senior official he had become, highly unusual skill. But then most senior officials wouldn’t be likely to scurry along secret passages in the dirty damp dark either, not knowing what might be round the next bend. Parenefer, bent low because of his height, would be less useful in a fight in such a constricted space; but he carried a war club and a stabbing sword.

  They had almost reached the place where the tunnel opened out under Duaf’s house to accommodate the steps that led to the storeroom when they heard the sobbing. Or was it keening – because it seemed that whoever it was had been crying for so long that the sound she made had developed into a regular, almost ritualistic pattern? It was muffled, but if the person was lying somewhere near them in the passage they could not see her – for it was certainly a woman’s voice – though there was little doubt that she was close.

  Following the sound they examined the smooth and apparently unbroken surface of the wall to their left. The stones which formed the sides of the tunnel and supported the weight of the house above it were smooth and old and perfectly trimmed – the work of a generation of craftsmen which had cut them perhaps two or three hundred floods earlier.

  The torches were small and they were beginning to flicker low. Huy put his face close to the wall, squinting to focus, making the best of the guttering light. But his eyes were used to close work and at last they picked out what he was looking for – a darker, deeper crack between a group of stones, which ran horizontally for three or four paces and then vertically for two, then back on itself again, describing a rectangle. Within this rectangle what appeared to be separate blocks of stone turned out not to be: a single block had been incised to give it the appearance of many, disguising the stone door which it in fact was. Giving Parenefer both torches, Huy ran his fingers along the edges of the block, willing himself to be patient, willing the brothers not to arrive. Had they walled her up to let her die, or were they keeping her alive? If that was the case, they could not leave her in there long. Then his fingertips came into contact with an area of stone which had been crosshatched with minute cuts, on which they could get a grip. Gently, he pushed. The block rolled away in complete silence, revealing a greater darkness beyond, from which a stench emanated that clawed at his throat and made him retch.

  The torchlight revealed two pale figures crammed together. The lower one was turned to the wall and had the inertness of a sahu. The other was naked, the pale skin bruised, hands held over the face. From it the cries came.

  ‘Nofretka. Do not be afraid.’ Huy reached out tenderly to her. She shrank back at his touch, gasping in panic, and gulping air. Huy took her by the shoulders and pulled her out of the hole. The movement of her body dislodged the corpse below her and it half tumbled out too, turning on its back. The bandages which held it together were wet and dark, and from them the stink came. Huy pulled the girl away from it, pulled her to her feet.

  ‘Open the door, Parenefer.’

  Glad to be given an order to shake him into action, Parenefer braced his long arms and pushed upwards and sideways at the stone trapdoor separating them from the storeroom. Fresh air billowed down and a dim light reached them from above. Parenefer thrust his head and shoulders out of the hole.

  ‘There is no-one.’

  ‘Help me.’

  It was not far from the hidden niche to the trapdoor. Huy half-dragged, half-guided Nofretka to it. The smell of the corpse was on her. He wondered how long she had been left there, and how she had managed to breathe. She was drinking in air, her breasts pushed against him, her body half-f
ighting, half-clinging to him. With Parenefer’s help, Huy hoisted her into the storeroom, and laid her on the dusty floor.

  ‘Nofretka. It is Huy. Parenefer is with me. You are safe.’

  ‘I will not tell you. Heby is the one who knows. And you have killed him.’

  ‘Open your eyes. Take your hands away from your eyes.’

  He took her wrists and pulled them apart. She had bruised her own eyes with the balls of her hands. Now she opened them with eyes that saw him and did not see him. He waited, looking at her, while she drew him into her conscious heart.

  ‘Huy,’ she said at last. She did not believe he was there.

  ‘This is not a dream. But we have little time. Please.’

  She rose, with his help, to a sitting position. Parenefer untied a flask at his side and offered her water. She drank greedily, then coughed and gagged, her body shaking. But her eyes showed that she had returned to herself. She looked from one to the other of the men.

  ‘We need the books,’ said Huy. ‘Then we can take revenge. You said you took them.’

  ‘Yes. Heby never knew where they were. That was our policy. Is the house empty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked towards the hole in the floor.

  ‘It is my mother down there. They told me that my father killed her. I can tell that it is my mother. We must help her. Her ka is in need.’

  ‘Yes, we will help her. There will be many funerals. But first, the books.’

  ‘You are sure they are not here?’

  ‘The house is sealed. There is a guard on the door.’

  ‘But the tunnel...’

  ‘That is why we must make haste.’

  She looked at him with eyes that looked darker than they were, in the dim light, in the pallor of her face.

  ‘Come.’

  She led the way through the house, gliding as silently as a ghost, the smell of her mother’s death clinging to her less as she moved through the air, until they came to Duaf’s work room. She opened a cupboard one cubit from where Meten had searched for the books in vain. She reached in. At its back was a false panel. She removed it and from the space beyond she withdrew six tightly rolled scrolls of papyrus, three bound with black reed, three with red.