The City of Refuge: Book 1 of The Memphis Cycle

by Diana Wilder

  “Well?” he said.

  “It is done, Father,” the young man said. “Everything is in place near the city, ready to go at a moment's notice.”

  The older man nodded. “What of the quarry?”

  “We are ready,” replied the younger man. “The priesthood of Ptah is coming to dig at Akhet-Aten: they will find they've dug up more than they bargained for.”

  The words made a shiver trail upward along the man's spine, but he nodded, his broad face impassive in the glare. “I just hope you did it right,” he said.

  “We dug good and deep, never fear,” the younger man assured him. He smiled and repeated the words, “Good and deep.” When the older man remained silent he added, “I went into the city itself this morning.”

  The older man's brows drew together.

  “Yes,” continued the younger man. “Into its heart, where the grand palaces are. You may be afraid, but I'm not! I discussed it with our friend in Memphis during my visit a month ago. He insisted I look and report to him. Well, I looked.” His eyes shone. “There's more gold than you remember, Father! Wealth enough for all of us to live in ease forever. If you'll come with me this moment I can show—”

  “No!”

  “Hear me out! The gold is on the walls, it only needs to be scraped loose, or melted with a torch!”

  “No!” he said again. A flash of lighter color against the cliff caught the older man's eye; a papyrus fragment pinned to the rock by the wind. The sight made the breath catch in the back of his throat as he thought once more of deep-buried, perilous things, long hidden in the darkness, brought back terribly to life by those who dug too deeply in the debris of the past.

  He shook the thought from his mind and took the three steps that brought him out, overlooking the city. Gold, his son had said. Gold for the taking, gold to make them all wealthier even than they were. It only needed to be taken from the walls. By others, not by him. Never by him.

  III

  THE CITY OF KHEMNU

  Reign of Horemheb, Year 13

  The sun glinted from brown flesh, brightly dyed cloth and jewelry of burnished metals and many colored faience. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers and food cooked especially for the occasion. The city of Khemnu had turned out to witness the arrival of the force from Memphis, bound for the ruined city of Akhet-Aten under the command of Lord Nebamun. He was second in power only to the High Priest of Ptah. The worship of Ptah, the chief god of the ancient city of Memphis, was powerful in Egypt.

  Khonsu, Commander of the Army of the Fifteenth Province of Egypt, stood at the entrance to the palace of the Governor, awaiting the arrival of the priestly party, his mind awhirl with plans and a touch of unease.

  “So the Governor told you only last week,” said Kheti, his second-in-command. “Hard luck for you, being assigned to escort His Grace to that ghost town with your little girl so sick still, and your wife—” He flushed and fell silent.

  Khonsu shrugged with a good imitation of nonchalance. He was a dark-eyed man in his mid-thirties, with quirky brows and a mouth bracketed by lines of laughter. His expression was grim at the moment. “His Lordship has reasons for everything,” he said. “It's fitting for me to escort such an important visitor.” He paused, remembering the deserted city lying shadowed and ominous in its bowl of land by the river.

  “I wonder what he's like,” said Kheti.

  “I tried to investigate his background when I was given this assignment,” Khonsu said. “He can't be traced through his name or his patronymic: Nebamun and Nakht are too common. It's impossible to sort them out. From my information, the man appeared to be Upper Egyptian. He must have been in the army at one time: he's known to be an excellent charioteer and a master archer. I wonder how he came to be at the temple of Ptah.”

  Kheti frowned and shook his head.

  “He's the High Priest's son-in-law and heir,” Khonsu said. “If he's leading this expedition, the High Priest must consider the venture important enough to require the supervision of a close kinsman.” As he frequently did since given this assignment, Khonsu wondered again about what exactly was so vital about this mysterious mission.

  The cheers increased with the approaching roar of trumpets and the throb of drums.

  A carefully groomed child, standing by the roadside and clutching a huge armful of lotuses and marguerites, shifted his feet and stared down along the road.

  Khonsu gazed with unseeing eyes as he reviewed his assignment once more. Puzzle was piled upon puzzle, and he could not shake off a strange premonition about this entire expedition. They were going to the Heretic's deserted city. Khonsu had been raised on tales of horror centering on the place. The Heretic's cousin and Vizier, another Nakht, had presided over the dismantling of some of its larger buildings in the second year of Tutankhamun's reign. Prince Nakht, facing scandal and ruin, killed himself at Akhet-Aten. The dismantling was abandoned after his death. Khonsu was certain a fair amount of treasure had been left behind..

  Khonsu’s assignment was to escort the Second Prophet and his retinue to the abandoned city. He had two weeks to select the soldiers he judged steadiest, most of whom were sent south a week before to set up a garrison under the command of one of his top lieutenants. Khonsu had received word the previous evening that they had reached the city in good time, and were busy clearing away some of the clutter and preparing suitable lodgings.

  Khonsu blinked as a line of trumpeters and drummers passed him, followed by a phalanx of white-robed priests who moved down the processional way in time to the beat of the drums. Gold bracelets glinted in the sun. One of the priests, walking at their head, wore a fillet and sidelock of gold about his shaven head.

  “That's him!” Kheti exclaimed.

  Khonsu frowned and looked more closely. “No,” he said after a moment's thought. “This one's too young. I don't think he'd be much use in a fight. The Governor said he's in his fifties and seems like a soldier.”

  “You're right,” agreed Kheti. “But this one's got some seniority, I'd say.”

  Khonsu and Kheti turned back to gaze down the road.

  The cries of the crowd increased as a heavily armed escort swung into view: close-combat infantry bearing long, two-handed mace axes and curved swords of bronze glinting red in the sun. Heavy wooden shields, bound with spotted bull hide and bearing a representation of the triple-headed staff that was the symbol of the cult of Ptah, were slung over their backs by straps of heavy leather. Khonsu sized them up with the knowing eye of a veteran soldier. “Businesslike,” he said.

  The soldiers were followed by a light, elegant chariot drawn by a matched pair of cream-maned sorrel stallions. The driver, a young man in his twenties, wore a leather corselet sewn with bronze scales, and a helmet with a gold-inlaid browband. The man standing beside him was in his early fifties, calm-faced and self-contained. This man had the bearing of a soldier. He wore crisply pleated, spotless white linen. A festival fillet of gold circled his forehead and fastened at the back with a clasp shaped like a lotus bud. Gold wristbands and armlets flashed in the sun, while a lapis inlaid golden leopard head snarled from the center of his breast above the knot fastening the beast's pelt across the man's shoulders. A carved amulet hung below the leopard's head from a gold chain.

  Khonsu knew him at once for Lord Nebamun. “That's him,” he said.

  The Second Prophet's driver reined in the team as the chariot drew abreast of the child with the flowers. Khonsu saw grownup hands behind the little boy giving him a quick shove forward, bringing him out into the street.

  Lord Nebamun, looking round at the crowd, caught sight of the tot and laid an urgent hand on the driver's arm.

  The driver's painted eyes widened; he tightened the reins and the horses stopped, shaking their heads and prancing at the pressure on their bits. Lord Nebamun braced himself as the vehicle drew to a halt, then turned a smiling face upon the child.

  The crowd fell silent.

  The child, staring up at the
looming horses and the glittering man beyond them, took a frightened step backward. He hesitated at a hissed command, then went slowly forward, holding out the bouquet as the Second Prophet stepped down from the chariot.

  Khonsu caught the impression of a carefully memorized speech being flung to the winds as Lord Nebamun leaned down, smiling. He took hold of child and bouquet both, and lifted them in his arms.

  “Are these for me?” he asked. His clear voice rose over the hush, followed by the lilting chatter of a response.

  The Second Prophet listened with smiling attention. “I thank the great city of Khemnu and its children,” he said. “And did you and your friends pick these beautiful flowers yourselves?”

  The child nodded, shy again.

  Lord Nebamun gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and the kiss was returned. He set him down, keeping the bouquet. A gentle hand between the child's shoulder blades guided him back to his family. The Second Prophet stepped back into the chariot, bowed to the crowd, winked at the child, and motioned his driver to continue toward the Governor's residence as cheers rang behind him.

  ** ** **

  The woman's unbound hair floated about her shoulders in a swaying cloud as she whirled in the center of the banqueting hall to the sound of a flute and the beat of a drum. She was young, barely sixteen. Her lithe body needed no music to set her audience's blood pounding.

  Watching her, Khonsu thought of the wife he had lost, and turned away from the pain of memory. He had hoped she might send word when she learned that her daughter had nearly died with the wasting fever, but there had been nothing throughout the long months of the child's illness.

  He drew a shaken breath and stared down at his folded hands. Was it possible to close out the past as completely as one closed a wooden door? Perhaps so, for Sithathor. But not for Khonsu, and not, during her illness, for their daughter. The girl was recovering well, though she was still heartbreakingly frail, but she would not speak of her mother.

  Desperate for some sort of distraction, he looked up toward the high table. Lord Nebamun, seated between the Governor and his chamberlain, was watching the dancer, his hand closed about the Eye-of-Horus amulet he wore upon a golden chain.

  His Grace had met their Governor and conveyed the greetings of the cult of Ptah. He had finished by unclasping a magnificent armlet from his upper right arm and presenting it to the Governor in full view of the city. The citizens of Khemnu, already disposed to like him for his exchange with the child, had cheered until they were hoarse.

  Khemnu had spared no effort to make the setting of the feast magnificent. The pillars of the banqueting hall were garlanded with blue and pink lotus blooms. The air seemed to shimmer with their perfume. More blooms floated in wide, flat bowls of water. Serving tables were heaped with roasted meats, beef, lamb, antelope, and goose, all brown and dripping with savory juices. Great platters mounded with perseas and persimmons, pomegranates and dates and sweet, succulent figs were set throughout the room. Tall clay jars of wine and of water, cooled by the breezes that were channeled into the room, stood in the doorway as servants dipped pitchers into them, drawing them out filled and dripping.

  “Commander Khonsu?”

  Khonsu turned away from the head table to see Lord Nebamun's driver standing beside him. He had noticed this young man earlier: engaging in a staring match with an older man seated nearby. The two had obviously been in the throes of a serious quarrel. Now, seeing the man waiting for him, he lifted his eyebrows.

  “Commander Khonsu?” the man said again. “His Grace asks the favor of a word with you when you are free.”

  Khonsu set down his portion of meat, wiped his fingers on the towel beside him, rose, and followed the man past the glaring older man and up to the Second Prophet's table. He went to his knees and lowered his head.

  Nebamun returned the salute with a nod. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Commander,” he said as he poured a cup of wine. “But I hadn't meant to force you away from your dinner. No matter,” he said, nodding toward the platters of food set before him. “You can share mine. Come, sit down and drink some of this excellent wine.”

  Khonsu bowed and rose.

  “And in the future,” Nebamun said, offering the cup, “you would please me much better if you would refrain from kneeling before me. I am neither Pharaoh nor the High Priest.”

  Khonsu bowed again, hiding his surprise. He took the cup from the Second Prophet's hands and sat beside him.

  He sipped the wine, aware that he was the object of a measuring but tolerant appraisal. He met Nebamun's eyes, and smiled. “I thank Your Grace,” he said. “It is good wine. And I will gladly obey your command.”

  He accepted a portion of roast goose from Nebamun, and waited. Khonsu was surprised to see that Lord Nebamun's smile was slightly dimmed by the sort of fatigue and strain he himself had felt on the eve of a battle.

  “I have some concerns to discuss with you, Commander,” Nebamun said. “The Governor tells me he's paying me the compliment of sending you to command the guard forces at Akhet-Aten.”

  “Your Grace may wish to reserve judgment until you have had a chance to discover for yourself the nature of the compliment His Lordship is paying you,” Khonsu said.

  Lord Nebamun nodded with a spark of amusement. He paused to dip his fingers in the shallow bowl of water set in front of him, then took up a small seed-crusted loaf of bread, broke it, and sopped it in the meat juices in the platter before him.

  “I understand you commanded this province's army in their desert patrols for some years,” he said. “Tothotep tells me that you are familiar with the city itself and with the villages and towns surrounding it. That's good news; the question of supply lines had me a little concerned.”

  Khonsu followed Nebamun's lead and broke off some bread. “Supplying the group shouldn't be difficult, Your Grace,” he said, dipping it in the sauce. “Akhet-Aten is half a day's journey from Khebet. I have a good lieutenant at Khebet. I'd planned to use that city as the delivery point for any supplies we'll need during the course of the assignment.”

  Khonsu raised the bread to his lips and looked up from the platter to see a surprisingly intense frown gathering on The Second Prophet's face.

  “Khebet?” Nebamun said. “I would think—” He broke off as a man, stumbling with fatigue, came into the room followed by two guards.

  The man looked around, caught sight of the Governor and Khonsu, and went to his knees.

  “What is this?” the Governor demanded.

  “His news was urgent, Excellency,” the senior guardsman explained. “I thought it best to bring him before you at once.”

  “He is Hutor, Excellency,” Khonsu said. “One of the officers I sent to Akhet-Aten.”

  “Commander—” the man gasped. “The city—”

  “The City?” Lord Nebamun repeated. He did not seem to be surprised.

  The officer, Hutor, dragged air deep into his lungs. “The quarries collapsed,” he said. “Deaths—”

  Lord Nebamun traded glances with a powerfully muscled Nubian who was seated down the dais from him.

  “Deaths?” the Governor repeated.

  “Eleven, buried alive. W–we dug them out, but too late.”

  Khonsu sat forward. “What happened?”

  “The city's cursed!” the man said. “We were warned! Cursed by an evil ghost!”

  Lord Nebamun's brows drove together in a scowl, but he sat quietly as the room roared into commotion.

  “Who told you this?” the Governor demanded. “How do you know?”

  “I was there!” Hutor said. “It was wailing in the night—”

  Lord Nebamun's voice came quietly into the turmoil. “Many creatures, not ghosts at all, wail in the night. What did this ghost do?”

  The Governor seemed surprised at the interjection, but he nodded to the man. “Answer His Grace.”

  Hutor's eyes widened. He bowed to the ground before Lord Nebamun, raised himself, and then sat back on
his heels. “The quarry collapsed!” he said.

  “Cave-ins do occur at quarries from time to time,” Lord Nebamun said. He was even smiling at Hutor, who had stopped trembling. “They don't generally require ghostly intervention: I am told that quarrying is dangerous enough without it, as my Master Quarryman, here, can tell you.” He nodded at the Nubian as he took his cup and poured more wine into it.

  “But as to this ghost,” he continued, setting down the jug and offering the cup to Hutor, “When did it make its appearance?”

  Hutor accepted the cup with a look of surprise. He raised it to his lips, took a large, shaky swallow, and then lowered the cup with a sigh before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He drank again and set the cup down.

  “Now tell me what happened,” Lord Nebamun said.

  “Yes, Excellency,” Hutor said. He paused, frowning. “It was the second night we were there. We had been warned of the ghost.”

  “Warned by whom?”

  “By the mayor of the city just north of the Accursed Place.”

  “Ah yes,” Lord Nebamun said. “Khebet. Please continue. What was there?”

  “A shape, a shadow. And a cry, like someone in terrible grief and fear, followed a moment later by dreadful, mad laughter. We froze where we stood.”

  “And where were you standing?” Lord Nebamun asked.

  Hutor had to look down and think.

  “The quarry?” Lord Nebamun prodded gently. “The King's Road? The outskirts of the town?”

  “It was n–north of the heart of the city, Your Grace,” Hutor finally replied. “Near something like a temple...”

  “Drink more of your wine, Hutor,” Lord Nebamun said. “And then tell me what you did once you heard this dreadful ghost.”

  The Second Prophet was smiling as he spoke, but the smile and the words held no trace of mockery. Hutor relaxed visibly. He raised the cup to his lips and drank again.

  “We left right away,” he said after he had lowered the cup.