The City of Refuge: Book 1 of The Memphis Cycle

by Diana Wilder

  Nebamun nodded. “Commander Khonsu told me earlier that you think he may have been killed in a fight.”

  “I'm certain of it, Your Grace.”

  “Why is that?” Nebamun asked.

  “Several reasons,” Sennefer said. “First, the blow was delivered face to face. There were other injuries, defensive wounds. A broken left forearm, a sprained right elbow, some bruising. But I found blood on his sword hand that can't be explained by his injuries. I think his opponent must have been wounded before he managed to strike the killing blow, which explains that blood that I don't think was his.”

  “I see,” said Nebamun, who had been listening quietly. To Khonsu's concerned eyes he seemed more exhausted than he had earlier in the day.

  “Interestingly, Your Grace,” Sennefer said, “It appears that the killer lingered for some time after Paser was killed.”

  Nebamun was silent.

  “The right hand was covered with blood,” Sennefer said. “I told Your Grace that already. Commander Khonsu noticed some distortion of the hand itself. I looked closely and discovered that several of the fingers were broken or dislocated, most likely after the stiffness had set in.”

  Nebamun sat forward with a frown. The movement was guarded, but he gave no sign of pain aside from a momentary grimace that made Perineb's eyes narrow. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Paser died with something clenched in his hand,” Sennefer said. “Something small and carved and round. The muscles of the hand tightened about this item, whatever it was, and death made the grip like rock. It's hard to open a hand set in that fashion—”

  “'Dead-hand',” Seti muttered.

  “That's another name for it,” Sennefer agreed. “Later, the death-spasm set in as well, making the hand like flint.”

  “But how were the fingers broken?” Seti asked. “Paser was dead, however hard he may have been clutching whatever the trinket may have been!”

  “Someone took the item from his hand,” Sennefer said. “He had to break the fingers to do it.”

  “And you think the killer did this?” Seti asked. “He was a patient fellow, then, if he waited until the spasm set in!”

  “It may have been another,” Sennefer conceded. “At any rate, there's evidence that Paser's body was carried away after he was killed and set in the place where we found it. Commander Khonsu could find no trace of blood near him, and there was a half-obscured track leading from the desert.”

  Nebamun chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “Then you conclude that it was a fight, by all appearances,” he said slowly. “But you say that he wasn't killed where you found his body, far to the north along the track.”

  “Oh no, Your Grace,” Khonsu said. “You must have been misinformed.” He broke off for a moment, puzzled. “Although who told you—”

  He caught the flash of a questioning look in the Second Prophet's eyes. “Paser's body was found along the northern track, as Your Grace said, but not far from where Your Grace last went ghost hunting,” he said. “It wasn't ten paces from that overhanging rock where Your Grace stood two nights ago.”

  Nebamun sat back looking puzzled. “You found him there?” he said.

  “Yes, Your Grace. It was the squadron that patrols the northern track that came across it. And we found this in the body.” He offered the arrow.

  Nebamun took the shaft in his hands and frowned at it. “But this is one of mine,” he said, lifting it and leaning forward to peer at the notch at the end. “I fletched it my—” His gasp of pain was completely involuntary. He paled and lowered the arrow, his hand shaking.

  Seti took a step forward. “Your Grace?” he said.

  “It is nothing, General,” Nebamun said through white lips, and then was silent. He finally drew a ragged breath and looked over at Sennefer, who was eyeing him with a frown. “Do you have the arrowhead?” he asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said Sennefer. “Here it is.”

  Nebamun took the leaf-shaped sliver of bronze and frowned at it before passing it on to Seti, who turned it over in his palm, frowning, and then looked up at His Grace once more.

  “That is most assuredly not one of mine,” Nebamun said. “You can ask our armorer.”

  Seti handed the arrowhead to Khonsu. “It looks Nubian,” he said. “The gods know I had one or two of them cut out of me.” He broke off and turned to Nebamun. “But Your Grace says that the shaft is yours.”

  Nebamun inclined his head. “It is one of a set I made especially for hunting,” he said. “You can see the blood channel on the side.” He looked up at Sennefer. “Did this kill him?” he asked.

  “No, Your Grace,” Sennefer replied. “The man was dead when that arrow went in. It touched a large vessel, but there was no bleeding at all. And the angle was impossible. Commander Khonsu thinks it was shot into Paser's corpse as he lay dead, and I agree.”

  “Curious, indeed,” Nebamun said.

  “Stupid,” Seti growled. “They're trying to cast suspicion on Your Grace.”

  “Or rather the ghost they thought His Grace was,” Perineb supplied.

  Nebamun gave a one-shouldered shrug. “State your conclusions, Master Sennefer,” he said.

  “Paser was killed in a fight,” Sennefer said. “The death came from a blow to the skull, but there were other injuries as well, pointing to a fight, as does the presence of another's blood on his sword hand. The matter of the broken right hand is a puzzle, though it speaks of someone robbing the corpse.”

  “Have you any idea what was held in that hand?” Nebamun asked.

  “The force of the grip drove the object deep into the flesh, Your Grace,” Sennefer said. “It left a print, if you will.”

  “And what was it?” asked Nebamun.

  “A ring, from what I can tell,” Sennefer replied. “A carved ring. I could make out some of the symbols, but the lines are blurred, and I can only guess. I suspect it was a name, possibly that of the late Pharaoh Akhenaten's father: Neb-Maat-Re, since the symbol for the sound “Neb' was legible. Paser was caught in a theft, and this may well have been another.”

  Nebamun closed his eyes and sat back. “I see.”

  Sennefer eyed him with a touch of concern, but continued calmly. “As for the arrow, I suspect another came upon him and shot him, for reasons that I can't guess. Probably it was after the object was taken from Paser's hand.”

  “Very good,” said Nebamun. “It only remains to decide what's to be done, and I must devote some thought to that. I'll speak with the Commander and with Master Sennefer. The rest of you may retire for the night.”

  He nodded his dismissal and sat back in his chair, gazing abstractedly before him and gnawing his lip as the men left the room.

  Sennefer waited until the rest had left and then, with a nod to Khonsu, turned to Nebamun. “And now, Your Grace,” he said.

  Nebamun looked up and lifted his eyebrows.

  “You've done something to your shoulder,” Sennefer said. “A bruise or a sprain, probably. I'm sure you got it this afternoon when you were practicing your archery. It's nothing new with you: you have a tendency to do that.”

  “I certainly do, Master Physician,” Nebamun said. “And, like the other sprains, this will heal in time. Please don't trouble yourself.”

  “You're obviously in pain,” Sennefer said. “I've been watching you: you can't move your arm properly, and you go white as bleached linen when you do move it, as you did just now.”

  “It'll pass,” Nebamun said through his teeth.

  “Your Grace forgets the time you sprained your back and were in misery for over a month,” Sennefer said. “A few moments' care right at the beginning would have made it unnecessary. If I can treat this now, I'll be able to save you some discomfort. Now let me see.” He set his hand on Nebamun's shoulder.

  “Take your hands off me!” Nebamun snapped, flinching away from the touch. “If I had wanted your help I'd have asked for it!”

  Sennefer's gaze grew intent. “There
's a sprain here, just as I thought,” he said. “I can feel heat…”

  “Unhand me at once, you officious sawbones!” Nebamun hissed.

  “Your Grace is being foolish,” Sennefer said firmly.

  “My Grace wants my privacy!” Nebamun retorted.

  “That will get worse without a surgeon's care,” Sennefer said.

  “Wounds have been healing themselves long before anyone thought of training physicians!” Nebamun snapped. “I am inclined to think myself better off with a wound than with a leech!” He looked over at Khonsu, who was watching him with surprise. “Commander, you will escort this meddling quack back to his offices. That's an order!”

  Khonsu was frowning over the use of “wound' rather than “injury', but he bowed, fist to heart. “As Your Grace commands,” he said. “Though I'd suggest—”

  “Escort him to his offices,” Nebamun repeated.

  Sennefer looked Lord Nebamun over with a touch of frosty amusement. “Your Grace's cantankerous disposition at this moment is beyond excuse,” he said, “Your Grace being neither old enough to be senile nor young enough to be going through puberty. If I had an ounce of sense I'd leave Your Grace to follow your chosen path to hell, but for the sake of your lady, who deserves more happiness than you're likely to give her at your present rate, I'm going to mix you a potion to drink when you retire. It'll ease whatever pain you feel and help you to sleep.” He added, “And if you don't wish to be confirmed as an idiot, then you'll be certain to drink it down!”

  “That will be all, Sennefer,” Nebamun said.

  Khonsu nodded to Sennefer, who preceded him to the door and then turned. “Good night, Your Grace,” Sennefer said at the door. “Sleep well.”

  Nebamun looked up. His mouth tugged into a grudgingly affectionate smile. “Good night, Sennefer,” he said. “Send your damned potion and I'll drink it.”

  ** ** **

  “Did I say once that he was not a pig-headed fool?” Sennefer demanded in the hallway. “I was blind and stupid! Never have I been forced to deal with such a stubborn imbecile! You saw him turning white, flinching and hissing like a cobra. Why, he was complaining to me before the audience this evening that he always seems to be spraining something when he practices his archery, but he always refuses to do anything about it! He's pulled a muscle at the least! The things I have to put up with in this life! When I reach the Fields of the West, I'll ask to be a farmer!”

  “He did say he'd drink the medicine,” Khonsu pointed out soothingly through a suppressed smile. He heard a noise behind him and half-turned toward the sound.

  “Should I be cheering?” Sennefer demanded. “It was like pulling teeth to get him to do it!” He heard the commotion as well and turned to look over his shoulder. “And what's all this?” he demanded as a knot of laughing, shouting men came into view with Ptahemhat in their midst.

  “We'll find out,” Khonsu said.

  The group came to a halt before them. Most of the men were in Khonsu's command, usually dependable and steady men, but they were magnificently drunk now with Ptahemhat, standing in their center, the worst of the lot.

  He came to a stop and raised a cup toward Khonsu. “We've got a reason to feast!” he cried. “I've heard the news: someone's had the sense to kill Paser, and about time!”

  “I see,” said Khonsu, folding his arms and looking Ptahemhat up and down without enthusiasm. “I suggest you keep that thought to yourself: His Grace is grieved. And maybe you had best tell me where you have been for the past day.”

  XXXII

  “He said it was “good riddance to bad rubbish',” Karoya said two days later. “He said it was a good thing someone got smart and did away with the blackguard and saved him the trouble of killing him.”

  Khonsu folded his arms and leaned back against the wall of his headquarters. He had called a meeting to discuss the progress made in the investigation of Paser's death. They had covered all the various incidents leading up to Paser's departure from the city, and now were looking into the personalities involved in the murder.

  The discussion had gone slowly; it irked him because he had, tucked into the sash at his waist, another message from Sherit. His fingers itched to open it, but since the news from Sherit was invariably good now, he decided that the wait would increase his enjoyment.

  Seti was seated cross-legged to one side of the doorway while Iry, Khonsu's scribe, sat on the other side. As Khonsu watched, Iry smoothed the stretched front of his kilt across his thighs, settled the sheet of papyrus, rubbed his brush across the moistened cake of ink, and looked up.

  “Did you get all that down, Iry?” Khonsu asked.

  “Every word, Commander,” the scribe replied.

  “What more is there, Karoya?” Khonsu asked.

  “Ptahemhat disappeared from this city for a full day after his public argument with Paser, Chief,” Karoya replied. “I looked into it: he isn't talking, at least not about where he went, though we have all heard his opinion about Paser's death and the fact that he wasn't there to help, and no one else can account for his actions for that period of time.”

  Khonsu looked inquiringly over at Iry, who nodded and wrote in silence, his reed brush scratching lightly over the papyrus.

  Seti was frowning. “I can add something to the general tally,” he said. “As you know, my wide patrols were pulled in at His Grace's command that evening. But the group that patrolled farthest to the south did report seeing Ptahemhat heading south toward the cross-back that leads to the upper track.”

  “That's interesting,” Khonsu said.

  “I thought so,” Seti agreed. “Especially in light of all that happened. It doesn't take a lot of effort and thought to negotiate the jog in the track, catch the main path, and head north toward Khebet. I remember thinking that Paser would probably head that way when he left the audience hall that night, since he and Mayor Huni seemed to have an understanding.”

  “Hmm,” Khonsu said. “Ptahemhat might have been heading south in fact. Let's consider what lies along the southern track.”

  “Villages,” Seti said. “Small ones. My force passed through them on its way into Akhet-Aten.” He considered for a moment and then added, “I'd hardly call them fleshpots to lure the young. They seemed simple towns, and honest ones as well, judging from their construction and furnishings, and they sitting in the lap of a treasure trove.” He added, “We did pass through what's left of Sumneh. But that place is a ghost town now that Khebet's taken precedence.”

  Khonsu cocked an eye at his second-in-command. “Karoya, You have patrolled south of the city. Did you happen to notice any pretty girls in the villages?”

  “I'm a married man,” Karoya said with humorous primness.

  “You're a married man with eyes.”

  Karoya shrugged. “My wife's demanding,” he said.

  Seti chuckled and sat back. “I happened to see some pretty girls as I was passing through, Commander,” he said. “More than a few, in fact. They merited a second glance even from an old married man like myself with a wife great with our fourth child.”

  “My congratulations, General,” Khonsu said politely.

  Seti's grin softened to a smile. “Tuia's in no doubt it'll be another man-child,” he said. “She wants to name the babe for my father.”

  “A goodly name,” Khonsu said. “And General Ramesses is a fine man by all reports.” He looked over at Iry, who had set down his brush and was sitting with his hands quietly folded atop the clear portion of papyrus unrolled upon his kilt.

  “Ptahemhat certainly is a possible suspect,” Khonsu said after a moment's thought. “For all that we may have an explanation for his actions that night. Very well: were there any others who might have borne Paser any ill will?”

  Seti snorted.

  Karoya's dark face was impassive as he said, “Hundreds, Commander, although none so outspoken as Ptahemhat. Hell, there were plenty in Memphis, from what His Grace's boys told me: I got an earful from some of the
officers. Paser had a knack for making himself hated.” He added with dry deliberation, “He called me a stupid Nubian.”

  “Did he, now?” asked Khonsu. “When was this?”

  “The second day we were here,” Karoya replied. “I'd ordered him to perform a relatively menial task. He took exception to the order and told me to ask someone else. I told him I wanted him to do the job, and when he started to argue with me I repeated the order. Then he fell back to calling me names.”

  Seti was scowling.

  “Good thing he didn't say it to Nehesi,” Karoya added with a grin.

  “You said nothing to me about this!” Khonsu exclaimed.

  “I dealt with it myself,” Karoya said. “I said that if he thought it might be too hard for him to do, then I'd understand. I also offered to discuss the matter with His Grace. He shut right up, and I didn't have any more trouble with that particular type of insolence. I didn't think you needed to be bothered about it.”

  “I see,” said Khonsu. “Well, I certainly didn't love him. He was insubordinate, and he made it clear that he considered it demeaning to work under my command.”

  “He called me a brainless pretty boy,” Seti said offhandedly. The faint warmth of his smile widened into another grin as the others stared.

  “What?” Khonsu exclaimed. “Where was I?”

  “It was the afternoon of the day you and Mersu went to inspect the cliffs and I took Nehesi to the quarries to look into the cave-in,” Seti replied. “You remember: His Grace encountered you along the northern tracks, as you told me later, and you both went looking at tombs. Paser had come back from delivering his message at Khebet, and I think whatever had happened there had changed him, and not for the better. Our exchange wasn't much to report. After he made the quip I merely reminded him of his rank and of mine, and suggested that he would be wise to think before speaking in future.”

  “I wish I'd been there, General,” Karoya said. “I think the fellow said things to everyone here, except maybe Master Nehesi. He called Perineb a eunuch as he was leaving. I heard that from one of the guards. He certainly finished by as much as saying that His Grace was a boy-lover. It was a good thing His Grace shrugged it off like he did.”