Thesh stopped, flushed, and directed his gaze at the cliffs. “Why?”
The scribe shook his head. “This is a question for the painter.”
“It is a question for you, and I do not ask it to exercise my lips.”
The snap in Kysen’s voice caused Thesh to glance at him in surprise. Their gazes locked, and although Thesh was the older man, he looked away first.
“Useramun is not only a master painter. He is a man of pleasing appearance, one who does not mind risking his hide if his pleasure is furthered.”
“Are you telling me that the concubine deliberately came here to drive Hormin into a fit wondering if she was with you or Useramun?”
“I am still well, and so is Useramun. If he had more than suspicions, no doubt he would have ruined both of us. I have always believed Hormin thought Beltis was teasing him. He didn’t have respect for her, for any woman, and never would have thought her clever enough to deceive him. Hormin was a fool.”
“Perhaps,” Kysen said.
He placed his cup on the tray and rose. Thesh did as well.
“I must remain here at least one night so that I may question all those you have mentioned.”
“I am honored to offer my house for your comfort,” Thesh said. “But surely we are not suspected of this villainy.”
Kysen had his usual reply ready, but before he could speak, three people emerged from the village gate. His eye caught the movement, and he looked over Thesh’s shoulder. A youth and two men. One old, two young. The old man moved slowly, his joints swollen, his progress aided by a walking stick. The sun gleamed off his bald head, and as he neared the pavilion Kysen could see the gray bristles of an unshaven beard.
The younger man next to him glanced at Thesh and Kysen curiously, and Kysen caught his breath. The face of his father stared back at him. Almond-shaped eyes with the shine of marble, plinthlike chin, unsmiling mouth. It was his brother Ramose. Who else could it be? Which meant that the other was Hesire and the unkempt old relic at his side was… Pawero.
Kysen jerked as Thesh touched his arm. “What? What say you?”
“Do you wish to speak with them? Talking to Pawero will be of little help. His health is bad, and he does little work now. Ramose and his brother Hesire are taking him to his farm south of the city. I can stop them.”
“No.” Kysen stopped, for he’d answered too quickly and too sharply. “No doubt they will return before I leave. Unless they had intimate dealings with Hormin, I will wait.”
“No, they barely knew him, I think.”
“Then, if you will conduct me to the man called Woser, I will see him next.”
Thesh murmured his assent, and they left the shade of the pavilion. Before they reached the village gate, Kysen turned and glanced at his family. They hadn’t recognized him. He was uncertain how he felt about that. The rest of his thoughts were confused, for the man who had loomed in his nightmares as a netherworld fiend was, in truth, a wrinkled, bent old wreck.
Chapter 8
Meren jumped from his chariot, snapped an order to his driver to remain in the shade of a palm at the edge of the market, and began to thread his way toward the Street of the Ibex. His fury at Bakwerner’s murder had cooled somewhat. He had no doubt that the scribe had been killed because of some secret knowledge. And he had little doubt that someone had been threatened by that knowledge, most likely someone in Hormin’s family. But perhaps not; perhaps the visit to Hormin’s family had been happenstance.
Meren’s lips tightened as he remembered how little they’d learned from searching the area around the pile of ostraca. The packed earth yard had yielded no trace of the passage of Bakwerner or his murderer. The killer had left no signs at all when he vanished into the evening crowds.
Two murders. A killer who murdered swiftly, who dared the vengeance of the gods and the king. A killer who must be stopped before someone else died.
He saw the Street of the Ibex ahead, its intersection marked by an obelisk so old that the raised edges of its hieroglyphs were blurring. At a corner, in the shade of a broad stall, lounged one of his servants. The man saw him, glanced at the open door of a tavern, and came to meet him.
“Lord, the large brother is in the tavern. He came directly from the house.”
“Did he see you? No, never mind getting offended. He didn’t see you.” Meren forced his sour temper away and gave the servant a smile and nod. “Well done. You may go home and rest.”
“But, lord, I should accompany—”
“Gods, man! I need no nursemaid.”
“Aye, lord, but—”
“Belabor me no longer,” Meren said. “Have my charioteer follow. At a distance, mind you. That should satisfy your duty.”
The man’s furrowed brow smoothed and he retreated, bowing.
Meren had already forgotten the servant before he left. Perhaps Imsety was having a midday meal. If he didn’t come out of the tavern soon, he would go in. He’d worn a simple headcloth and leather belt and no armbands to mark him as a noble or warrior. In the jostling crowds they wouldn’t notice him.
He winced at the sound of a screeching monkey. A baboon leaped from the roof of a fruit seller’s stall and scrambled after a boy clutching a melon. The fruit seller shouted and pointed at the boy, who laughed and tossed a basket over the monkey before vanishing. A few minutes passed, during which Meren saw his charioteer take up a position near a vendor of nuts. He nodded at the man, who gave him an almost imperceptible salute. It was one of the more irritating aspects of his station never to be allowed to venture out alone without causing his men and his servants both consternation and anxiety.
A cart rattled by, loaded with tall wine jars sealed with clay. Meren watched it pass the tavern as the hulking form of Imsety levered its way out the door. Meren turned his head to the side, moving back into the shadow of an awning.
As Imsety walked down the Street of the Ibex, Meren shoved away from the awning and merged with the shoppers and merchants. After a space, the charioteer followed Meren. Imsety moved leisurely, never glancing over his shoulder or to the side, and paused at a house fronted by a low mud-brick wall forming a small court. In the court under an awning sat a man at a table laden with jewelry. Behind the man lay a stoked furnace attended by two apprentices. With wooden tongs they lifted a vessel filled with molten metal and poured it into a mold.
Meren stopped near the wall and pretended interest in the woolen cloths of a Bedouin family. Imsety swung back the gate in the wall and approached the jeweler. Looming over the stall, he produced a glittering, beaded object. Meren held up a length of red cloth and peered over it as Imsety spread his possession before the jeweler: cylindrical beads in alternating rows of gold, red jasper, and lapis lazuli—Hormin’s stolen prize. The merchant picked up the necklace and peered at the finials at each end, then muttered at Imsety.
Narrowing his eyes, Meren watched as the two appeared to haggle over a price. Finally the merchant scribbled a few words on a scrap of papyrus. Both he and Imsety put their names on it. Then Imsety placed the receipt in the waistband of his kilt and walked out of the courtyard. Meren turned his back as his quarry passed, retracing his steps down the Street of the Ibex.
Darting quickly into the jeweler’s court, Meren grabbed the man’s hand as it swept up the necklace from the table in front of him.
“What?” the man squawked. “Whatwhatwhat?”
“The necklace—what was your dealing with that young man about the necklace?”
“Only a small repair, good master. The finials need refinishing. Who are you? I like not your—”
The jeweler’s mouth dropped open. His jaw hung slackly as Meren’s charioteer appeared. His gaze darted from the whip and dagger at the warrior’s belt to the leather and gold wristbands and neck guard.
“There is trouble, lord?”
Meren was already hurrying after the brother. He called over his shoulder, “Get the lapis and red jasper necklace and meet me at the chariot.
” As he left he heard the charioteer questioning the jeweler.
“Has the young man Imsety ever been to you before?”
“N-no, good master. He is a stranger.”
Leaving the merchant still gaping at him, Meren hurried down the street in Imsety’s wake. As he wove through the crowds he tried to spot Imsety’s broad shoulders and head above the others in the street. He zigzagged around peddlers, children, and women laden with baskets; the delay at the jeweler’s had given his quarry a head start. He plunged around a stack of pottery jars taller than himself, only to dodge behind them again upon seeing Imsety. He’d purchased a honey cake at a baker’s stall and was devouring it whole.
Meren waited, then followed as Imsety turned a corner into one of the narrow side streets that intersected the main road. He approached the corner warily; beyond it the street, little more than an alley, zigged and zagged into darkness. Awnings stretched from rooftop to rooftop on many such pathways to protect travelers from the sun.
He edged around the corner, keeping close to the ‘wall. The darkness caused his sight to blur for a moment before he could make out a stretch of emptiness. The buildings on either side crowded close, leaving room for no more than two people to walk abreast, and then only shoulder to shoulder. The lane turned sharply to the right about thirty paces from the corner. Imsety had already disappeared.
Meren slipped into the shadows and hurried to the next corner. Sliding around it, he found another short stretch ending in a turn to the left. He would have to increase his pace if he wasn’t to lose Hormin’s son in this maze. He paused briefly at the next corner, then plunged down the lane. By now the buildings were so close, the awnings so thick that it was hard to see. He neared the next turn, slowed.
Something grabbed him as he passed a doorway. A pair of sweaty hands fastened on his throat and squeezed. Meren felt blood rash to his head, surge, and nearly burst from his eyes. He was lifted off his feet as he clawed at the hands on his throat, twisting and writhing to no avail. Meren raised his arms, planting one fist against another. His strength ebbing, he rammed his elbow into the chest of the man behind him.
The hold on his throat loosened slightly. He had only moments before it tightened again for the last time. Going limp, Meren heard a grunt of satisfaction. His feet touched the ground as his attacker began to release him. He quickly made fists. Jabbing backward with his thumbs, he gouged at the man’s eyes. He heard a yelp, and suddenly he was free.
Whirling around, Meren kicked a massive, bare stomach. The attacker grunted, buckled, and sank to his knees. He was about to punch the man when he slumped to the ground. Whipping around, Meren glanced about the darkened passage for further danger.
Perceiving no one else, Meren straightened from his crouch. He brushed a hand through his hair and smoothed the folds of his kilt. The years as a charioteer and warrior still came to his aid. This wasn’t the first time his training had saved him from danger encountered in his duties to Pharaoh.
He drew a dagger that hung from the belt at his waist. Leaning against a wall, he contemplated the groaning Imsety. The fool had risked death by attacking a nobleman and would be punished—but he would be questioned first. As he watched the man on the ground, his charioteer burst into the passage and slid to a halt. He glanced from Meren to his victim, snorted contemptuously, and went silent. Imsety rolled onto his back, then pushed himself to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. He opened them. His teary gaze found Meren, and for once he found more than three words to say.
“My lord Meren! Merciful Amun, I am destroyed.” Imsety struggled to his knees and held out a beseeching hand to Meren. “I thought you were a thief. I beg you, lord, please believe me.”
Meren regarded Imsety without expression, allowing the young man to babble. Imsety was squinting at him, his eyes red. His massive shoulders hunched, and he groaned as Meren lounged silently against the wall.
“I am dead,” Imsety said.
He crouched in the street before Meren. His head was bowed nearly to the ground in supplication. Meren heard him draw in a breath as he lifted his head to glance at the charioteer and saw the necklace bunched in the fist of the warrior. His features smoothed into blankness.
“Your clattering tongue has stilled,” Meren said softly. “No matter. It will flap freely enough before you die.”
Imsety closed his eyes briefly. Meren twitched his dagger at Hormin’s son, causing him to lurch to his feet.
“Come,” Meren said. “It seems I’ll sit in judgment of you before you go to the gods for theirs.”
He had no trouble in shepherding the dispirited Imsety back to his chariot and to his headquarters. He had his guards throw Hormin’s son into a holding room in the small barracks behind his office. Imsety remained there, nursing his fear, while Meren bathed and changed.
While his body servant arranged the folds of a fresh kilt around him, Meren wondered how Kysen was faring at the village of the tomb makers. He had encouraged his son to return to the place many times, only to relent in the face of the boy’s pain. This murder had offered an occasion to insist that Kysen confront old Pawero and leave behind old and haunting memories.
Meren felt his body servant tug on his wrist. He held it out so that the boy could fasten a studded wristguard in place; his warrior’s garb would further intimidate the hulking Imsety. When the last tie of his gilt leather corselet had been tightened across his chest, he slipped a dagger in his belt and held out his hand for a gold-handled chariot whip.
He had contemplated wearing a short sword, but discarded the idea. He wouldn’t need it with his aides in attendance, and the sword would be too much. He preferred subtlety, though it would probably be lost on Imsety. Meren touched the gold band that held his headcloth in place and dismissed the body servant. It was time to play the cruel aristocrat and strike fear into the heart of Imsety.
The barracks was a long, low building with a central hall. Meren entered the hall flanked by two aides to find several charioteers. Two guarded an interior door, while another sat by one of the support columns, mending a whip. Meren nodded at the sentries. They threw open the door, and one ducked inside the dark chamber. Imsety stumbled into the hall, shoved by the charioteer. Propelled by the guards, he lumbered over to Meren and fell to his knees when two hands shoved on his shoulders.
Meren slapped the coiled whip against his thigh deliberately. Imsety glanced at it. Meren caught his expression—one of dull resignation. He remained silent, his plan suddenly altered by this perception. Who had always obtained Imsety’s cooperation? Not the brutal Hormin, but the clever Djaper. Meren gazed at the man on his knees while he held out the whip. An aide came forward to take it, while the other brought a chair.
He sat, never taking his gaze from Imsety. The man was obsessed with his farm. He wanted to go home. This Meren believed. What had Imsety been willing to do to obtain the farm and go home? Did he have the courage or the rashness to rob his own father? Meren drew his dagger. Laying it flat against his palm, he pretended to contemplate the iron blade. He’d taken it from a Hittite in a skirmish near Tyre. The handle bore a turquoise inlay and the pommel was of rock crystal. He watched the crystal reflect dim colors while he thought, then began to tap the flat of the blade against his palm.
“You’re a fool, Imsety, and a stubborn one.”
Imsety stirred, but he had regained his ability to keep silent.
“Yes, stubborn. But how stubborn will you remain if I give Djaper a taste of my whip instead of you?”
His jaw stiff, Imsety widened his eyes and stared at Meren, who smiled at him.
Meren looked at the aide beside his chair. “Abu, bring Djaper, son of Hormin, to me at once.”
“No!” Imsety stretched out a hand to Meren, only to have it knocked aside by one of the guards. The other hit him on the side of the head, and he subsided back onto his heels. “Please, lord, I beg of you. Don’t hurt Djaper.”
Concealing his surprise, Meren watched Imsety st
ruggle with some inner perplexity. The effort distorted the man’s fleshy features. His thick lips skewed to the side, and great furrows appeared between his brows. Meren decided to push him again. He nodded to Abu, who turned to leave.
“I will tell you all!” Imsety said.
Meren glanced back at his victim as if in surprise. “Well?”
“We quarreled with my father.” Imsety paused and wet his lips. “He would never have given me the farm. Not if he gained ten times the wealth he already had. We took the collar.”
“When?”
“The night—the night he was killed.”
“Come,” Meren said. “Don’t lose your newfound eloquence or I shall begin to think of sending for Djaper.”
“That night, we had gone to the house of a friend to let our anger cool. We came home and went to our beds, but later—Djaper had thought of a plan. We would devise a false robbery.”
“You looted Hormin’s room,” Meren said.
Imsety nodded.
“And were to sell some of the booty.”
“I would have purchased my own farm.” Imsety said this last with a shrug. “But the necklace was broken and needed repair.”
At a look from Meren, Abu produced the necklace, the beads cascading into Meren’s hand. Most collars had end pieces made in the shape of animal heads that fastened together, but each edge of this one instead bore only the thin, smooth gold pin by which the finial should have been attached. Also missing was the metal counterpoise that should have hung down the wearer’s back to hold the heavy collar in place.
Meren handed the collar back to Abu, then snapped at Imsety. “You saw Hormin leave the house late after going to his concubine. That is why you did your stealing then.”
“How—?”
“Djaper is too clever for his own health, and you are not so stupid that you’d fail to reward yourself through his cleverness. Perhaps you decided stealing was too much trouble and killed Hormin instead.”
Murder in the Place of Anubis Page 9