“No!”
Abu spoke for the first time. “Let me take a cattle brand to him, lord. I’ll make him confess.”
“Merciful Amun,” Imsety groaned.
“The whip is faster,” said a charioteer. “No need to build a fire and heat the brand.”
Meren held up a hand for silence. “Which do you prefer, Imsety, the whip or the brand?”
Imsety’s face had turned the color of the whitewashed walls. He licked his lips. His mouth worked, but no words came.
“I have said the truth. Djaper told me the collar was the solution to all our troubles. It’s so valuable. By the powers of Maat, goddess of truth, I have spoken no lies.”
Meren rose. Folding his arms over his chest, he stared at his gilded sandal, then glanced at Imsety.
“You may go.”
Imsety gaped at him.
“Go, fool.”
A charioteer hauled Imsety to his feet and shoved him toward the door.
“Imsety.”
Hormin’s son turned back as Meren called to him.
“Think not of running away. I would find you, and then you would have both the whip and the brand.”
Imsety dipped his head and trundled out of the hall to the accompaniment of the laughter of Meren’s charioteers.
Meren snorted, then said to Abu, “His tale, it is proven?”
“Yes, lord. They spent some hours after the evening meal in the company of an assistant overseer of the Temple of Amunhotep III, then went to a beer-house and shared a woman. The woman described both Djaper and Imsety. Imsety went first and then left the beer-house. After that, either could have killed Hormin, or both.”
“But first they robbed him.”
“Yes, lord.”
“Why rob him if they planned to kill him?” Meren asked himself.
None of his men answered. Rousing himself from his speculation, Meren noted the deep gold of the sunlight coming through the open door. The day was waning, and he had no answers to the murder of either Hormin or Bakwerner. He thought about paying another visit to Hormin’s family, but he wanted to give Imsety plenty of time to alarm Djaper. Tomorrow morning he would descend upon them without warning.
Shadows fell across the threshold as his steward ushered in two visitors. Meren recognized the keeper of wills of the House of Life, Seb, who had held the post before Meren was born. Seb’s dry, yellow-nailed hand rested for support on the shoulder of a youth round-eyed with excitement and curiosity. Meren accepted Seb’s greeting and waved a hand. A charioteer brought a stool, and when Seb had settled on it, Meren resumed his stance, leaning against a column.
“You have brought the will of the scribe Hormin yourself, good Keeper.”
“Don’t I always when there’s a good murder?” Seb asked with a cackle that ended in a cough. “Would have come sooner, lord, but this addled gander here had mis-filed the original and we were a time hunting it down.”
The youth, who had been devouring the weapons and gear of the charioteers, brought his gaze back to Meren and flushed. Having himself been embarrassed by his elders, Meren made no comment. He held out his hand to the youth. The boy gaped at it, then dove for the leather case slung over his shoulder, delved inside, and produced a roll of papyrus.
Meren broke the clay seal of the House of Life, unrolled the papyrus, and read. The room filled with the sound of Seb’s labored breathing. Meren skimmed the list of possessions, then noted the half-dozen witnesses. Most were from the House of Life, including Seb, but old Ahmose’s name was there as well. None of Hormin’s family seemed to have signed; nor had Beltis. No doubt Hormin had kept his intentions to himself as a weapon.
Letting the will snap shut, he held it out. Abu took it from him.
Seb cackled again. “A grand design for cataclysm, is it not?”
“What do you know, you old gossip-monger?” Meren asked.
“Naught, lord. Naught of murder. I only know that this dead one, this Hormin, caught my interest. As you see, the will is only a few months old. Even so, I wouldn’t have remembered it, or him, if he hadn’t offended all my assistants by the time the will was ready for witnessing. That one, he ate and drank furor, survived on the animosity he created more than on the food he consumed. I knew he’d end up standing before the gods, done in violently.”
Meren sighed, hardly surprised at the news. “Have you anything of substance to tell me, or have you come to pry knowledge of this murder from me?”
“An old man has few joys in life, my lord.”
Seb was whining now, which meant he had come for gossip. Unfortunately, Meren would no doubt need his cooperation in the future. Reluctant to send him away unsatisfied, he spent much more time than he would have liked satisfying Seb’s curiosity without giving away important details.
When the old man had gone Meren retreated with Abu to his office, where he reviewed the notes taken by his scribes. Abu read to him reports of inquiries to Hormin’s neighbors and household.
“The maids of both Selket and the concubine swear their mistresses were at home asleep,” the aide said. “They were pressed hard, and both remained adamant.”
Meren pinched the bridge of his nose and laid aside a sheaf of notes. “Curse it, no witnesses to either murder, no witnesses who saw Hormin go to the Place of Anubis.”
“But Bakwerner was seen lurking about Hormin’s house several nights before the murder. A maid next door was entertaining a lover and saw him on two separate nights.”
Nodding, Meren rose and stretched. “So Bakwerner could have been planning to kill Hormin, and finally did, but then who killed Bakwerner? And why?”
“Perhaps the young one, Djaper,” Abu replied. “After all, Bakwerner charged into his house bellowing that he ‘knew things’ and calling for Djaper’s blood.”
“Or Djaper could be the murderer, and Bakwerner his second victim. Curse it, Abu, I detest being in the midst of an abundance of possible killers.”
“Aye, lord. Rarely have I seen a man so hated, or a collection in one place of so many capable of murder.”
Meren smiled grimly at his aide. He was about to suggest dinner when a charioteer rapped on the door and entered.
“Well?” he snapped. His men knew him better than to disturb him when he was in one of his pondering sessions. There was news, and it was most likely bad.
“It is the concubine, lord. The concubine Beltis. She packed herself and her boy and left the house. She went to the village of the tomb makers after another quarrel with the family. You should have heard the screaming and howling.”
“I have. Was there aught of interest among the screams and howls?”
“No, lord. Only the same accusations and threats. She only threw a few vases and pots this time. The old woman did kick her ass as she stomped out of the doorway, though,” The charioteer grinned, evoking a smile from Meren.
“Gods, I would have liked to have seen that.”
“Aye, my lord. It was a pleasing sight.”
After dismissing Abu and the charioteer, Meren went to the house in search of food, though his appetite had waned. He knew the cause. Beltis had gone to the village of the tomb makers. Beltis was a dangerous woman, possibly a murderer, and like a spider she’d scrambled and scurried away from a place of exposure to make a nest and cast her web—much too near his son.
Chapter 9
Kysen stood on the roof of Thesh’s house watching the horizon turn a deep turquoise, then ignite with a soft, creamy orange. Behind him stood several beds used by the household on hot nights. The one behind the wicker, screen was his. Voices of women and their laughter came to him from open doorways and the street below as they worked to prepare the evening meal. He took a long sip of beer from a glazed cup. His first day in the tomb-makers’ village was almost over, and he had yet to speak with the draftsman Woser. The beer turned sour in his stomach as he remembered going to Woser’s house with Thesh.
The scribe had warned him of Woser’s illness, which had been growing upon
him for over a week and had worsened during the previous two days. Thesh attributed Woser’s inability to keep food in his belly to his dissatisfaction with being a draftsman. Woser longed to become a sculptor, to the amusement of the whole village. Woser sculpted as if he were blind.
Kysen had insisted upon seeing Woser, but when Thesh conducted him down the main street past curious servants and artisans’ wives, they could hear retching sounds from a house near the end of the road. Kysen exchanged glances with the scribe as they paused on the threshold of Woser’s residence. Like most of the houses in the village, it consisted of four rectangular rooms running one behind the other.
Thesh stuck his head in the doorway. Beyond him Kysen could see a family common room strewn with cushions along one wall. High, narrow windows close to the ceiling let in little light, but he noticed a block of limestone in one corner around which were littered a sculptor’s tools. Near the door lay a table, ink pots, pens, and sketches of a tomb shaft. He heard Thesh suck in his breath. The scribe drew back from the doorway abruptly, grimacing. Kysen glanced at him in surmise, only to clamp a hand over his nose and join Thesh in withdrawing several paces from the door.
“Hathor’s tits,” Thesh mumbled through the hands that covered his mouth and nose.
Kysen lowered his own hands, took a cautious sniff, and moved several steps farther away from the house. “Woser’s sickness isn’t only of the belly, it seems.”
“I forgot,” Thesh said. “His wife mentioned he hadn’t been able to go far from his chamber stool yesterday. She had me check the calendar to see if it was an unlucky day, but I could find no evil signs. She says he’s run afoul of a demon.”
Kysen cocked his head to the side and listened to the renewed sounds of gagging and moaning issuing from Woser’s house. Clearing his throat, he said to Thesh, “Perhaps if we wait until this evening, he will feel better.”
“Yes, yes.” Thesh nodded violently. “I expect a physician from the city this morning who will attend him. By this evening, yes.”
They had quit the vicinity of Woser’s house immediately. After that, Thesh had informed him that several of the artisans who dealt with Hormin were on duty in the Great Place, the Valley of the Kings, restoring the walls and interior of an old tomb of the last dynasty. And so it was that Kysen found himself in the resting place of Pharaohs, where the dead kings mediated between the forces of chaos and order.
Thesh brought him to the Great Place by the workmen’s route over the cliffs that bordered western Thebes. The path arced into the royal valley down three stone steps bounded by a wall on one side and a guardpost on the other. Past the steps he entered the realm of the dead, guarded by the royal necropolis police, the medjay, and by the gods themselves. The valley held hundreds of royal tombs, but also, at its center, living huts and warehouses containing supplies for the workers such as food, pigments, copper chisels, and the oil and wicks used to light the interior of the tombs.
Once on the valley floor, Kysen beheld an array of V-shaped channels filled in part with flints and debris from the slopes above. Into the sides of these channels were cut entrance shafts to tombs. None of them were for the living god, Tutankhamun; the king was young and there was plenty of time in which to plan his house of eternity.
Kysen had spent the remainder of the day talking with four men who had dealt with Hormin in the making of his tomb, only to find that they had been in the Great Place on the night of the murder. The artisans worked in shifts, eating and sleeping in the huts in the center of the valley, guarded by the medjay. Of those who knew Hormin, only Thesh, Useramun, and Woser had been in the village two nights ago.
Shoving away from the wall on which he leaned, Kysen turned to find Thesh staring at him. In that fleeting moment he perceived apprehension, which enhanced the faint laugh lines at the corners of the scribe’s eyes. Then the lines smoothed and Thesh smiled at him.
“Have you rested from the journey? The trip to the Great Place is arduous for those not accustomed to desert travel.”
Kysen set his beer cup on the top of the wall and re turned Thesh’s smile. “Much rested, I thank you. And now I would see this master painter, Useramun.”
“Before we go, I must tell you that Beltis has come back.”
Concealing his surprise, Kysen glanced over his shoulder to the street below. He could see two serving women carrying a water jar between them, and several men returning to their homes for the evening. No Beltis.
“She came while you were washing,” Thesh said. “If you hadn’t been inside, you would have seen her procession. Beltis enters the village as if she were a princess appearing on a feast day.”
“I will speak to her as well.” Kysen passed Thesh on his way to the stairs that led from the roof to the street along the outside of the house.
Thesh followed him. “Do not be surprised if she finds you before you come to her.”
“Why?” Kysen paused at the top of the stairs.
Cocking his head to the side, Thesh pursed his lips in the first sign of ill humor Kysen had seen in him.
“Beltis never allows a possible admirer to languish in the depravation of her presence.”
A typical scribe’s answer—delicate, circuitous, and nasty. Kysen grinned at Thesh.
“You would set me on my guard.”
Thesh merely lifted a brow. It was all the answer Kysen was going to receive, so he turned and descended the stairs, stepping into the blackening shadows of the street. A long line of open doorways stretched before him. Wavering light from oil lamps offered some relief from the darkness. Thesh stepped to his side and gestured to a house opposite his own.
A few steps brought them into the bright glow issuing from the house. Kysen remembered little of Useramun except his brilliance as a painter. The older boy had always seemed to have his nose nudging the tip of a reed brush. The glow from the house increased as they approached. Kysen blinked and realized that Useramun had to have lit dozens of lamps to create such radiance. Thesh opened his mouth to call out a greeting, but Kysen put a hand on his forearm, silencing him. A querulous voice was speaking.
“You sent him away on purpose.” The voice was young, and cracked with the strain of adolescence.
A second voice, lilting and low, answered. “Abjure me not, you petulant colt. The master painter of the temple of Ptah offered him a place. Was I to deny him the opportunity to work in so high a station?”
“You sent him away because he was my friend!”
The second voice chided softly. “By Hathor’s tits, Geb, you’ve grown into a nagging bitch.”
Kysen waited, but there was no retort. He glanced at Thesh and noted with amusement that the scribe’s face had reddened. He released his hold, and Thesh called out a greeting. They were bidden to enter.
Stepping into the common room, Kysen squinted at the dazzling light. Whitewashed walls reflected brilliance, and on every one of them glowing scenes of wildlife and the countryside that turned the room into a fantasy. Kysen glimpsed a vignette of a reflection pool with the fish darting through azure waters. To his left waterfowl sprang from a marsh, startled into flight by a hunter armed with a throw stick. Every feather, every line was executed with vibrant mastery. Suddenly Kysen knew, without doubt, that he was in the presence of unparalleled skill. Now he remembered more of Useramun—even the master painters had held him in awe.
A youth bowed to them and scuttled out of their way to reveal a man who rose from a cushion set between two of the myriad tall lampstands that cast daylike brightness on the room. The man came forward, stopping in front of Kysen, and chuckled. Goose bumps formed on Kysen’s arms. He’d heard such a laugh before—one filled with concupiscent anticipation. He’d heard it at court, among noblemen about whom his father took care to warn him. At once wary and intrigued, Kysen felt a tension within his body he usually only felt in the royal palace or in the manors of certain princes. That chuckle came again, and before Thesh could speak the man before Kysen stepped closer
.
“The servant of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, life, prosperity, and health to thee.” Useramun’s gaze trailed viscously over Kysen. “Especially health.”
“Useramun!” Thesh hissed at his neighbor.
Never had Kysen been so grateful for Meren’s schooling in the ways of the imperial court. He mastered the impulse to draw his dagger. He wasn’t wearing it anyway. Instead, he regarded the painter solemnly. Though Useramun moved closer, so close that he could feel the heat of the man’s body, he remained where he was. At the last moment, just as Kysen was losing the battle with his control, Useramun veered around him, circled, and came to rest in front of him again.
He was still far too close. Finally Kysen allowed himself to react. He lifted his brows and widened his eyes in an expression of disbelieving astonishment at this trespass. He heard another soft laugh, and Useramun stepped back out of striking range.
Kysen’s voice cut through the sound. “I give you leave to address me by name. I am Seth.”
“Seth,” Useramun murmured, “god of chaos and turbulence. Has the name given you restlessness? Are you of a perturbed and dissolute spirit, like your namesake?”
“Goat’s dung!” Thesh loomed at the painter’s side, spitting his words. “Curb that lewd tongue of yours before you invite the cane and the whip. This is a royal servant, not some guileless apprentice.”
Useramun gave the scribe not a glance, but continued to examine Kysen as he would a sacrificial bull. Kysen stared back at the man, who was of an even height with him. The painter was one of those men whom the gods had filled to the brim with sensuality. High cheekbones, drew one’s gaze to his eyes, which burned like molten obsidian. His lower lip was fuller than the upper, giving his face an expression of readiness, of utter willingness.
Kysen fought the urge to curl his fingers into fists. The fool had deliberately taunted him, secure in the knowledge that his person was as beautiful as his paintings. He’d risked a beating, at the least. Perhaps he was as enamored of risk and danger as he was of attempted seduction.
Murder in the Place of Anubis Page 10