Murder in the Place of Anubis

by Lynda S. Robinson

  “Mistress, your sons are thieves, and most likely murderers.”

  Selket’s mouth was full; she gulped, then choked. Imsety remained quiet and pounded his mother’s back. Selket grabbed her cup and took several swallows. Gasping for breath, she shook her head.

  “You deny my words,” Meren said. He squeezed his eyes almost closed and stared at her. “Perhaps you have been behind this evil all along.”

  Imsety rose, causing his chair to tip backward and land on the floor. “No!”

  Two charioteers brushed past Meren, drawing their scimitars. Imsety held his hands away from his body and stepped back a pace. At a word from Meren, the charioteers halted midway between their leader and Imsety.

  “Please, lord, my sons are innocent.” Selket had dropped to her knees.

  Meren glanced about the room, then stalked out without a word. He remembered the way to Djaper’s chamber. Thrusting the door aside, he charged into the room. At once he caught the stench. Behind him Abu sniffed and cursed. Meren felt his aide’s hands on him. He was hefted bodily out of the chamber. Abu darted inside, weapon drawn. Meren prayed to Amun for patience while Abu searched the chamber, for he wouldn’t be allowed to enter until his aide was convinced there was no threat to him.

  “Enter, lord.”

  The chamber’s high windows cast a vague and diffuse light. Opposite the door lay the bed, and on the bed, sprawled and still, lay Djaper. Beside the bed, a chamber pot had been removed from beneath its accompanying stool. Djaper had vomited in it.

  Abu stood beside the bed. “He is cold, lord.”

  “Send for my physician and more men.”

  Meren examined the body. Its stiffness told him that Djaper had been dead at least several hours, but not longer than a day. He’d learned long ago that the body protested the passing of the ka in this manner, as though death had frightened it into rigidity. Eventually the muscles became flaccid, and he’d often wondered if this signaled the arrival of the soul to some place of shelter. Djaper’s soul had not arrived, it seemed. He’d died sometime during the night—too suddenly and conveniently, before Meren could speak to him.

  Glancing at the fouled chamber pot, Meren noted that Djaper had emptied his stomach. From the congealed state of the contents, he would guess this had happened before midnight. His attention was drawn to the floor beside the bed, where a glazed cup lay on its side next to a small amphora. He picked up the cup. It had been drained, and only a few drops of beer remained. Meren sniffed and wrinkled his nose. Not the best-quality beer. He lifted the amphora from its stand. As he did so, a clay seal dangling from twine brushed his fingers. He smelled the contents of the amphora. Half full, it contained the same tart beer left in the cup, but the bitter smell was stronger.

  Meren dipped his finger in the beer and touched it to his tongue. Grimacing, he set the amphora down. As he stood, a wave of dizziness lapped over him, followed by a sensation of floating that caused him to sway. He hissed as he drew a deep breath. Stepping away from the bed, he braced himself by placing his palm against the nearest wall. He waited, chastising himself for his dangerous curiosity. Gradually his body returned to its normal state except for a strange lethargy and a feeling of elation.

  Folding his arms over his chest, Meren gathered his wits, then surveyed the room. Little had changed since he’d last been in it When he felt better, he lit a lamp and directed his gaze at the bed, the shelves of papyri, the chests. These he opened and found clothing, toiletries, jewelry. There was Djaper’s scribe’s kit, but he found nothing to indicate that the dead man had written anything.

  Having searched the chamber, Meren returned to the room where Imsety and Selket were being held. Taking the master’s chair, he regarded them silently. Imsety had relapsed into his habitual state of muteness. His mother, however, bit her lips in an apparent effort to contain her alarm and curiosity. She twisted her brown hands together unceasingly.

  “Mistress, describe to me the happenings of yesterday and last night.”

  “My son, he asked to be left alone and keeps to his chamber still.”

  Meren didn’t answer, and, given no choice, she went on. “Yesterday was like any other for me. I have the household to run, meals to supervise, weaving and mending, making of bread, ointments to prepare, the cleaning. The slut Beltis gave no help, as is her wont.” Selket paused. Her gaze drifted away from Meren. “The concubine quarreled with Djaper.”

  “Explain.”

  “She invaded his chamber!” Selket’s ire turned her brown face a ruddy hue. “She invaded his chamber yesterday morning, the harlot. He rejected her, and she screamed at him and clawed at his eyes. And she threw a bowl at him, which hit his head. Imsety and I came to see what has happening. Poor Djaper was on the floor holding his head, so Imsety grabbed Beltis and tossed her out of the room. She fled to her own chamber, and later she packed herself off to the village of the tomb makers. Poor Djaper had a headache for the rest of the day.”

  Meren snapped at Imsety, “What was the fight about?”

  Imsety shrugged. “She’d found out about the broad collar yesterday. She wanted it.”

  “Eloquent as ever, Imsety. How did she discover it?”

  “She climbed the palm outside Djaper’s chamber and spied on us when he told me to take it to the market for repairs.”

  “A sentence of over five words,” Meren said. “You amaze me. So, you battled over the necklace. Then obviously she discovered that it was you and your brother who had robbed your father’s office.”

  “She wanted the necklace,” Imsety said reluctantly. “She claimed he gave it to her before he fetched her from the tomb-makers’ village the last time.”

  “And was she telling the truth?”

  Imsety glanced at his mother, whose color had returned to normal. She nodded stiffly.

  “Aye, lord,” Imsety said. “She came home dangling it from her fingers and was furious when Hormin took it from her to keep in his office.”

  “And later?” Meren asked.

  Selket spoke up again. “Djaper went to the office of records and tithes while Imsety—”

  “I know what happened to Imsety,” Meren said.

  “And that evening Djaper came home complaining of his head,” Selket said. “When he spoke to Imsety and learned of your wrath, he became distraught. By nightfall he was so bothered by his head, he asked to be left alone and retired. Does his head still hurt?”

  “Mother,” Imsety said while staring at Meren, “Djaper should be here. Lord, where is my brother?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Imsety blinked at him as Meren darted glances from the man to his mother. Although her son remained quiet, Selket shook her head, turned, and tried to rush from the room. One of the charioteers caught her. Meren remained seated, keeping watch as the woman struggled and her voice rose to screams. The sound nearly destroyed his ears, and as she wailed Meren decided that his news had indeed been a surprise to her.

  Imsety was still blinking at him when he returned his attention to the man. To Meren’s disbelief, a tear appeared at the corner of one of Imsety’s eyes and rolled down the side of his nose. He heard a choking sound. Stolid Imsety began to cry, his face crumpling and folding into grooves and troughs of grief. All the while he remained standing in front of Meren as if it mattered little where he was or in whose presence he wept.

  Meren had a choice. He could believe that the mother and son possessed the ability to deceive him as far more experienced intriguers did not, or he could believe they hadn’t known Djaper was dead and truly grieved. As he watched Selket collapse on the floor, tear at her hair, and wail while her son cried silently, he was struck with the contrast between their reactions today and the morning after Hormin’s death. Djaper had been loved. Hormin had not.

  Had the mother sacrificed one son to save the other from suspicion? Was he meant to believe that Djaper had taken his own life in remorse for his crime of patricide? Perhaps he’d frightened Imsety far more than
he had realized, thus stampeding him into another crime.

  Or perhaps, during his fight with Beltis, Djaper had threatened her with banishment again. He could easily imagine Djaper trying to suborn his father’s will and casting Beltis out of the house forever. Still, if such had happened, he didn’t think Beltis would have left the house with Djaper in residence. Unless she knew he wouldn’t be living there much longer.

  The physician arrived, out of breath and sweating. With him came his staff, whom he set to work reexamining the dead man’s room and the rest of the house. Meren could do no more himself, so he returned home to send a message to Kysen; as he sat in his office penning it, Meren felt another twinge of apprehension.

  The boy must be on his guard. He was much afraid that, having gone to the tomb-makers’ village as his father’s servant, Kysen was in even more danger than before. Beltis was there, and the artisans themselves hadn’t been removed from suspicion. No doubt by the morning’s end Kysen would have sent word of the results of his own inquiries.

  How difficult would it be for a tomb maker to slip out of the village and make his way over the desert hills and across the river to Hormin’s house? It could be done if one were desperate enough to take the risk. If one were forced to go in secret, hiding and skulking all the way, one might still reach the destination in an hour or two. The trip to the Place of Anubis could be made by foot in that amount of time as well, perhaps faster if one braved a night journey by skiff.

  Meren laid aside his reed pen and blew on the ink forming his signature. He folded the paper, sealed it with clay, and impressed it with his signet ring. Calling for a messenger, he entrusted the letter to him, then sat back in his chair to resume his worrying.

  Too many were dying. Hormin, Bakwerner, Djaper. He’d given orders for a close watch on Selket and Imsety. Most likely one of them was the murderer. Kysen was to watch Beltis closely as well. Now he wished he hadn’t sent Kysen to the tomb-makers’ village. Concerned as he was for Kysen, however, he must allow the boy to do his own work.

  Meren reached across the table and grasped the obsidian embalming knife that had killed Hormin. Someone feared neither him nor the judgment of the gods. Anyone that desperate or that stupid was dangerous indeed. If he didn’t solve this mystery soon, he would cause all of those suspect to be brought to him and examined without mercy until one of them confessed. He would have no choice, for the High Priest of Anubis would soon howl for vengeance and blood. His adversaries at court would begin to spread word that he no longer pursued Pharaoh’s enemies with diligence. The moments passed, and as they did, the risks grew.

  Rubbing his eyes with his fingertips, Meren lay the embalming knife aside and reached for the stack of papyri containing the summaries of the inquiry for the past few days. Somewhere among all the recordings was the knowledge sought. Somewhere.

  Chapter 11

  Roused from slumber by a scream, Kysen bolted erect on the long cushion that served as his bed and jumped to his feet. The scream came again—an angry woman’s scream.

  Whirling around, Kysen looked over the rooftops of five houses to one of those with a childbirth arbor. Lamps lit and placed on the top of the walls illuminated shadowy figures moving about purposefully. Kysen’s tension eased as he realized that the wife of the sculptor Ptahshedu had commenced her labor. He could see Yem entering the light structure of poles and green boughs erected for the birth.

  Though it was still dark, the labor had stirred the village. He could hear children chattering and the splash of water as a servant poured jugs of it over someone in a bath stall. Beneath these sounds hissed the familiar scrape of grindstones as bread was prepared. The village was awake. Nevertheless, he found himself alone. Then he remembered.

  After leaving Useramun and Beltis, he had decided to keep watch over the two from this roof. He’d feigned weariness to Thesh and Yem and retired to bed. Yem had been in a silently resentful mood, no doubt due to the arrival of Beltis. She’d ensconced herself on the cushions in the common room without addressing a word to her husband.

  Thus Kysen had been alone several hours later when, from his rooftop concealment, he saw Thesh leave the house. Useramun’s door was still open, but much less light issued from the interior of his house. Thesh stood in the middle of the street and stared at the painter’s threshold, then turned. As he left, someone sidled out of the alley between Useramun’s house and the next. Beltis.

  She called to Thesh, who started, then whipped about as she caught his arm. Dragging the scribe to her, she sought the obscurity of the alley again. Kysen craned his neck and found her again as she thrust Thesh against a wall and pressed herself against him. Thesh tried to pry her from his body at first, then dove for the blackest shadows with the concubine in his arms. Kysen had listened, but heard nothing from them. He’d waited, drumming his fingers on the wall and surveying the street.

  Eventually the two emerged. Thesh looked as flustered as a virgin, while Beltis resembled a sated cat. While the scribe returned to his own home, the concubine waited for him to close his door. When he was gone, she sauntered down the street. Kysen had been surprised when she stopped at Woser’s house and mounted the stairs to the roof. Did the woman never sleep? And Woser ill. His thoughts upon Hormin’s busy concubine, Kysen watched the women moving about the childbirth arbor, his hip resting on the wall top.

  “You’re awake.”

  Kysen spun around to face the object of his reverie. Beltis came toward him looking as rested as if she’d spent the night asleep, which he doubted. For the first time he regretted being unclothed before a woman. He should have slept in a kilt, or at least a loincloth.

  “Does Yem know you’re here?” he asked.

  Beltis smirked. “I came up the outside stairs, and anyway, most of the women are busy with the labor.”

  She floated over to him and stood so close he could feel the heat of her body.

  “You aren’t like your master,” she said.

  He only stared at her.

  “Have you caught the one who murdered Hormin?”

  “Would I waste time here if we had?”

  He quickly appraised his situation as she moved closer to him. She must have a low opinion of the intelligence of men to approach him so. Useramun, Thesh, Woser, Hormin. What was she about? He needed to know, and to find out he would have to refrain from spurning her. Kysen allowed himself to forget for a moment that she might be a murderer and let his gaze drift from her oiled and painted mouth down to her breasts, her thighs. The appraisal signaled an invitation to Beltis—and she accepted it.

  The solar orb had risen by the time she left him. Exhausted, he dozed for a few moments while the village came fully to life. Soon Yem roused him for a meal of fresh bread and roasted fish. It was eaten in silence; Yem refused to speak to Thesh, who refused to speak to Yem. Kysen broke the stalemate by asking Thesh to conduct him once more to the house of the draftsman Woser.

  Woser wasn’t at home. Cursing himself for his slackness, Kysen interrogated the draftsman’s mother and father only to find that Woser had improved miraculously upon receiving a visit from Beltis last night. Thanking the pair abruptly, he made for Beltis’s home with Thesh in tow.

  “Is there one man Beltis hasn’t had?” Kysen snapped.

  Thesh quickened his step to keep up with his guest.

  “There are fewer who have received her favor than you think. Useramun, myself, Horrain, and—Woser…” The scribe frowned over this last name, then continued. “In this village at least, there are no more. By the gods, do you think she would have time for others?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  Kysen added himself to Thesh’s list as he strode toward Beltis’s house. Someone called to them. Running down the street was a messenger clutching a folded papyrus. Kysen halted as the man reached him, accepted the letter, and noted the man’s urgent gaze. Turning to Thesh, he smiled.

  “I must consult with my master’s man, if you would pardon me.”


  Thesh bowed and Kysen led the messenger down the street, through the gate, and beneath the scribe’s pavilion. Under its shelter he received the news of Djaper’s death.

  “When?”

  “Some time after the moon had set, lord. As I was leaving, the physician told the master that there was much essence of poppy in his beer.”

  “And no sign of who poisoned the beer.”

  Kysen sighed and removed a letter to his father from the waistband of his kilt. Entrusting it to the messenger, he dismissed the man. His father’s letter had closed with a warning of danger. Given the constant comings and goings in the tomb-makers’ village, one of the artisans could be responsible for Djaper’s death. Even Thesh could have gone to Hormin’s house in the middle of the night.

  The object of his speculation emerged from the village and came to stand beside him. Kysen was contemplating sending for more men to question all the villagers at once when the scribe began to speak glumly.

  “You have had news.” Kysen nodded, but refused to enlighten Thesh, who went on. “Yem is furious. She says she will divorce me.”

  “I would,” Kysen said.

  Casting him a surprised glance, Thesh sighed. “I can’t help myself. Beltis has such appetite. Her violence is like a fire in my body.” Thesh groaned. “Yem will take all her property with her, and I owe her many copper deben from our marriage contract.”

  “Perhaps she will relent,” Kysen said, laying a hand on the suffering man’s shoulder. “Come, we must find Woser.”

  Thesh pointed in the direction of the path to the nobles’ cemetery. “He is there.”

  Two people walked down the path from the nobles’ cemetery—Beltis and a man. Beltis clung to the man’s arm as if she was afraid to slip on the gravel. She and Woser drew nearer, and Kysen was able to see him more clearly.

  The draftsman was one of those whose face was dominated by his nose. It jutted forth from his brow like the prow of one of Pharaoh’s seagoing ships. Widening quickly, it became a brown, fleshy knob that almost obscured his mouth and chin. Shallow of chest, Woser was nonetheless tall, with stringy muscles kept toned by his use of sculptor’s tools. His hair was chopped short and cut in a straight line across his forehead, which gave him a youthful appearance. Yet Kysen knew the draftsman was at least ten years older than himself.