Murder in the Place of Anubis

by Lynda S. Robinson

  “Majesty, you must continue your audiences.”

  “I know.” The reply came out softly, belying the rage in the king’s eyes.

  “All of the queen’s servants will have to be replaced, but we must avoid creating a stir in your golden hive of a court.”

  “I will give her a new palace.”

  Meren smiled grimly. “The one near the temple of Isis in Memphis?”

  “Aye,” the king said. “The high priest there detests her. The whole city hates her. And you, my friend, will supply the slaves and attendants. Set your people to the task at once.”

  Meren fell in step with the king and they paced back and forth in front of the throne.

  “The arrangements will take time, majesty, and she must be watched. May I have leave to—see to her majesty’s comfort until she goes to Memphis?”

  The king nodded, then halted abruptly and turned to Meren. “You should know I gave Tiglith certain orders. In the next few days Ankhesenamun will find herself growing more and more listless and unable to get enough sleep.”

  “Thy majesty possesses the wisdom of Tom.” Meren hesitated, but the king’s furrowed brow and lack of color spurred him on. “Perhaps word could be spread that Ankhesenamun believes herself with child and sent word to thy majesty at once. You were so overjoyed you were forced to dismiss everyone for fear of betraying your dignity. And now you will surround her majesty with the best physicians, the most careful of attendants, so that she and her child are cared for as befits the wife of the living god.”

  “I am such an attentive spouse.”

  “And I must be seen to go about my customary duties.”

  Distracted, the king’s voice assumed its normal tone. “You’ve brought news?”

  “Another death, Golden One. The son, Djaper, was poisoned yesterday or last night.”

  He summarized the events for the king and obtained permission to visit the royal workshops. Leaving Tutankhamun to deal with Ay, he quit the audience hall openly and made a show of obtaining a royal bodyguard who would gain him admittance to the workshops near the palace. As the Nubian marched ahead of him, he was joined by his own men. They walked beneath a succession of pylons and turned south, heading for a walled complex near the Nile. Once clear of the royal palace and its crowds of officials and courtiers, he spoke quietly to Abu, who fell back with two charioteers and sauntered off in the direction of Meren’s house to begin arrangements for the queen.

  Unable to do more at the moment, Meren resigned himself to continuing with his original plans. He mustn’t show concern. Any disruption in his pursuit of the murderer of the Place of Anubis would attract the attention of those with evil intentions. Such attention risked not only his life, but that of the king. The High Priest of Amun maintained vigilance, ever watchful for a weakness in the young Pharaoh. The Hittite ambassador would know of any disturbance at once, and seek out its cause.

  Thus he and his remaining charioteers went to the royal workshops, passing easily by the posted sentries at the gate. Long rows of workshops lay before him, their awnings protecting the bent heads of jewelers, sculptors, goldsmiths, weavers. He glanced briefly at a shop where several men and women carved lapis lazuli, carnelian, and agate for use in royal jewelry. At the intersection of the packed earth path with another, a procession of laborers bore supplies to a reed shelter where scribes checked and recorded them and sent them on for distribution to artisans.

  The bodyguard stopped at a workshop that rivaled Meren’s house in size. Meren would have known what it was from the smell of heated fats and spices issuing from it. Before him lay a wide, open courtyard formed by a low wall. Inside sat a line of domed ovens. Opposite them lay open fires and braziers tended by several women. Two youths were stoking the ovens while a third thrust a heavy pot of resin into one of them. Meren followed the guard inside the workshop. He entered a room that resembled a small audience hall in size.

  Glancing at shelves bearing countless pots, vials, and stoppered jars, he saw the guard address a man who resembled one of the ovoid jars on his shelves. The man hurriedly put aside a box of spice on a counter that ran the length of the room. He waddled over to Meren and dropped to his knees, wheezing. Presenting himself as Bakef, the king’s master perfumer, the man touched his forehead to the floor. When he’d made his obeisance, the guard had to help him stand.

  “It is my honor to serve and obey, mighty prince.” Puff, puff, wheeze.

  To Meren’s questions about the unguent qeres, Bakef had no immediate reply. He fluttered his pudgy, pale hands.

  “Qeres, qeres.”

  Meren held out his hand, and a charioteer placed a scrap of cloth from Hormin’s kilt in it. He tossed the scrap to Bakef. The perfumer snatched it and held it to his nose. Beads of sweat had formed on the tip of it. He sniffed again.

  “Ah!”

  Bakef fluttered the scrap, made a ponderous, belly-shifting turn, and waddled to a shelf. Retrieving a leather case, he pulled from it a sheaf of papyri bound by wooden stays. He leafed through page after page, starting in the middle. After a few moments, he poked a fat digit at a line of cursive hieroglyphs. Meren watched a gleam enter the man’s eyes. The hillocks of his cheeks flushed as he reached high over his head and pulled a dusty roll of papyrus from a pile on the top shelf. He read the wooden tag attached to the roll and nodded. Sneezing, he brushed the roll, then wiped his hands on his kilt before spreading the paper and anchoring it.

  Meren waited patiently, his attention only half on the perfumer, while he plotted a strategy to cope with the Great Royal Wife. Bakef got his full attention when he suddenly clapped his hands together in excitement and rubbed them. He seemed to have forgotten his noble guest in his agitation, for he turned his back and trotted through a guarded door at the back of the workshop.

  Meren followed him into a dim hall lined with five doors on each side. Ahead, Bakef had snatched up a taper and was muttering to himself.

  “Ninth storeroom, tenth row, seventh shelf. Ninth storeroom, tenth row, seventh shelf. By the gods, the ninth storeroom. Who would have thought?”

  Meren was right behind the perfumer by the time the man opened the fourth door on the right. Bakef touched the taper to a torch in a wall sconce beside the door. Yellow light illuminated a room crowded with shelves and made the faience and obsidian vials gleam. Jar after jar sat in neat lines—tall, cylindrical ones of deep Nile blue; squat ones of glassy black; bright yellow ones. Bakef picked up a stool in one hand and, with the taper in the other, wedged his bulk between the last two shelves at the back of the storeroom. Here the jars were covered with a fine layer of dust.

  “My lord, I don’t think I’ve ever had occasion to search the tenth shelf. I doubt if anyone has since my father’s time.”

  Bakef set his stool on the floor and stood on it. Meren heard a crack and a snap. Bakef wavered and would have fallen onto the tenth shelf if Meren hadn’t caught his arm. Pulling Bakef off the stool, he mounted it himself.

  “What am I looking for, perfumer?”

  Wiping his sweaty upper lip, Bakef ducked his head. “A jar of the finest alabaster. It should be shaped like a short, wide cylinder, and its top is decorated with a sculpture of a resting lion.”

  Meren searched the shelf. He found several vials and a big pot of dried herbs in an eggshell-thin pottery jar. He shoved this aside and glimpsed the pink tongue of a lion. Retrieving the jar, he walked back to the torch beside the door. He tried to lift the lid of the jar. It was stuck, and he had to twist it to get it open. The lid jerked free to reveal an interior empty of unguent.

  All that remained was a faint smell of myrrh and a small piece of papyrus. Thrusting the jar into Bakef’s hands, he read the notice that the last of the unguent had been used in the funeral equipage of the king’s grandfather. One remaining jar should be found in the royal treasury.

  Meren dropped the notice back in the jar. “He couldn’t have gotten it from the royal treasury.”

  “My lord?”


  Glancing at Bakef, Meren frowned. “Where else may this unguent be found?”

  “Why, the only other notation I have for it is three jars housed in the treasury of the god Amun, may his name be praised for eternity.”

  “Ha!”

  Bakef started and almost dropped the lion jar. “Is something wrong, lord?”

  “He visited the treasury of the god on the day he died.”

  “The god died?” Bakef eyed Meren and shuffled away as if ready to bolt.

  “No, you fool. Hormin died. But first the bastard visited the treasury of the god Amun.” Whirling away from the perfumer, Meren strode from the storeroom without another word to the bewildered and wary Bakef.

  The perfumer pattered after him, wheezing all the way, and caught up as Meren emerged into the deepening shadows of late afternoon.

  “My lord, I beg a word!”

  Meren paused. “Well, man, speak quickly.”

  “If—if you find more qeres, and happen to come upon the recipe—that is—the queen—”

  Meren hadn’t been paying much heed to the perfumer. His gaze darted to the man’s face, and he curled his lips into a sweet, benevolent smile.

  “Yes, master perfumer, what is thy wish?”

  “The queen sent word several months ago that she would like some qeres. I had forgotten, and the recipe is lost, you see.”

  “Did the Great Royal Wife say anything more of this unguent?”

  “No, lord, only that a small amount came in some tribute from Byblos and was used up.”

  “I will see, perfumer.”

  Bakef stuttered his thanks as Meren walked away. The gratitude went unheard as Meren considered the meaning of this new connection between the murder of a common scribe and the Great Royal Wife. Was it a connection, or simply a happenstance? If the qeres on Hormin’s kilt had come from the treasury of the god Amun, the unguent could still be that from the tribute of Byblos, for tribute was distributed among the temples of the gods as well as the royal household and favorites. Both the queen and Hormin might have gotten the qeres from the Byblos tribute. And Byblos was a known haven for the Syrian bandits who served the Hittite emperor.

  Meren shook his head as he stood in the street before the perfumer’s workshop. No, it could not be. As suspicious as he was, he couldn’t imagine the low bureaucrat Hormin catching the interest of a Hittite spy, or the Great Royal Wife. But perhaps he’d been suborned by the priesthood of Amun. Though for what purpose, even Meren was at a loss to understand.

  And now he must make inquiries of the royal amulet maker and at the treasury of the god Amun. The business would distract him from the problem of Ankhesenamun. He would have to meet with the king and Ay, but he must do so in secret, after dark. There was just time after seeing the amulet maker to cross the river to the great temple complex of Amun before the evening meal. Then, when the city slept, he would go to the palace again.

  Chapter 13

  The last cool breeze brought on by the setting of the sun whipped Kysen’s hair back from his face as he watched the supply train plod toward them. A boy ran from the village to hand Thesh his scribe’s kit.

  The scribe swung the kit by its string. “Useramun told me that Hormin suddenly commissioned a coffin from Ramose and Hesire. Formerly he’d complained of the cost of their work. But then, he complained of everything.”

  Kysen felt locked inside pain, as though he existed somehow apart from the white valley, the noisy chatter of children around him as they spilled out of the village. He couldn’t refuse to meet his brothers, not after Thesh’s statement. Why was he afraid to do so? They hadn’t recognized him before; they wouldn’t now. And Pawero was still off at his lair, lurking there like some wrinkled old spider.

  He and Thesh walked out to meet the supply train, and as they halted, one of his brothers separated from the line and came toward him. Odd to think that he wouldn’t have known which was which without Thesh’s guidance. The man stumbled, over nothing it seemed, righted himself, and then resumed his course. His steps were distorted, as though he were pulling his feet from Nile mud, and he navigated like an overloaded freight boat with a torn sail.

  Creasing his brow, Kysen said nothing as Hesire dropped anchor in front of him. The breeze carried gusts of beer fumes so strong they almost burned his nose. Ramose had followed his brother immediately, and joined them as Hesire drifted from side to side before Kysen on his drink-slackened tether. He raised an arm and pointed at Kysen.

  “You,” he said, sending a fresh puff of beer fumes wafting at Kysen. “I know you.”

  One of the first lessons he’d learned from Meren was never to give way to fear and spew forth ungoverned speech when confronted. Although his gut filled with molten bronze, he confined himself to two words.

  “You do?”

  Hesire, a man of lesser height whose jutting teeth and flabby muscles made him resemble a plucked duck, nodded and hiccuped. “Do. They say you’re the servant of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh come to see about that bastard Hormin.”

  He jolted out of his fugue, although he pretended calm, and surveyed the line of hills behind his brothers. “You disliked Hormin.”

  ” ‘Course,” Hesire said.

  He set his legs apart to keep from drifting into his brother, folded his arms over his chest, and beamed at Kysen. Evidently he thought he’d made himself clear.

  “Life and health to you,” Ramose said, shouldering in front of Hesire. “I fear my brother has imbibed too early this morning.”

  Thesh glanced up from his place beneath the pavilion. “This morning and every morning.”

  Ramose scowled at the scribe, but continued. “Hesire is furious with Hormin for getting killed before we could begin work on his coffin.”

  “Why? Surely you of all carpenters don’t lack for commissions?”

  Ramose glanced at Thesh, then fixed his gaze on his fingernails. “True, but Hormin commissioned a most complete and elegant coffin, and we prefer to make those. Three nested coffins, entirely illustrated with sacred texts and scenes from The Book of What Is in the Underworld. More challenging.”

  “I see.”

  He did see. It was as he’d suspected. Thesh was running a side business in funerary equipage, which was customary, but he and the artisans were keeping profits unknown to the royal authorities. No doubt many commissions such as Hormin’s went unreported to the vizier’s office.

  Hesire belched and rubbed his hands on his wrinkled and dirty kilt. “And of course there was the sarcophagus.”

  “What sarcophagus?”

  Kysen’s skin prickled as Thesh froze in the act of recording grain supplies and Ramose tried to kill his brother with a mere gaze.

  “What sarcophagus?”

  “Why, that red granite one he’s got in his cursed tomb.”

  “Hesire, you’re drunk again,” Ramose said.

  He shoved his brother, who stumbled backward into a donkey and plummeted to the ground. Throwing up his hands in exasperation, Ramose hauled his brother upright and half carried him toward the village. Kysen watched them go. He didn’t know whether he was unhappy or grateful that they hadn’t recognized him. Glancing down, he found Thesh staring at him. He rubbed his chin with a forefinger, then shrugged, as though the significance of a red granite sarcophagus had eluded him.

  While he watched Thesh record the distribution of supplies to the artisans’ wives and take delivery on new chisels, hammers, awls, and reed brushes, he thought about how best to approach the scribe about the sarcophagus and the secret commissions. As he did so, Woser emerged from the village carrying a sack and a bottle.

  The western hill beside the village was already beginning to bake in the unforgiving sun. Woser, a brown crane stalking up the slope, headed for one of the chapels cut into the hill. Beneath the chapels lay the tombs of the village ancestors. Kysen forgot Thesh. Surely Woser had fallen behind in his work after being sick. What was he doing traipsing off to his family chapel?

&
nbsp; He waited for the draftsman to climb the staircase hewn out of the limestone. Low and wide, it had a central slide upon which funeral sledges were pushed up to the chapels. Woser turned right and stalked along a row of entrances until he came to the last one on the second level. Set into the hillside, it was constructed of mud brick in the shape of a steep-sided miniature pyramid.

  Kysen watched the draftsman vanish inside before setting out to follow him. After climbing the stairs, he walked quietly to the tomb entrance and paused outside the open double doors. The chapel bricks, painted white, reflected heat at him. At first he could only see shadows. As his vision adjusted to the reduced light, he saw painted walls bearing scenes of deceased villagers receiving offerings from family members, of patron deities of the artisans. He slipped inside and placed his back to a wall.

  The chapel had a short entrance hall that ended in steps descending to the cramped devotional chamber below. He could hear Woser muttering there, and light from a lamp filtered up as well. Kysen walked halfway down the steps, paused, then descended until he could see the draftsman. Woser stood before an offering table. He was mumbling a prayer and holding bread and dried fish up in both hands. Then he placed the food on the altar, poured beer into a cup, and placed that on the altar.

  Kysen was about to leave when he heard a snuffle. He paused, then turned back to stare at the draftsman. Woser wiped his generous nose on the back of his hand. He fumbled at the waistband of his kilt and drew forth a folded papyrus sheet.

  Opening it, he began to read aloud. “O demon who hath tortured me for many days, I propitiate thee. Take this bread, this fish, this beer for thy sustenance.”

  Woser stuttered and sobbed. He wiped his face with the papyrus, then covered his eyes with the sheet and wailed incomprehensibly. He sank to his knees, rocked back and forth, and muttered into the papyrus.