Murder in the Place of Anubis

by Lynda S. Robinson

  Kysen drew nearer, hoping to make out what the draftsman was saying, but Woser suddenly coughed. Then he choked, grabbed the cup of beer, and downed it. Sighing, he folded the sheet and placed it on the offering table along with the food.

  “O Ptah, O Hathor, O Amun, I beseech thee, make this demon fly from me. I mean no harm to anyone, not to the living or—or to th-the dead.” Woser broke off to moan and rock again. When he regained some calm, he continued. “Make me skilled in drafting and in learning to sculpt, and intercede for me with Osiris and the gods of the underworld. I promise entire devotion. I never meant harm. I never meant evil. I beg to be delivered from sin, from this demon.”

  Kysen leaned against the chapel wall, disconcerted at the fearfulness in Woser’s voice. Of course, if he’d been beset with such an evil illness for days on end, he might be fearful too. He thought Woser had finished, but he was wrong. The man stood, a papyrus reed with a nose, and began what Kysen recognized as a ritual exorcism. No doubt the physician from Thebes had recommended one as a part of Woser’s recovery.

  The draftsman produced a carved amulet, the Eye of Horus. Of limestone painted to resemble a stylized eye, it signified health. Woser lay the amulet on the offering table. Next he produced a pouch, took a pinch of the dust within, and sprinkled it over the flame of the oil lamp on the table. Light flamed, and Kysen sniffed the bitter smell of burnt herbs.

  “Out, O demon. I call upon Horus and Seth, Amun and Mut, Isis and Hathor. Aid me. Depart, O demon. I have done no wrong. I have not killed; I have not spoken lies; I have not stolen. I am blameless of sin. Depart, O demon.”

  More chanting, more herbs. Then Woser produced another, smaller Eye of Horus amulet strung on a beaded chain, slipped it around his neck, and prayed. Kysen shook his head and stepped out into the open as Woser rose to leave. The draftsman started and gave a little cry.

  “You cut short the ritual confession,” Kysen said.

  Woser’s mouth worked open and closed.

  “You left out quite a few sins.” Kysen listed them on his fingers. “You have to say you haven’t robbed the poor, caused pain, caused tears, made anyone suffer, damaged the offerings in temples, stolen the cakes of the dead or the loaves of the gods, cheated in the fields. There’s lots more.”

  “What? Whatwhatwhatwhat?” Woser added for clarity, “What?”

  “And you forgot lying with a strange woman.”

  Woser swallowed and gawked at Kysen.

  “Tell me,” Kysen said when it was apparent that Woser wasn’t going to say anything, “has Beltis said anything to you about Hormin’s death or his family?”

  “Sh-she said his sons killed him.”

  “Many people could have killed him, including Beltis.”

  “I w-was sick.”

  “Yes, you appear to have been ill at the most convenient time.”

  “Thesh will tell you I—”

  “I know, I know.” Kysen turned toward the stairs. “Just remember. The Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh know much and discover all, eventually. If you know something about Beltis, you’d better tell me before I discover it myself and find out you knew all along. I don’t like it when people withhold knowledge. Not at all. And my displeasure will make your demon’s seem like rapture.”

  He left Woser then, knowing that a few hours of anticipating what might happen to him at Kysen’s hands would work on the man’s fantasy-ridden heart. When he emerged into sunlight, he saw that the supply party had dispersed. Thesh was leaving the pavilion with his arms loaded with packages and ostraca.

  Kysen followed the scribe at a distance as he disappeared behind the village walls. He reached the gate as Thesh ducked inside his house. The man reappeared abruptly without his burdens. Kysen stepped quickly into the shadow of an unoccupied doorway and allowed several women to pass him.

  Thesh dodged two girls playing ball in the street and walked directly into the house of Useramun. Instead of following, Kysen went to the side stairs that scaled to the roof of the painter’s house. Climbing them, he slunk across the roof to the top-floor entrance and descended the ladder. He came out in the kitchen, where he encountered an old woman servant carrying bread in a basket. His hand went to his lips, signaling silence. She regarded him without much curiosity before quitting the house through the rear door. He crept toward the front room, lured by the sound of Useramun’s voice.

  “I tell you it means nothing,” the painter was saying.

  He was sitting before a grinding stone and spooning crushed red ocher into a pot. Thesh walked back and forth in front of him tugging at a length of black hair.

  “You didn’t see Seth’s face when Hesire confronted him. He went pale. I’m sure he understood. He’s got a most clever heart, that one.”

  “Aye,” Useramun purred. “Most clever, and a fit body too. Perfect to the canon of proportions.”

  “Are you listening? He knows!”

  “Shoulders broader than the length from elbow to fingertip,” the painter murmured as he allowed ocher to spill from his spoon.

  “If Ramose hadn’t stopped him, he’d have mentioned the payments.”

  “Nose not too long. Lips soft, yet firm.”

  “And now he’s following Woser,” Thesh said. “Woser, with his demons and his sickness. Who can tell what Woser will say?”

  “He has legs of the most precise musculature.”

  Thesh stopped before the painter, chest heaving. “Useramun, shut up and help me think. What if Seth reports what he’s learned about us to the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh?”

  The painter expelled an irritated sigh and laid his spoon aside.

  “Listen to me. Seth is a royal servant. We are royal servants. Royal servants know about side commissions and private arrangements that ease the conduct of royal business.”

  “You mean bribes,” Thesh said as he raked his hands through his hair.

  The painter cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you think our Seth indulges in bribes?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  “How would you know?” Thesh snapped.

  “I asked Beltis,” Useramun said. “The little bitch is already busy ingratiating herself with the servant of the Eyes of Pharaoh. She ingratiated herself only a few hours ago. Several times.”

  Kysen swore at Useramun silently while Thesh swore at him aloud.

  “No use blaming me,” the painter said as he took up his spoon again.

  “But he’s sure to suspect you and me now!”

  “Why?”

  “Because of Beltis, you fool. She’s trying to bribe him with her body, and he’s going to think she murdered Hormin and that we helped, or that we did it for her, or that we urged her to do it for us, or—what if she tells him we did it?”

  “Gods, Thesh, you’re babbling like a runaway slave under torture. Next you’ll be soiling your kilt. He hasn’t done anything yet. Nor has he said anything. Wait.”

  Thesh groaned. “But I didn’t kill Hormin.”

  “I didn’t either. And I don’t think Beltis did, for I’m sure she wouldn’t risk her oiled and perfumed hide to do it. Therefore we’ve nothing to worry about.”

  “No? What if they don’t find the killer?”

  Useramun shrugged and began to pour resin into the pot of ocher.

  “What if they don’t find the killer? What if the vizier becomes impatient? What if he applies pressure to the Eyes of Pharaoh? What if they decide to find the killer by torturing us? What if they decide to find someone to blame even if they’re not sure I’m guilty? I could be cast out into the desert to die.”

  Thesh began to pace up and down again, this time working his fists open and closed. Useramun glanced up after he’d finished. Kysen noted the first sign of interest from the painter. Useramun chewed on the end of his spoon.

  “Perhaps you’re right.” He chewed thoughtfully while Thesh paced. “Perhaps there is reason to take a hand in this investigation ourselves.”

 
; “How?”

  “I don’t know right now. I shall think upon it. After all, Beltis says Hormin’s sons killed him. They say she did it. There seems to be an abundance of persons upon whom the authorities may place blame. It may be in our interest to see that they place it upon the right person.”

  “And quickly,” Thesh said.

  Useramun chuckled. “You mean before you deteriorate into a quivering mud cake?”

  “No, before Seth confronts me about our commissions and the vizier comes down upon us with his wrath.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” the painter said.

  “If I’m discovered, I won’t endure punishment alone.”

  Useramun rose and traced Thesh’s chin with the end of the spoon. “Then we’ll have to find a killer for Seth, won’t we? That should take his thoughts from secret commissions and bribes and other such inconvenient things.”

  Thesh jerked his head out of range of the spoon and went to the front door. “We haven’t much time.”

  “Give me a day,” the painter said.

  “Only if Seth says nothing.”

  Useramun nodded.

  “If he confronts me, I must throw myself on his mercy and beg his discretion, for all of us.”

  The painter had returned to his mixing, and he glanced up from the pot. “I’m sure you’re very good at begging. But I think you’ll be surprised at how unimportant our little doings are in the view of a servant of a great one. No doubt he’s seen much bigger thieves than us.”

  Kysen nearly laughed. He had indeed. Thesh left vowing to confess all if cornered, and Useramun continued with his paint mixing. Kysen left the way he’d come. He managed to creep downstairs without anyone seeing him except for a plump little boy who could barely walk. The young one had wobbled down the alley between Useramun’s house and his neighbor’s and had set his bare bottom on the lowest step in the staircase. He was playing with a rattle.

  Poor Thesh. All his charm and pleasing looks meant naught when he was confronted with—. Kysen stopped on the middle step and gazed at the boy below without seeing him. Useramun and Beltis; Woser and Beltis; Hormin and Beltis. And, of course, himself and Beltis.

  He spoke aloud to himself. “Thesh and Beltis.”

  He took another step down as he mused. He nearly stumbled as enlightenment burst upon him. He stood still, pondering. Could he be right? How could he be sure? He considered the possibilities as he resumed his descent.

  Kysen picked the little boy up as he reached the bottom step. “Aren’t you Yem’s nephew, little one? Come along. Let’s see if we can’t cheer your Uncle Thesh. He’s got quite a lot of heavy burdens on his heart today.”

  Chapter 14

  Meren walked into the forecourt of the amulet-makers’ workshop and paused to adjust to the clatter and pounding that assaulted his ears. Under the shade of an awning sat rows of apprentices and masters working with thin copper chisels and wooden hammers or polishing stones. Beneath each workplace lay a mat to catch flakes of carnelian, lapis lazuli, and turquoise. Beyond, in the open air, lay a fire pit and molds. Two men bent over the pit holding flexible wooden tongs. They gripped a crucible and lowered it into the pit.

  An old man stood beside a balance laden with several pieces of lapis lazuli. When he saw Meren, he motioned to a younger man, who took up watch beside the balance. Shuffling up to Meren, he bowed low. “Life, health, and strength to my lord Meren.”

  “I didn’t think you’d remember me, Nebi.”

  “One remembers the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh.”

  Meren rolled his eyes. “Please, Nebi. I used to hide from my tutor in your workshop.”

  Nebi laughed and placed a dry, scarred finger beside his nose. “Long, long ago.”

  “Not so long, I pray. But Nebi, I’ve come on an errand.”

  “Allow me to offer refreshment and shade, my lord.” Nebi ushered him inside the workshop past more rows of assistants sitting on the floor or bent over worktables. One was inserting glass inlay into a gold scarab amulet. At the rear of the shop lay a narrow room with a chair, a bed, and stools. Given Nebi’s advancing years, he wasn’t surprised at their presence.

  “No,” he said when Nebi offered the only chair. “If you remember me so clearly, then you know I’m not going to take your chair when you need it.”

  He waited while Nebi engaged in the slow process of lowering himself into the chair. Then he took a stool beside it and produced the heart amulet found on Hormin.

  “What can you tell me of this?”

  Nebi took the amulet. The craftsman had small hands for a man. No doubt they were an advantage in his delicate work. Each finger bore its net of scars and nicks. The carnelian heart with its smoothly worked surface made Nebi’s hands seem all the more disfigured. He turned it over, brought it close to his face to peer at it, then glanced at Meren.

  “The ib amulet. Couldn’t they tell you about it in the Place of Anubis?”

  “How do you know it comes from the Place of Anubis?”

  “How do I know Ra is in his sun boat?” Nebi shrugged. “Such things are known. That is all.”

  Meren gave up. “Very well. I should have known better than to expect secrecy. Raneb the lector priest says it’s one of thousands they put in the wrappings. I want to know if there’s anything special about this amulet.”

  Nebi turned the object over in his hand. Formed in the shape of a stylized human heart, the ib resembled an elongated pot with double handles and a pronounced rim.

  “This one?” Nebi’s hand drew closer to his face again as he mused. “The heart, seat of intelligence and emotion. This amulet must be placed on the body during ritual purification and embalming to protect the heart so that it can be weighed on the balance of the gods against the feather of truth. Anubis stands by to assure the fairness of the weighing. I’ve, often wondered how many of us, so laden with sins, ever pass the trial.”

  Meren shifted on the stool. “Please, Nebi.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The old man handed the amulet to Meren. “The stone is of extremely good quality, most likely from a large pebble from the eastern desert. Such large pebbles are rare, as is the excellent blood-red color. Raneb may see many amulets, but he obviously doesn’t look at them as a craftsman does.”

  “Well, they have great boxes full of them.”

  “Indeed, my lord. But this carnelian is of the quality I would use only in an amulet made for a noble or a prince or—”

  “Or a king?”

  Nebi inclined his head. “I am a neshdy, worker of precious stones.” Nebi pointed at the amulet in Meren’s hand. “That is the amulet of a prince.”

  “I feared you would say so.”

  “It’s not pierced,” Nebi said. “Therefore it wasn’t meant for a necklace. It has been shaped on both sides. Therefore it is not meant for inlay. I would say it was intended to be placed upon a body, within the bandages over the heart.”

  “Therefore, if this amulet came from the Place of Anubis, it would have been housed in their treasury at the temple, not at the embalming sheds.”

  “Aye, my lord. But, of course, someone could have made a mistake and placed it with the lesser stones. They seem to take such amulets for granted, the embalmer priests.”

  Meren stood and helped Nebi get himself out of his chair. They walked out of the workshop, back into the din of the forecourt. Bow drills whirred and blowpipes hissed as assistants blew into them to fan the furnaces and braziers. Meren took leave of Nebi and returned to his chariot. Abu awaited him, but he stood caressing the nose of his thoroughbred while he thought.

  Another object of great value, this heart amulet. Did it belong to Hormin, or to the Place of Anubis? He was reluctant to admit that he might never know. Hormin had been prosperous, mostly because he hoarded and no doubt connived in sly ways to obtain more than his fair share of wealth. The scribe had owned that broad collar. Yet he couldn’t make the mistake of assuming he also owned the unguent and the heart amulet.

  �
��Abu, we’re going to the treasury of the god Amun.” Meren glanced at the sun. It had already sailed over its high point and was descending rapidly. “Who do you see at the treasury?”

  “A lowly Pure One, my lord.”

  “It’s as well. In that ants’ nest the powerful ones wouldn’t know anything of our Hormin. Not that they would tell me if they did.”

  He sailed across the river on the royal ferry, taking his chariot with him. Soon he was driving down the great processional way lined with ram-headed sphinxes, the pylon gates looming larger and larger until they dwarfed even the largest of the temples of the lesser gods. Gold-and-electrum-cased obelisks glowed in sunlight. Crowds of priests and temple servants, supplicants, and officials made way for him.

  Meren craned his neck back until he could see the flagpoles with their narrow banners hanging limply in the stillness of the fading day. He hadn’t been to the temple of Amun often since the court had returned from the heretic’s capital. Each time he did, he felt as if he should wear armor and watch for cobras in dark corners. The High Priest of Amun disliked him almost as much as he hated the king.

  Abu, who drove the chariot, walked the horses beneath the monumental pylons. The closer they came to the temple, the more priests they encountered—richly dressed in the whitest linens and in electrum and precious stones. Those of higher rank, mostly noblemen in gleaming, bejeweled raiment, advanced upon their way with the aid of several fan-bearing servitors. Weaving obsequiously through the numerous gemlike processions were the ordinary priests, the Pure Ones, who conducted the everyday affairs of the temple, such as providing food for the bureaucracy and teaching boys in the temple school.

  Abu left the chariot in care of the temple guards who had greeted them and allowed them to pass with salutes. Inside the temple walls Meren skirted the temple of Khons, son of Amun, and crossed several courts to a long, vaulted building to the rear of the sacred lake. Beyond the lake lay the temple itself, shrouded in its protective curtain of stone and precious metal. Passing the sentries who flanked the double doors of the treasury, Meren walked into the antechamber of the building. He was about to ask Abu to find the priest they sought when he heard his name spoken quietly from the shadows of a recess that held a votive statue of the king’s father, Amunhotep the Magnificent.