Murder in the Place of Anubis

by Lynda S. Robinson

  From the burial chamber he could hear scraping and chipping noises, as if someone were hard at work excavating in the next room. When the noises started, Beltis and her ally had stopped arguing. Silence fell, and Kysen strained to hear anything at all. To his surprise, the light inside the burial chamber dimmed. He waited, but heard nothing further.

  He was about to investigate when more scraping noises echoed in the chamber and the light there brightened again. Next he heard a clatter and more scrapes, this time coming toward him. He bolted for the ramp, scrambled up the stairs and into the open. Racing for his boulder, he dropped behind it and peeped over the top in time to see Beltis pop out of the tomb entrance, dragging her sack as if she’d stuffed it with rocks.

  Behind her came a man, his arms laden with several boxes stacked on top of each other so that his face was hidden. He set them down in the pool of light cast by the torch, but he was too tall, and the light didn’t reach his shoulders and head. Kysen cursed silently at the man for not offering him a clear view. He returned his gaze to the boxes and caught a glimpse of alabaster, sheet gold, and ebony. No Egyptian could mistake the sight.

  The man picked up the boxes again while Beltis went ahead, grasping the torch, and dragged her sack. Again the man stayed just outside the pool of light. They set off down the trail by which they’d arrived, heading in the direction of the village.

  Kysen watched them leave. Burdened as they were, he could catch up with them. He had to examine Hormin’s tomb. There shouldn’t have been anything in it to be removed. A dead man’s possessions weren’t placed in his eternal house until the day his body was brought for burial. He returned to the entrance and again lit one of the torches Beltis had stuck in a basin of sand. Whipping back down the shaft, he entered the burial chamber.

  Undecorated, the chamber would soon hold the dead man’s mummiform coffin. What caught Kysen’s attention was the rectangular sarcophagus into which the coffin would be placed. Normally a scribe might expect to afford a wooden sarcophagus. Hormin had one of red granite—carved on all sides with images of the gods and inscribed with sacred texts.

  Taking a moment to light three lamps, Kysen examined the sarcophagus. He ran his hand over the cool, polished surface of the granite. His fingers dipped into the grooves of the outline of a figure of a god. Shifting the lid would take the strength of at least four men. His hand skimmed over the rounded top of the lid as he walked around the container. He wondered if the objects Beltis and her companion had taken from the chamber had come from the sarcophagus. As he walked, his sandal slipped on the dusty floor. He tottered and glanced down to find he’d stepped in white grit at the base of the wall behind the sarcophagus.

  Chunks and flakes of plaster lay scattered at the base of a hole in the wall. He’d found what he was looking for. He remembered that Hormin had decided to enlarge his tomb many days ago, only to abruptly change his mind again. Now he knew why; the hole, wide enough to admit a kneeling man, had been knocked into what should have been virgin rock. Instead, it cut into a cavity.

  Kysen grasped one of the lamps, knelt before the hole, and eased it inside. The light touched metal and blazed. Kysen winced, squinted, and gasped. He breathed in a whiff of old ak dust, and the faint smell of wood and resin. He backed up, sat on his heels, and stared.

  “Osiris protect me.”

  He shivered, licked his lips, and gathered his courage. Bending to prop himself on all fours, he stuck his head into the hole again and held the lamp out in front of his body. Gold shone back at him—a wall of gold. No, it was the side of a tall, gilded shrine of archaic design, one used to house coffins of royalty.

  Kysen swallowed and leaned out. The hole had pierced the wall of an old tomb. The floor of the chamber lay several feet below, and Kysen levered himself inside to stand in front of the shrine. Around the chamber lay stacks of boxes that would contain food and clothing. He spotted a disassembled chariot. A bed stood nearby, its lion’s-head finials grimacing at him. He saw stacks of weapons—spears, lances, bows, arrows. A man’s tomb. He returned his gaze to the shrine.

  The seal on the shrine had been broken and its doors stood ajar. Holding the lamp high, Kysen approached them. Within lay a sarcophagus of wood covered entirely in engraved sheet gold. Twisted and broken debris lay around its base. Its lid lay askew, exposing a nested set of coffins with the lids removed.

  Kysen hovered in the threshold of the shrine and looked over the edge of the sarcophagus. He sucked in his breath as his gaze fastened on torn garlands, a blackened shroud. Beneath the torn shroud he glimpsed, inside the innermost of three coffins, an arm. A bandaged arm, torn from its crossed position over the breast, coated in solidified unguent.

  His breathing had grown shallow and rapid, and as his glance flicked to the end of the arm, he backed up, for the hand had been partially torn from the wrist. He knew why. In a burial so rich, the most portable and valuable objects lay on the body itself—rings, bracelets, necklaces, amulets. Kysen shook his head, his stomach roiling at the sight of the desecrated body.

  As he retreated in horror from the shrine, he felt a rush of air at his back. He turned, but not in time. Pain burst in his skull. For a moment he felt suspended in chaos. He dropped to his knees, fighting to remain conscious. His last sight was of the gold sarcophagus as he fell at its base.

  Meren stood over the cowering figures on the floor of his office.

  “May the gods curse your names,” he said. “How far did you think to get in a skiff?”

  He listened to Selket babble for a moment, then signaled to Abu to fetch a whip. Meren’s patience had run out, and Imsety had yet to speak except to plead for mercy. Abu returned with a chariot whip and handed it to Meren.

  Letting the lash uncurl to the floor, Meren gave it a preliminary flick. The leather snaked out, almost touching Selket. The air cracked.

  Selket shrieked. “No!” She turned on her son. “This is your fault. If you hadn’t been caught with that necklace—”

  “But Djaper said the necklace was the answer to everything,” Imsety whined.

  Meren went still and snapped, “Why?”

  Imsety ducked his head, stared at the ground, and said, “I don’t know, lord. Because of its value? Please, I beg of you, believe me.”

  “Those were his very words? He said that the necklace was the answer?”

  Imsety nodded and moaned.

  “Be quiet.”

  Meren strode to his worktable, where he’d laid out the obsidian knife, the amulet, the empty qeres unguent jar, and the necklace.

  He glanced up at his prisoners, who were still whimpering. “Take them to a cell.”

  Abu left with Imsety and Selket. Meren picked up the necklace and let the rows of beads trail from his fingers.

  Red jasper, gold, lapis lazuli—a rich prize. Now that he’d found Imsety and his mother, he could take the time to have a royal jeweler examine it. The rows of beads alternated in bands of red, gold, and blue to form a collar that would fasten in the back. From the missing end pieces would hang a counterweight to balance the necklace and hold it in place.

  Djaper had valued this necklace for more than the wealth it represented. He’d told Imsety it was the answer. The answer. Yet Beltis claimed that the necklace was hers.

  Of course, the woman had lied about not awakening when Hormin had left her. Imsety had babbled about seeing her take leave of her master that night. No doubt Beltis also knew where Hormin was going the night he died. And she’d fled to the village of the tomb makers. Both she and Hormin had been at the village the day of his death. They’d visited his tomb.

  Meren dropped into his chair, holding the necklace. His gaze traveled from it to the unguent jar. Qeres, the rare salve so valuable that only king and queen now possessed it. Once qeres had been the prized unguent of princes and nobles. A luxury coveted by lost generations.

  His fist wrapped around the necklace and squeezed. Lost generations. Long ago, qeres would have been used during a
prince’s life—and taken with him to his eternal house for his pleasure in the next. And the amulet. Nebi had said that this amulet was made to be placed on a body, a wealthy body, in a tomb. This heart amulet belonged in a tomb; no doubt there was much qeres in old tombs.

  Something was pinching his hand. Meren looked down to find himself strangling the broad collar, with its bands of color stiffened with spacer beads. Djaper had told Imsety that the necklace had been damaged and needed repair—its finials were missing—but the pinlike bars of gold at the unfinished ends bore no scratches, as one would expect if its falcon-head or lotus finials had once been attached. The surface of the pins was smooth, untouched, as if it had been intended to remain so.

  Something niggled at him. Some recent memory. When he’d been with Nebi, the amulet maker had been certain that the ib had been intended for a body. He’d known by the way it was finished. The necklace, too, was finished peculiarly. It wasn’t really broken. Perhaps it had never possessed end pieces or a counterpoise. If so, then it couldn’t have been worn. Neither could the heart amulet—unless both the necklace and the amulet had been intended for someone who didn’t need the completed jewelry.

  The only person who doesn’t need complete jewelry is a dead one—a jeweler makes incomplete pieces only when they are intended for the tomb.

  Meren rose from his chair with the necklace dangling from his fingers. He stared vacantly at the obsidian embalming knife. And what of the place where Hormin had been killed? Was it not in the place of the dead? Tomb robbery. What better place to plot tomb robbery with one’s fellow thieves than in the embalming sheds at night? And if Beltis knew of the looting, and if Beltis was in the tomb-makers’ village, she either killed Hormin or knew who did.

  Dropping the necklace on his worktable, Meren deliberately made himself go slowly. Hormin hadn’t been taking bribes to gather his wealth, or hoarding the revenue from his farm. He’d been robbing tombs. Sacrilege. Perhaps the greatest of all crimes—desecration of the dead. One who committed such a transgression risked the curses of the gods and vengeance from the grave. But greed conquered most fears, in Meren’s experience.

  The risk, however, was so great that only rich tombs were worth it. Therefore the stakes were high, and the danger greater. The cemeteries were guarded day and night and robbery attempts rare, or so everyone thought. Yet Hormin had found a way to rob a tomb, most likely while at the tomb-makers’ village. And it had gotten him killed.

  It was time to go to the tomb-makers’ village. The sun would rise in an hour or two; only then would it be safe to cross the river. Meren gripped the edge of the worktable and closed his eyes. Kysen slept in a village that contained a murderer, most likely more than one murderer.

  It had been his own idea to send him there. Now he regretted his decision. The tomb robbers had killed three men already; he was certain they wouldn’t stop at a fourth.

  Chapter 16

  He descended upon the tomb-makers’ village like a lion upon a herd of oryx. Storming down the path into the valley, his charioteers banged on the gates with their spears while he cursed the delay caused by the necessity of traveling by foot through the hills and cliffs. Someone opened the gates, and his charioteers thrust them back. Meren charged through them and stalked up to a man standing at the front of a crowd of villagers, who had dropped to their knees upon seeing his bronze and gold armor and weapons.

  “I am the Eyes of Pharaoh. Where is my servant?”

  The man bowed to him. “I know not, lord.”

  “Find him at once.”

  A search of the entire village failed to produce Kysen. Furious, Meren rounded on the man to whom he’d first spoken.

  “Who else is missing? Quickly, fool.”

  “Th-the woman Beltis, a painter called Useramun, the sons of the coffin maker Pawero, the draftsman Woser. Others are in the Great Place for their shift.”

  Meren gripped the hilt of his dagger and spoke through his teeth. “Damn you, where have these people gone?”

  “I know not, lord. Your servant retired as we all did. I thought he was asleep until you came.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Thesh, lord, scribe of the village.”

  Abu emerged from a crowd of villagers pushing a man in front of him. This man supported another, who stumbled and whined as he walked.

  “Ramose and Hesire, sons of Pawero, lord. I’ve questioned them and others. None of them knows where your servant is.”

  Meren’s hand worked open and closed over his dagger hilt. He thought furiously. All of the missing villagers had had dealings with Hormin in making his tomb. The tomb. Tomb robbing. Apprehension turned to dread. His heart pounded against his ribs as he realized what must have happened. Kysen had found the murderer—or the murderer had found him.

  ‘Thesh,” he barked. “You will show me the way to Hormin’s tomb at once.”

  They sped over the hills and across valleys of shale and limestone like shadows of wind-driven clouds. Each second, each moment when Thesh hesitated to take his bearings, stretched his control near to breaking. They raced down yet another hill into a valley sheltering the ruins of a temple.

  Something moved behind a broken column, and Abu shouted. Drawing his sword, he thrust his body between Meren and the column as charioteers rushed past them. Charioteers pounced on a man leaning on the column and dragged him from behind it. Half-conscious, he slumped between two guards.

  “Useramun?” Thesh stepped forward and shook the man’s shoulder. “He’s been hurt, lord.”

  As Thesh spoke, the painter slumped forward. The guards lowered him to the ground. Swearing, Meren directed them to take the painter back to the village. Without further delay he raced after Thesh, who clambered up another hill, only to drop to his knees at its summit. Meren joined him.

  The scribe pointed. Dawn approached; with the sky lightening, he could make out a small cliff into which had been cut the entrance to a tomb. It appeared deserted.

  Every moment he delayed risked Kysen’s life, yet he couldn’t rush down there with his men and warn his quarry. He would go himself. But what if no one was there? Shoving aside his fear, Meren signaled to Abu that he and the others should wait. He could see that Abu thought he should allow one of his men to explore, but he couldn’t sit on this hill while his son was in danger.

  Quietly, taking care not to dislodge rocks and pebbles, he worked down the hill and sped to the base of the cliff. Rushing the last few steps, he flattened himself against the side of the entrance. Torchlight flickered, and Meren said a prayer of thanks to the gods.

  Drawing his dagger, he slithered inside. At the base of a set of stairs that led to a ramp, he paused, listening. Solid rock blocked off sounds from the outside, and he could hear nothing from the burial chambers below. A sputtering torch turned the limestone walls gold and the ceiling black. He put his foot on the ramp, and heard a woman shout.

  “I told you to kill him, you fool!”

  Then she screamed. Meren launched himself down the ramp. Running hard, he careened into an antechamber. The woman Beltis hurled herself out of the coffin chamber at the same time, and they crashed into each other. Meren grabbed her and hurled her aside as he heard a distant commotion.

  He rushed into the coffin chamber. Nothing. He stood in front of a red granite sarcophagus, confused and desperate. As he looked wildly around the chamber, he heard the sounds of a fight again and then silence. Rounding the sarcophagus, he found a hole. He knelt and peered inside at rich destruction. A golden shrine lay before him, along with burial furniture, a chariot, wine jars, scattered jewelry, broken spears, and baskets.

  To the left of the shrine was a gilded couch, which was occupied. Kysen! Kysen lay as if he’d fallen on the couch, his hands bound before him and his head bleeding from a wound at the back.

  Wary, Meren waited, hardly daring to breathe, as he searched the lamplit chamber. He heard someone moving behind the shrine. Meren silently dropped down into the chamber a
nd hugged the wall of the shrine. Edging toward the corner, he looked around it just as a man walked from behind it toward Kysen carrying an alabaster wine jar. His shoulder and arm muscles rippled as he raised the vessel above his head and aimed for Kysen.

  Meren moved out from the shrine and cocked his dagger arm back, but the man turned suddenly and heaved the jar at him. Meren caught a brief glimpse of his face before the jar hit him. Woser! The vessel hit Meren’s arms as he threw them up to protect his face. The blow sent Meren staggering backward, stunned, to land on the floor by the shrine.

  He sat up and shook his head. Across the room, the draftsman sprang at Kysen, who dodged aside and tripped the man. Falling, Woser lashed out and gripped Kysen’s ankle as he tried to flee. Kysen fell, but rolled and kicked Woser in the stomach. The draftsman grunted, curling in on himself for a moment, while Kysen turned and crawled toward Meren.

  Meren had managed to grip one of the doors of the shrine to lever himself upright. As he did so, Woser pounced on Kysen. Meren watched his son fall halfway between the couch and the shrine.

  Woser wrapped his arms around Kysen, and they rolled across the floor over fragments of broken jars and furniture. Meren took a step toward them and staggered against the shrine again, dizzy. When he regained his balance, he saw Woser straddling his son.

  The draftsman had the end of a broken spear in his hands. Kysen gripped Woser’s wrists in both hands and was holding off a death blow with fading strength. Wiping the blood from his eyes, Meren spied his dagger lying on the threshold of the shrine.

  He dove for it, stood, and hurled it at Woser. There was a loud thud as the point embedded itself in Woser’s bare back. The draftsman jerked, then froze; the spear in his hands quivered. Then Kysen shoved hard, and he toppled sideways. Meren stumbled over to Kysen, who lay on his back half-pinned by Woser’s body. Shoving the dead man aside, Meren lifted Kysen into his arms.