by Anton Gill
‘And he will live here?’
‘Yes.’
Senseneb felt a twinge of envy at it. ‘But who spoke for him for the post?’
Huy’s smile came back. ‘I did,’ he said.
She looked at him. ‘What? Why?’
‘He is a good archivist.’
‘But – ’ Senseneb looked round the room. Apart from Horus and Bes, staring solemnly out across it, there was nothing left that was not packed. They would be sleeping on pallets that night. But she noticed that Hapu had left a tray with wine on one of the packing cases, and she took a beaker and filled it.
‘Does he know that you spoke for him?’ she asked after she had drunk.
Huy’s smile became a little less tired. ‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘He would hate me for it.’
There was one more duty for Senseneb to perform. She went down to where Hapu was, in the courtyard just beyond the main door of their house. There was no garden here, but Senseneb had managed to fill the cool space with dark palms, which turned the little square, open to the sky into her own haven of quiet.
The old man stood up as she approached, pushing aside the carob beans and roast duck he had been eating. A long beaker of barley beer stood at the side of his plate.
‘Madam.’
‘We have not yet talked about what you would like to do,’ said Senseneb.
‘Do you wish me to stay with you?’ asked Hapu. His eye met hers only for a moment, but the expression she saw there let her know his heart.
‘Do you wish to come to Meroe?’
Hapu looked around. ‘I would rather stay here,’ he said.
‘Then you will leave my service?’
Hapu was far too conservative to smile at his employer, but he allowed his eye to meet hers briefly once again.
‘I am too young to retire, and too old to work for anyone else.’
‘Then you will come with us.’
Hapu sighed. ‘Yes. I would rather stay with you than avoid the provinces.’
Senseneb knew that Hapu had seen himself as her guardian since the death of her father. Huy had never offered as much as this man, and his affection made her feel safe.
‘Thank you,’ she said. She would have said more – perhaps more than was appropriate – about her gratitude for his unselfishness, but they were interrupted by a house-servant. Hapu had already heard the main door being opened and had turned his head in that direction. Following the servant was a tall, dark man whom she had not met but whose identity she was certain of.
‘Reniqer,’ she said.
As he moved into the light she saw that the ochre colour on his tunic was not decoration, but blood.
Chapter Three
He was a bull of a man, and he looked as if he were carved from granite; he stood impassively in the centre of the room, his bare head, for he wore no wig, covered with a dense stubble of grey hair. His head sat on his shoulders like a monolith, and what neck there was was buried in the folds of muscle that ran out across his bunched shoulders. A broad, short torso ended in wide, solid legs which he held spread apart – a position which betrayed his former occupation.
If any emotion at all lay in the heart of the man, it was gratitude; but it was as if all the gratitude in his whole being, reserved for dispensation for all the kindnesses paid in him life, had been focused and spent on one man for one action. Ten floods before, when he had still been a river barge captain, he had stood accused of murder. Whether the accusation had been justified or not, the case had come to Ay’s attention and he had seen to it that the man was acquitted. It had not been a difficult matter to persuade the rivermen’s court to do so, and thereafter, Henka had entered Ay’s service. In his way, thought the pharaoh, he had acquired in the man his own, personal problem solver – though Henka’s means were somewhat more direct than Huy’s. And Henka lacked Huy’s independence of spirit. He owed Ay his life – for maximum effect, Ay had withheld the reprieve until the sack had been thrown over Henka’s head and the man himself had been hoisted above the impaling stake – and his thankfulness found its expression in an utter loyalty which Ay had found useful on many occasions. Henka was like a living shawabti. If he had a fault, it was that he would only take orders from Ay – once set on his course, only the pharaoh himself could divert him from it. So far in their professional relationship, Ay had not found this to be to his disadvantage. But he used Henka sparingly. No one except his secretary, Kenna, knew of the link between them. Henka always worked alone.
‘Do you understand my instructions?’ Ay asked him.
‘I do.’ Even the voice seemed to belong to – what? One of the Undead, perhaps. It lacked tone or any kind of colour. Henka would, with equal impartiality, care tenderly for a tiny baby or rip its mother’s breasts off, if Ay so commanded. It was his impenetrable indifference to the good or evil of a task, so long as the task was one set him by his benefactor, that made him useful: he had turned himself into so complete a servant that it was as if he had killed his own heart, forgotten his own Name. Ay wondered what would happen if this self-imposed equilibrium were ever disturbed. The thought made even the pharaoh flinch.
‘Then you had better go.’
Henka turned to leave without another word.
‘Wait.’
Henka looked back at him. Ay hesitated. This would be the first time he had complicated a direct order to this man.
‘It may be that I change my heart in this.’
If there was to be a moment when an expression crossed Henka’s face, this would be it; but there was not a flicker. Had he understood?
‘If I do,’ continued Ay, ‘I will send Kenna to you. In any case do not act until the time I have told you. If you have not heard from me by then...’ Ay spread his hands.
‘How will I know Kenna is carrying your orders in truth? I will not obey unless I know they are your orders in truth. This is the first time – if it should be – that I receive my orders through Kenna.’
Ay thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘Wait.’
Henka stood immobile as the sun slowly dipped below the western horizon, turning the book-chests and tables, chairs and ornaments in the room to a deep red-gold. As he waited, Ay took out his own palette, made ink himself and, unrolling a small papyrus scroll, painted his message on it.
‘Look at this,’ he said.
Henka obeyed. Then Ay leant over the paper and, with a bronze knife taken from the tabletop, cut it across, handing one half to the bargeman.
‘Keep this. Kenna will bring the other half to you if I change my plan. You have seen the writing whole. You have seen me write it. You know Kenna.’ he paused, feeling odd at having to ask approval of a vassal who never doubted or questioned his word. ‘Do you accept this?’
Henka inclined his head. Then he turned and walked out into the gathering dusk.
Ay watched from his window as Henka vanished into the thinning evening crowd, making for the River. He still could not quieten his uncertainty. But it was done now, and even if it were impossible to stop Henka, well, it would be inconvenient rather than disastrous. He picked up a date from a dish on a table near the window and nibbled at it, watching the sun go down.
‘That is how it happened,’ said Reniqer.
They were sitting in Huy’s work room at the top of the house. At this time of night it was pleasantly cool. Outside, nothing broke the darkness and the silence except the stars and the occasional barking of dogs.
Senseneb had bathed and dressed the superficial stab wound in Reniqer’s right shoulder – his attacker must have been tall because the stroke had been delivered downwards and Reniqer stood three and a half cubits – half a head more than most dwellers in the Southern Capital. But he had fallen at some stage during the attack and could not remember exactly when the blow had been struck. Now he sat nursing a cup of fig liquor, dressed in a set of clean clothes that had arrived with his pack. Huy had sent a servant over to the Fragrance of Nefertem to collect it.
‘Do you think it was the same man you noticed on the boat?’
Reniqer shook his head doubtfully. ‘It might have been. But it was too dark and too quick, and I cannot be sure. Of course it was foolish of me to leave the boat at the village, because if the man on the boat was shadowing me, he must have known that I could only have had one destination – this city.’
‘But you are sure you saw him earlier – at the house where you are staying?’
‘Near it, yes.’ Reniqer was proud of his integrity. ‘That is why I missed our meeting. I did not want to risk him seeing us together.’
Huy could not recall seeing anyone near the Fragrance of Nefertem when he had arrived there. But he had not been looking for anyone.
‘And yet now you have taken that risk.’
Reniqer looked at him curtly. ‘What else could I do? I am not used to this kind of affair. I am not Tascherit’s errand-boy. I came on their behalf as a favour, since I was to see you anyway.’ He looked around uncomfortably at nothing. ‘Now I cannot wait to get away. The dawn cannot come soon enough for me. Make your arrangements and follow as soon as you can. Everything is ready for your arrival.’
‘Why did you give me that story about the boat being damaged?’
The land agent shrugged. ‘We had only met once. I did not want to start telling you everything immediately. Besides, I could have been mistaken about the man.’
‘And your greatest desire was to get out of the harbour district as soon as possible.’
‘Of course.’
Huy sat back and ran a finger along his lower lip.
‘I had no idea you worked for Tascherit and Ankhesenamun,’ he said.
‘They were delighted when they heard you planned to move south. As I said, I wanted to do them a favour.’ He shifted irritably in his chair. ‘As I said, I do not work for them. They have difficulties for which they seek your help. I have delivered their message. I wish I had never undertaken such a thing, but it is done and that is the end of it for me. I am a businessman, not a – ’ he searched for the word. ‘An intriguer.’
‘I have no intention of taking up my old work again.’ said Huy, though something within him stirred.
‘That is no business of mine; but our fates are tied to us: there is no escaping them.’
Huy recognised the truth of this. Already he was annoyed that this over-cautious land agent had not come to him immediately with his message, instead of hesitating, wasting time by spying out the land, making sure – futilely as it turned out – that he was no longer being followed, and only now coming to see him, when it would be certain that whoever his adversaries were, they would know. The only glimmer of hope was that the open reason for their meeting – to discuss property – would be taken as the only one. There was no secret about Huy’s desire to move south. It was a faint hope though now, he realised. If only Reniqer had not been panicked by his shadows and come openly from the first. Whoever discussed land deals at the dead of night?
One of the dogs gave vent to a long stream of barks, ending in a howl. The aristocratic voice of a man disturbed in his sleep let fly some very unaristocratic curses at it.
Reniqer stirred on the low chair he sat in. They had talked long and the chill of the night was on him.
‘I must go.’
‘You have time yet, and you will not want to spend more time there than you have to.’
Reniqer shuddered. ‘That is true.’
‘And you are sure you know the captain?’
‘Yes. He is a friend from far back and I can trust him.’
‘Don’t worry. They did not kill you when they could have done.’
Reniqer looked indignant. ‘I fought back. I escaped. There was only one man. And anyway he might have been a robber only. There are many here now, I gather. It happens. It might have been a coincidence.’
It might have been, thought Huy. Or it might have been that the men following Reniqer were growing impatient. They would scare him enough to urge him to hurry his mission up, so that they could follow him and see where he led them. Huy would have liked to accompany him to the harbour, or at least send Hapu with him; but he did not want to give anyone a greater chance of associating him with Reniqer than they already had. The damage may already have been done; but that was no reason to compound it by not taking precautions now. In any case, it would do no good to increase Reniqer’s panic.
He looked across to the land agent but the man had slumped in his chair, dozing, the cup of fire liquor in his lap. In his heart, Huy turned over what Reniqer had told him. The simple whole of it was that someone was trying to kill Ankhesenamun and her year-old son. That, at least, was what she thought, though from what Huy could gather, Tascherit had been inclined to dismiss the two accidents as unfortunate coincidences. It was certainly possible that he was right. The mud-brick fortress-palace of Meroe was old, and now that building works were in hand to renovate it, there was clearly going to be risk from falling masonry or – as in the case of the first mishap Reniqer had described, scaffolding. It had missed the princess and her son, who were walking with his wet-nurse in the shade of a wall as they usually did after the midday meal, by a hairsbreadth. No one was at work on that part of the building at that time – or, if they were, they wouldn’t admit it – though the foreman’s records showed that reconstruction in that section was not yet due to commence. Certainly no-one could be found there, and the local Medjay-police investigation had yielded nothing. That in itself did not surprise Huy. Medjays even in the Southern Capital were capable of keeping a watch on the streets at night, and of catching anyone committing a crime right under their noses, but apart from that...
The second accident had happened on the River and did not appear to be connected with the building works at all, except that – as an exceptional luxury – fine white limestone from the north at Tura had been brought that far upstream to reface the inner palace walls. It was constantly being unloaded at the docks and at temporary jetties erected to the south of them. How one of the still-laden barges had broken free of its moorings at one of these was not clear; nor could the few witnesses agree that they had or had not seen someone apparently steering it downstream until the last minute, on a collision course with the light reed vessel which was ferrying Ankhesenamun and her son to the west bank. Certainly no one had been seen swimming ashore, but in the confusion that followed the collision that was scarcely surprising.
There wasn’t enough information, but Huy was intrigued. And he couldn’t, he argued to himself, refuse to help Ankhsi. He thought back to the time of the death of the pharaoh who had been her husband – Tutankhamun.
Then – and it was not long ago though it seemed buried far in the past – it was to Huy that the queen had turned. She had been pregnant, but only six people knew it. Of them, the physician who had delivered the child – she had been a cousin of the queen, and trustworthy – had since died. Huy and Senseneb were two more. There were two women body-servants of the queen as well, one of whom had become the little boy’s wet-nurse. The sixth person to know was Tascherit himself. He and Ankhsi had met in time for him to be able to claim the child as his own, and to protect it he had done so. It was born only two months after the marriage, and though this was not a cause for any remarks, there were some who found it odd that Ankhsi should have slept with another man so soon after her royal husband’s death. But since no-one cared about Ankhsi in the Southern Capital, disapproval in a distant province found no echo at the centre of power. Indeed, the former queen’s swift attachment to an ordinary man tended to calm any anxiety Ay might have had. He had checked up on Tascherit and found him to be a loyal, steady servant of the state, reliable and not unduly ambitious. He had raised the status of the military governor of his southernmost outpost, and then let the matter rest.
As far as the world was concerned, Ankhsi was a spent force. Even Huy was not sure that she had any ambition left, though she had been proud and brave once. There was, after all, virtue and wisdo
m in settling for quietness, and for all one’s struggling, life would never bend to the shape one wanted. Publicly, the little boy had been given an unassuming name, Imuthes, so that even his name could not draw attention to him. But privately his mother had insisted on giving him a royal name too, and so it had been done. Imuthes was also Amenophis. Only Ankhsi knew whether this was to honour the boy’s father, or whether it betrayed a greater ambition for her son. Perhaps she did not know herself. Perhaps she would wait until the child’s khou revealed itself: then she would understand how to guide him. In the meantime, he was safe.
In the meantime... Huy pondered.
Two accidents were more than coincidence, perhaps.
And if they were not accidents, then who was trying to kill Ankhsi and Imuthes? And why now?
There was another problem. Senseneb was already barely persuaded that they should go to Meroe to live: how would she react if he told her that he intended to take up his old work again – even if only for one task? And even though Ankhsi was a friend? He decided not to tell her unless and until it became necessary.
Reniqer stirred, then groaned. Suddenly he sat upright, staring so wildly that the whites of his eyes looked like twin moons. Huy leant forward and rescued the drink before it spilt in his lap.
‘Another one?’
Reniqer grimaced. ‘No, thank you. My throat is dry from it already. I do not normally drink.’ He paused. ‘I had a dream, that was all.’
‘What did you dream?’
‘I was sitting in a tree and I fell.’
A bad dream, then, thought Huy, though he did not comment.
‘It is time to go,’ said Reniqer. Now his impatience seemed to have been overtaken by reluctance to leave.
‘Yes,’ said Huy, picking up his mood and feeling sorry for him, having to make this journey alone in the face of all manner of perils, whether real or imagined. For Reniqer this straightforward business trip had turned into a nightmare, and if he had had any other affairs to conclude on his own account, he had been unable to do so.