City of Lies

by Anton Gill

  Huy looked at him. ‘But you said that the tribesmen were no more than flies to be swatted.’

  ‘Even so,’ replied the Governor, tonelessly, looking out over the velvet desert.

  Samut looked more resplendent than ever for his journey. He wore a tunic and kilt of pure white linen trimmed with gold thread and edged with indigo dye, and he had wrapped his shoulders in a light cloak of fine wool of a natural light brown colour which made the red of the still-rising River look vulgar. The water level had reached to half a cubit of the top of the quay walls and the ships rose high above them.

  It was the tenth day – the day of rest – that he had chosen for his departure for Napata.

  ‘It is typical of him not to waste even a day,’ said Samut’s factotum to Huy as they stood on the quay with Senseneb and a clutch of the merchant’s children with their nurse to see him off. ‘“How joyfully I labour in the service of my lord,”’ he added, quoting the old mortuary text sanctimoniously.

  ‘Why waste even a day when there is profit to be made?’ said Huy, smiling, even with his eyes. Either the factotum did not perceive the jibe, or he chose to ignore it.

  Samut was sailing to Kush, to a town with an unpronounceable name as far upriver as Atbara was down. He had a heavy escort of three of Tascherit’s falcon-ships, for he was acting as agent for Nesptah in a gold ore deal.

  ‘Nesptah is in Napata, as you may know,’ said the pompous factotum.

  ‘I knew he was in the north,’ said Huy. ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘Just before you arrived. You missed him by half a day. He is a great friend of the Viceroy. But then, so is my master.’

  Huy nodded. Perhaps it was interesting that Samut had been with the Viceroy shortly before Nesptah’s arrival in Napata.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Samut, appearing suddenly at Huy’s elbow. The merchant had an arm round Senseneb and, the scribe noticed, she was happily squeezed in against his heavy body.

  ‘May I wish you success.’

  The merchant waved an impatient arm. ‘It will be nothing. It is a regular bit of business. And because my rival is away, why should I not do him a service, and take a fifth share for myself?’ he laughed, tightening his grip on Senseneb’s shoulder as he did so. ‘Why not? He can afford it – and he will still make money. The people down there do not know what their goods are worth.’

  ‘Nesptah is with the Viceroy, I gather,’ said Huy.

  ‘Yes.’ Samut looked at his factotum.

  ‘I regret not having met him yet.’

  ‘You will,’ said Samut, who did not seem worried. ‘He is unavoidable in this town. The egret on the dungpile. Or so he thinks.’

  ‘The night heron catches more fish,’ said Huy, wondering if he could deploy another proverb effectively. Samut looked flattered for the space of a breath, and exchanged another look with his factotum.

  ‘It is time to go,’ he said, and, letting go of Senseneb – Huy could have sworn that for a moment the merchant had considered rubbing her nose with his – he bustled up the gangplank. Senseneb’s smile as she watched him go made Huy’s bowels wither – exactly as she had intended they should, had he but known it.

  ‘My master is close to the Viceroy,’ confided the factotum, smugly.

  Senseneb went back to the House of Healing glad that she had stuck a knife into Huy. Her heart tired of his indecision, his desire to both eat and leave his meat. Her work had barely started, but she liked her colleagues, one man and two women – one physician for the eyes, one for the teeth, and one for the belly – and their chief, also a woman, who came from the City of the Sea originally, but who had trained at Per Bastet. She had kept her pale complexion and remembered olive trees in her dreams.

  ‘They give these outposts to women,’ she had said cheerfully, explaining the reason for her exile. ‘They think we are not ready for work in the big cities. But there is no male healer who has yet tried to understand what the gods inflict on women. Men are good for mending broken bones. And for giving the fruit of the bone to women, so that there can be new people. We may find that the region in between lies open to us.’

  Perhaps I should start the exchange of words myself, Senseneb’s heart said to itself. It is my right as much as his. But I would so much prefer him to do it. Is it because I can have no children that he will not? But in her hidden heart she understood that the real reason was that he could not break with the freedom of his inner loneliness.

  She was finishing her work on the hefet worm that had insinuated itself into the net of the body’s rivers in several of the fishermen of the town when the call from the Governor’s mansion came. They collected her in a litter carried by six men who ran through the town bearing it at a speed which defied the sharp corners and narrow alleys through which they took short cuts. So dexterous were the bearers that only once did they come into danger of collision with a donkey whose owner beat it out of the way into a muddy courtyard with panicky cries; and they ignored the barking of chained dogs and baboons which strained at them from balconies and doorways.

  The horizon burned a deep red over the desert as Senseneb hurried into Ankhsi’s sheltered rooms on the north side of the mansion. Here the atmosphere was cool, and the light soothingly dull. The former queen and her son lay on linen sheets on a wide bed in the centre of the room. The sheets were clean, but already they were stained red. neither figure moved.

  ‘This time it can have been no accident,’ said a voice from a corner of the room behind her; a low voice which carried guilt in it as much as regret. She turned but Tascherit’s face was concealed in shadow so she could not read it. She bent over the bodies. The child was alive. The mother – she could not be sure.

  ‘We have the man,’ said Tascherit.

  Senseneb ignored him. The only knowledge of the cause she needed was before her eyes. There was a stab wound in the boy’s neck and in Ankhsi’s side. In the boy’s case the cut was slight, it must have glanced across the throat as the killer hastily slashed at it, and she could see that it had cut no main river of the net. Indeed, the blood had darkened so that it had stopped. But how much had been lost? She laid her ear to the baby’s breast and heard a faint, though steady beat. Hastily, she opened her box and withdrew the ointment she needed, applying it to the wound. She turned to one of the servants who stood like ghosts along the walls of the room.

  ‘Warm goat’s milk and honey. And fire. And new linen, and clean oil,’ she said. There was no doubt that the baby would live. She felt the vigour of his body but he had not lost enough blood to cross into the Boat of Night. Senseneb turned to her friend. Ankhsi lay on a darker bed.

  ‘We need new sheets,’ Senseneb snapped at another servant. The man ducked his head and vanished.

  ‘This will do no good,’ said Tascherit. ‘We should burn crows, mix natron with ashes...’

  Senseneb sent a silent prayer to Sakhmet for patience. Did the man want his wife to die? She bent over Ankhsi as she had bent over the boy.

  ‘We have the man,’ repeated Tascherit. ‘He is a Black Lander. Horemheb must have sent him. We will get the truth out of him.’

  ‘You must let Huy speak to him. Have you sent for Huy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then do so,’ she said, looking at him. He had not moved and she could still not see his face. She gently thumbed open Ankhsi’s eyes and saw that the khou still sat behind them.

  The first servant returned with another, carrying a charcoal brazier and the other articles she needed. She warmed the oil, cleaned the wound of the child, made sure that it was stanched, and dressed it. Then, dipping her fingers into the warm oil, she explored the wound of her friend. Ankhsi groaned and stirred as she pushed her fingers into the yielding opening. Cautiously, she explored it. She could feel nothing but flesh. Though the knife had gone deep – almost a finger’s length – it had cut no Centre. And the gentle reaction of pain was a good sign.

  She washed the wound and placed a needle in the fire; when it was r
ed she cooled it in fig-alcohol. Taking gutstring from her box, she stitched the cut together. She listened to Ankhsi’s breathing. Perhaps the shock would not have made her ka depart yet. She was sure that if it did, it would reveal itself to her, but no vision came, though for a moment she waited. But she had no time to wait longer, for the baby was stirring. She took its head in her hand and used a papyrus funnel to feed it the milk and honey. She felt the warmth of its head against her as it pulled the mixture into its being, its little hands grasping strongly at the air. She looked inwards. Her eyes grew wet.

  Tascherit came up to her at last. ‘Will they live?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so. But Isis must have interceded for them. It was a matter of no time at all.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tascherit.

  ‘Have you sent for Huy?’

  ‘No. But I will do so.’ He glanced at his wife and the child as the servants who had brought clean linen changed the sheets, moving the bodies under Senseneb’s direction. Then he left the room swiftly.

  Huy arrived before the sun had fully set, but by then the would-be assassin was dead himself. The enraged gaolers had beaten him to death with rocks. They had made a thorough job of it. Every bone in the young man’s body had been broken, and any sign of a face obliterated.

  ‘It is my fault,’ said Tascherit. ‘I should have given stricter orders. ‘But I had no time to think of it. I believed my men to be better disciplined.’

  ‘At such a time the heart does not rule itself,’ said Huy.

  Henka watched the moon and, not being a proud man, caught fish and wildfowl to keep himself alive. Every night he washed himself and his clothes. He shaved with his knife. He did not fear discovery. He knew how to keep himself secret from other men, but every day he left his den and went into the town to look at her. This was a great risk, because he knew did not want to draw attention to himself and should not have done so; but a power greater than his will drove him – he had to see her. He was not always lucky, but he knew where she worked and he knew when she walked to and from the House of Healing. Once she almost saw him and he drew back behind a wall with a rare feeling of panic; he remembered the look she had given him in Napata and he flinched inwardly at the memory. But the feeling he had for her grew and would not be denied. He had to fight hard to prevent it from edging all thought of his orders from his heart. He looked at the crumpled half sheet of papyrus Ay had given him and willed the pharaoh the send the other half before Khons’ chariot had completed its cycle of showings in the night sky.

  He wondered whether he could depend on the countermanding order arriving in time. He almost dared to think that perhaps orders didn’t matter anymore. He would probably kill the scribe anyway but the orders had been to kill both. An honourable death, Ay had stipulated: let their bodies go into the River, let Sobek’s children take them. But Henka would not let the woman depart for the Fields of Aarru without him. His earlier plans were reforming themselves: Huy’s fate remained the same; without his heart the scribe could never enter the fields of Aarru, and he would never recover it because Henka would eat it after cutting it out. The heart would become part of him. Henka did not baulk at such sacrilege. But the woman... would it not be sweeter to live with her here? If he killed her and himself, what was the guarantee that his own heart would not rise up against him in the Judgement Hall of Osiris. And if the beast Ammit devoured his heart, then he would have to go and meet the vengeful spirit of Huy among the Undead...

  His hand went to the little headrest amulet in its bag around his neck and he cradled it. He could not remember his mother’s face, but he summoned up the memory of the feeling of her presence, and sought comfort in it. Henka had never experienced the torment of indecision before.

  But such torment was familiar to Ay, who had woken from a dream of Horemheb’s child mounting to sit on the Golden Chair. Ay slept alone these days, only visiting his younger wives to couple with them. Still none was pregnant; but even if one were, the child’s claim to the throne might be disputed. If only his Chief Wife, Ty, had not passed the age of monthly bleeding.

  He sat alone in the chilly room he used to work in and rarely left, staring at the papers on Kenna’s table and at his assistant’s ink palette without really seeing them as he brooded on his dream. He needed a wife who had a strong claim to the Golden Chair herself. He needed someone who had –

  Suddenly his brow cleared and he brought his fist down hard on the arm of his chair. But just as suddenly he became agitated and stood up, beckoning an attendant.

  ‘Get Kenna,’ he said to the man, who hastened off in the direction of the scribe’s quarters immediately. Waiting for him to arrive, Ay began to pace the room impatiently, unable to do anything else, though he tried to calm his mind by looking through the administrative papers on his own work table. The written lists and figures in red and black blurred before his eyes and would not make sense. But he crossed to a cabinet against the wall, broke the seal which was applied to it each night, and from an inner compartment withdrew a slip of papyrus.

  At last Kenna arrived, looking, Ay was pleased to note, suitably but not disrespectfully dishevelled: he had taken the minimum time necessary to tidy himself sufficiently to be permitted into the royal presence.

  ‘My lord?’ said the scribe, blinking and arranging his alarmed features into an attentive and interrogative look. It was not unusual for Ay to go without sleep; but it was rare that he summoned his assistant in the middle of the night.

  ‘I have work for you. It will not wait,” said Ay. He held up the slip of paper. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  ‘It is the order stopping the removal of Huy and Senseneb,’ said Kenna.

  ‘Yes.’

  Kenna took the paper from Ay. ‘And you have taken full counsel with yourself.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ay. ‘I know you, Kenna. I know how it would suit you to see Huy enter the Boat of the Night.

  Kenna started to protest. Ay held up a long hand. ‘But Huy is no threat to you. I would never let him stand as close to me as you are.’

  Kenna relaxed, though his heart told him that he would lose nothing by Huy’s death. And had not the pharaoh finally decided upon it? Huy had far too free a spirit. He would always be a liability. And he knew that he was clever. Had not Kenna himself pointed out the risks, if Huy should ever side with Horemheb. Ay had dismissed this, arguing that Huy took sides with no-one; but a seed had been planted, and it cost nothing to be sure... Now, Kenna wondered if Huy had any regrets in the south – whether now that he had achieved his dream, he might not miss the capital. But he kept such thoughts to himself.

  ‘Huy was useful from time to time and he may be again,’ said Ay.

  ‘Even so, you found him too independent. I thought the time of his usefulness was past. You let him go to the south.’

  ‘That is true. But the all-seeing Amun knew that I was wrong, and prevented me from letting Henka go after him without reserving to myself the possibility of stopping it. As you know.’

  ‘Indeed. But what service can Huy perform now?’

  ‘It is spoken in truth when it is said that the gods have planned all beforehand – though between ourselves we know that their plans must be nudged in the right direction from time to time.’

  ‘Is there something he could do that I could not?’

  Ay looked at Kenna. It was hard to believe that the man could consider Huy a threat. Huy was the better man, of course; but Kenna was dependable. Ay liked life to be as certain as it could be.

  ‘In this case yes; besides, this mission to Henka is exceptional or I would not be sending you at all. As it is, I will need you to return as soon as you have delivered your message to him. And also the message I will give you for Huy.’

  Kenna did not relish the idea of a journey to the far south, and said, ‘Could not a soldier undertake this? I am a man happier at a desk.’

  ‘Of course not!’ snapped Ay. ‘Henka is a very dangerous man and will only believe that the
new order comes from me if he receives it from your hand. That is what I promised him. If I sent anyone else, Henka would suspect a trick and ignore the order.’

  He looked sharply at Kenna, and then turned to the table, unrolled and weighted a fresh scroll, and, chewing a fresh reed himself to separate the fibres into a brush, dipped it into ink and wrote hastily but neatly.

  ‘This is to Huy.’

  ‘May I know what it says?’

  Ay looked at him. ‘Of course.’

  He handed him the letter. When he had read it, Kenna looked at his master with renewed respect.

  ‘It is a good plan.’

  Ay grimaced. ‘It is a plan which depends too much on fate; but in the question of childbirth we can only go so far to make Hathor and her assistants aid us.’

  ‘But you have covered the most important things.’

  ‘It is something I should have thought of sooner. But perhaps before now I did not think such an expedient would be necessary. Now it seems a desirable course to pursue.’

  ‘Will she agree to it?’

  ‘Ankhesenamun is my granddaughter. She would not be alive if it were not for my mercy. She has no choice. Besides, she trusts Huy, and Huy will be the ideal man to bring her back.’

  ‘He might refuse.’

  ‘You look too much on the dark side and you have become too familiar,’ said Ay angrily. ‘No one refuses when pharaoh commands. Huy may keep thoughts of his own in his heart but he will not show them to me. Besides, this is an honour I am conferring. Ankhsi will be able to come back to the Southern Capital and live here as a queen again. She will be second only to Ty, and as my Chief Wife lives in retirement, Ankhsi will be able to appear beside me at the Window of Appearance. And if she gives me an heir...’ He broke off. That was the sticking point. But there was nothing wrong with Ankhsi’s birth cave – she had produced a child for Tascherit – a boy, as well. Why should she not do the same for him? His heart grew great at the thought.