The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 3 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  “A copy of this document will be sent to you.”

  We heard him rise from his throne and begin to exit the room. Abruptly, he stopped and said, “Oh yes, I nearly forgot. Captain Azizu is hereby appointed as your new Turtanu, Akhu-Ilai.”

  Later that evening, Uncle took me aside and looked me in the eye. “Be careful, nephew,” he warned. “You know too much, and we have made great enemies these past few days.”

  “And great friends too,” I said.

  “And great friends too,” he agreed, laughing and clapping me on the back.

  Not long thereafter, Uncle and the rest of our party departed for home, carrying with them this account that I have made of the strange and curious adventures that we had faced together. I shall miss him, grandsire, as I miss you now. But when you see your dear son again, when you meet Telemachos the son of Homeros, kiss him once in the exuberance of first greeting, and then let him kiss you once again on my behalf.

  I do not know whether I shall see you again in this life, but so long as I have the power to ink a word upon a papyrus sheet or etch a line upon a tablet of clay, you will hear the echo of my voice within your soul, you will feel the wine-kissed wind of my breath touching your hoary brow, and you will laugh out loud once more for the pleasure of it.

  This, I think, is the true judgment of the gods.

  The Oracle of Amun

  Mary Reed & Eric Mayer

  Mary Reed and Eric Mayer are best known for their series featuring John the Eunuch set at the time of the Emperor Justinian. That series started with One for Sorrow in 1999 and recently passed Five for Silver (2004) with more in the works.

  However, in my anthology Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunnits, Mary and Eric introduced a new character, Herodotus, and the following is the second story in that series. Herodotus, who lived from around 490 to 425 BC, is an ideal character for an historical detective. He is known as the Father of History because for many years he travelled the Mediterranean world researching the Persian Wars and preparing his indispensable History. Whilst he wrote down much that he knew may not be true, he added his own opinion to it, distinguishing as much as he could between fact and fancy. This enquiring mind means that he could well have undertaken detective work into local mysteries, and for that reason when the Historical Mystery Appreciation Society initiated an award for each year’s best historical mysteries in 1999 it was named the Herodotus.

  When I arrived at that point in my History dealing with the oracle of Amun I recalled a sequence of events during which I felt a certain kinship to the crocodile hunters of that ancient and mysterious land Egypt.

  Their method is to bait a hook with a large piece of meat, attach it to a length of strong rope, drop it into the water and then belabour a live animal on the river bank in order to attract the reptile’s attention. When a leather-skinned denizen of the Nile has swallowed the hook holding what will be its last meal and thereby can be hauled ashore, having brought it to land the hunters immediately plaster its eyes with mud, for this act lessens the mighty-jawed creature’s struggles so it can be the more easily dispatched.

  Thus were my own eyes initially covered with mud, concealing from me the truth of the sad matter of Wosret, worshipper of Amun.

  Wosret was my host during my short but eventful sojourn in Sekhet-am at the Oasis of Amun. Located some distance from the Nile and many days journey from the great river’s mouth, Sekhet-am was well greened with thousands of palm trees, from which it takes its name of palm-land. The place is notable for its strange juxtaposition of sweet wells cheek by jowl with open pools so salty that fish cannot live in them.

  But Sekhet-am is far more renowned for its temple to the ram-horned god Amun. The edifice, it transpired, was little different from many I saw in my travels, being a small structure built from sandstone blocks pocked with hieroglyphs and far less imposing than the priests’ residences surrounding it. The god’s sanctuary was of course barred from the gaze of any secular person. However, at frequent intervals a procession of priests bore Amun’s image around the settlement in a flower-bedecked barque, and it was this sacred ritual I hoped to see.

  After I had made a monetary offering to the god, the head priest, a man named Ti, assured me I had had the good fortune to arrive not long before one of these sacred processions.

  Like most holy men in Egypt, Ti wore dazzling white linen robes and was shaved entirely bald, with even his eyebrows removed, giving to him as with other priests, I always think, a look of perpetual surprise. It was he who suggested I stay with Wosret, the most devout follower of Amun in Sekhet-am and also the largest landholder – the latter naturally proceeding from the former, according to Ti.

  “He will be most pleased to offer hospitality for the name of Herodotus has travelled ahead of you,” he said.

  This transpired to be so.

  Wosret proved an affable and informative host who spoke the passable Greek of one who needs the language to conduct business but has not studied the classics. He was big for an Egyptian, with muscles like an ox and the neck of a bull. By contrast, his wife Nodjmet was a wisp of a woman with a withered arm. Although Wosret spoke most fondly of his wife, initially I glimpsed her only from a distance, at the end of a hallway, vanishing through a doorway, or on the far side of his garden, as pale as an apparition and as silent, perhaps partly because she habitually went barefoot.

  On the afternoon of my arrival, Wosret led me to a mud brick structure sitting alone in a packed dirt yard at a far corner of his estate. As we approached the building I felt a blast of heat far more intense than the glare of the Egyptian sun.

  “This is my glass workshop,” Wosret explained. “When Nodjmet lived in Alexandria she loved nothing better than to search the city for the finest glass. Since she can no longer travel to the sellers of such wares, I have brought the glass to her.”

  The air inside rippled with heat, creating an underwater effect. Most of the interior was occupied by an oven as tall as the man who stood beside it.

  “My glassmaker could work for the royal court but, like me, he prefers to remain near the temple of Amun. Simut, show our esteemed visitor something of your art.”

  Simut replied with a slight bob of his head and grabbed a metal rod akin to a cattle prod off the floor. He was as bald as a priest. Sweat streamed down his bare chest. His eyes were blackened all around with khol, no doubt to combat the blinding glare emanating from the round aperture of the oven. I noticed his brown skin was mottled with the scars of old burns and a few newer raw patches.

  “I keep a barge and several wagons busy transporting wood for this fire,” Wosret remarked. “It’s a very expensive enterprise as you can imagine, Herodotus.”

  From a table set against the workshop wall, the glassmaker selected one of several pieces of clay no longer than my thumb. After he had placed the lump on the end of the rod and worked it deftly for a short time I saw the clay had taken the graceful form of a bottle of the sort in which women store perfume.

  He thrust the rod into the oven, gave a few quick twists, and pulled it out. From the glistening coat over its surface it was obvious the clay form had been dipped into a crucible of molten glass.

  “Now he will roll it smooth on that stone near his feet,” my host explained. “Then comes the most difficult part, the final step. I refer to chipping out the clay core without damaging the vessel itself.”

  Wosret looked toward the workbench against the wall and his eyes widened as if in alarm. Following his gaze, I saw only a water-filled bucket beside the bench, surely a natural precaution for such a fiery occupation.

  “Simut, what have I told you?” Wosret’s tone was sharp but I detected a tremble in his voice.

  The glassmaker stepped hastily to the bucket and closed its lid.

  As we went out into the relative cool of the sun-drenched yard I could not contain my curiosity. “I hope you will pardon me for saying so, Wosret, but although I have seen glass made before, I have never visited a house whe
re all the buckets have lids.” For this, I had already noted, was indeed the case.

  Wosret appeared to be shaking slightly. “You are observant, Herodotus! There is a good reason for that, as for the fact the ornamental pond in my garden has been drained and the wells on my estate all safely surrounded by fences. You might say it is Amun’s will.”

  When we were seated in the house, sampling the honeyed dates brought to us by his cook, a young woman as black as a Nubian, Wosret explained further.

  “It might surprise you to hear this, Herodotus, but I was a traveller myself at one time. In fact, I met my wife during my last visit to Alexandria. Her family has large land holdings thereabouts.” He emptied the barley beer in his cup and called for the cook, who replenished the jug, giving him what one could almost have mistaken for a scolding look.

  “You haven’t returned to the city?”

  “No. The journey is vexatious by land, even for myself, and quite impossible for Nodjmet, frail as she is.”

  I took a sip of my own beer, a refreshment I have become almost inured to since it is the common drink of Egypt. “You mentioned Amun’s will?”

  “Yes. I have always been a follower of Amun and he has repaid me well for my loyalty. You have heard about the oracular processions, during which the god will answer simple questions, but one may also approach the oracle in the temple for advice. Though I have lived here all my life, I have but once ventured to pose the temple oracle a question of a personal nature.”

  He looked down into his cup as he continued. “While visiting Alexandria I contracted an illness which carried me within sight of the next world. Nodjmet and I had not been married long. When I was well, it occurred to me that had I not recovered, Nodjmet would have been left alone and unprepared. I decided it would be wise to discover when and by what means I could expect to take my final journey.”

  “What was the answer?” I asked with considerable interest.

  “Its wording was somewhat obscure, but you know how it is with oracles. The gods do not always speak our languages readily. However, the plain meaning was that my death would come to me by water. Which is why I guard myself from being anywhere near it, and will never travel upon the Nile. It must seem strange to you!”

  “Not compared to some of the things I have seen and heard,” I assured him.

  Because the god’s procession was to be held the next day, my host held a banquet that evening. I would not be entirely truthful if I did not add the event also honoured me, although I am reticent to admit sharing honours with a god, even one of those strange deities worshipped by people not Greek.

  The room was filled with local dignitaries, none of whom I recognised and all of whom addressed me by name, as if we were old friends. Even the elusive Nodjmet joined us at the table. She appeared as pale and wraithlike as she did from a distance and I saw was some years younger than her husband.

  She kept her withered arm all but concealed in the folds of her robe, which was more voluminous than those usually worn in the hot Egyptian climate. However, even so, she had so little trouble doing all that was necessary with her good arm that a casual observer would never have noted her deformity. She barely spoke and politely deflected my attempts at conversation.

  A description of the delicacies and entertainments which delighted our senses would be more appropriate for the History than for this account. The dark-skinned cook seemed to hover beside us constantly, replacing one dish with another. I believe she had been instructed to pay special attention to myself, the honoured guest, because she quite neglected Nodjmet who, more than once, had to fill her own cup from the big wine jug set on the table in front of us.

  The wine was sweeter than the best, but a pleasant relief from barley beer. Wosret drank beer, as on any ordinary occasion, and plenty of it. As the banquet drew to a close, he produced from beneath his chair a small ivory box. Murmuring a few slurred words of endearment he handed the box to his wife.

  She took the gift wordlessly, placed it on the table, opened the lid and drew out not one, but two, bracelets of exquisite workmanship. Their fine gold chains were strung with alternating beads of deep blue glass and garnets.

  Nodjmet stood abruptly. I could see she was fighting back tears. The bracelets fell from her hand and clattered onto the plate. She fled out of the room.

  Wosret sat and stared dumbly at the bracelets. A glass bead had parted from the chain and rolled off the edge of the table. I wondered why it had not occurred to him that a pair of beautiful bracelets might not be appropriate for a woman with one arm withered.

  The cook, who had returned with yet another new dish, bent to pick up the stray bead.

  “Take the bracelets to the workshop, Hebeney,” my host ordered. “Tell Simut to repair the one needing it.”

  The incident had gone unnoticed, thanks mostly to the huge quantities of wine and beer the guests had consumed. The air was filled by smoke from wall torches, the scents of exotic spices and perfumes and excited words and laughter.

  Wosret took another gulp of beer. “I must be honest with you, Herodotus,” he finally said with the exaggerated solemnity of the truly inebriated. “My domestic situation has not been of the best this past year or so.”

  I murmured polite regrets at these unwanted confidences. One travels the world to write about men with eyes in their shoulders and lands ruled by warrior women. To hear tales of domestic strife one need only visit the poorer quarters of any great city.

  “My rejected gift is but an outward manifestation of the troubles that beset me, my dear friend,” Wosret went on, his words running together as swiftly as the tears running down his cheeks. “What can I do to please her? I have tried everything. You have seen the world, Herodotus. Tell me, what can I give Nodjmet to win back her love?”

  I was spared having to give him the discouraging answer since he immediately toppled from his chair and lay on the floor in a stupor, snoring loudly with his mouth hanging open.

  Shameful though it was to see a man so deep in the arms of Bacchus, his guests did not seem overly perturbed, but merely picked up the mat on which he was lying and using it as a makeshift litter carried him to his bed – all of his bearers staggering dangerously themselves – and left him there.

  He was still there as the star-sprinkled night sky turned from grey to red, lying with the silence not of sleep but of death. Apart from a slight trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth there was no trace of violence.

  As I arrived, Nodjmet was walking numbly down the hallway, half supported by two servants, looking more like a phantom than ever.

  The room held only the bed, a carved sandalwood chest and a low table on which sat a clay lamp. Nothing had been disturbed. Wosret had seemingly died without a struggle and no outcry, for any noise would have been heard by the rest of the household.

  “He died exactly as the oracle of Amun prophesied,” observed the priest Ti, who had been summoned immediately.

  I recalled the tale Wosret had related to me, and pointed out the absence of even a drop of water in the chamber.

  Ti looked puzzled. “Wosret was killed by overindulgence,” he replied. “The oracle declared that he would die by matter transparent that yet casts a shadow. This describes barley beer, just as closely as water.”

  I could not disagree. Wosret had joined those legions who have misinterpreted Delphic pronouncements to their detriment. He had laboured mightily to avoid water when all that had been necessary was abstinence.

  Thus would the story have ended, except that as I was packing my few belongings to take my leave, not wishing to intrude upon the household’s mourning, Wosret’s widow appeared in my doorway, looking more angry than grief-stricken.

  “Herodotus, may we speak? I need your assistance.”

  She led me out into the garden, to a bench surrounded on three sides by thick ornamental shrubbery.

  “We can talk here without being overheard. Now, you have spoken to Ti. Do you know why he arrived with s
uch haste?”

  “I had presumed it was to make appropriate funeral arrangements since your husband was a devout follower of Amun.”

  “The priest was in a hurry to take possession of my husband’s bequest. Wosret left half of his estate to the temple.”

  She made a sweeping gesture with her good arm that took in the land all around us. Nodjmet looked remarkably un-wraithlike this morning, almost as if she had drawn life from her husband’s death. I noticed that even in this private setting she took care to keep her withered arm hidden.

  “Naturally I am challenging it,” she continued. “I have already warned Ti he would be wise to abandon his claim. He is bound to lose in the end anyway.”

  I would never have guessed the pale creature I had glimpsed moving so furtively about the house could harbour such fury. “You weren’t aware of the bequest?”

  “No. Wosret said nothing of it to me.”

  “I can understand your dismay, but certainly it isn’t unusual for a worshipper to –”

  “It had nothing to do with religious devotion, Herodotus. It was Ti’s reward for helping my husband take Khu’s land. Among other things.”

  As she became agitated the cadence of her words changed. I recognized a faint accent. She was not Egyptian, but Greek! That was why she had struck me as so pale, compared to the sun-bronzed denizens of this land. I marvelled that she had been able to endure being stranded so far from civilization. “Who is Khu?” I asked.

  “A landowner, or rather, he used to be one. A few years ago he and my late husband had a legal dispute. Wosret took everything from Khu. His fields, his houses, his cattle and geese, everything, right down to the poor man’s cook.”

  She spat out the word “cook” as if it were a spoiled olive.

  “Do you perchance refer to the dark-skinned girl your husband called Hebeney?”

  She said this was so. Her dislike was so palpable I leapt to the obvious conclusion.