City of the Dead (5 page)

Those between us quieted, as if the question held hidden meaning.

I blinked several times, then scanned the room. “I too look forward to the queen’s arrival, my king. Perhaps she is taking extra care to beautify herself for you.”

There was another moment of silent tension, then Khufu’s smile reemerged and he turned away.

I straightened the serving pieces on the table before me, then glanced at Tamit, whose eyes flashed with something more than the wine she had imbibed.

Merit’s absence wasn’t the only one I had noted. Somewhere at the head table there should have been a seat for Mentu. Already it had been filled by the next one eager for favor.

As if reading my thoughts, Tamit said, “Frightful business about Mentu.”

I nodded and studied a torch stuck in the wall.

“But the living must go on living,” she said brightly.

And you must go on talking.
“Some of us are not so willing to forget.”

“Oh? It seems to me that you have not missed a step in your never-ending project.”

I turned on her, letting her feel the heat of my stare. “Mentu is not forgotten, and justice for him will be found.”

Tamit’s smile slipped a bit, and she fingered the gold collar at her throat. Her discomfort fled a moment later, replaced by a wink and smirk. “But not tonight, my Hemi.” She lifted a gold cup of wine. “Tonight, we celebrate!”

A storyteller appeared, an ancient little man, with hair that had been allowed to whiten and blind eyes. He lifted his voice, accompanied by a steady beat of sticks from the side of the hall.

“In the beginning there was water, only water.” His sing-song cadence brought the room to attention. He told of the eight gods in the primordial waters, then the ninth, Atum, rising from the water on the mound, the predecessor of the pyramid. On through Atum’s children, Shu and Tefnut—air and moisture. And their children,
Geb and Nut—earth and sky. As he neared the apex of the story, the room grew silent, save the beating sticks.

“Four children issued forth from Geb and Nut. Isis and Osiris became husband and wife. Their brother Seth was evil, and Nephthys became his wife. Then Isis and Osiris came to earth to establish Egypt. But Seth plotted against them.” He told of Seth’s trickery, how he had nailed Osiris in a wooden chest and threw him into the Nile to die. Later, when Isis recovered his body, Seth hacked it into thirteen pieces and scattered it. Isis found nearly all the pieces, reassembled Osiris, and fashioned artificial parts so he would be whole. She returned him to life, the first to be resurrected and, now, god of the dead.

“And what of Seth?” the little man asked.

The people hissed.

“It is left to the son of Isis and Osiris to defeat him!”

The crowd knew their part. “Horus! Horus!”

The storyteller bowed deep to Khufu, our Horus on Earth. “Protector of the People!” he shouted, and the crowd cheered.

The festival continued in a blur of food and dance. I chose figs and grapes, beef and goose, jugs of beer and honey-sweet cakes as they passed by on platters. The harem danced again, and the hum of conversation rose in proportion with the wine that flowed, until the ribbons floated on a smoky haze and the music of flute and harp and lyre seemed to clash into one frenzied note.

I needed air. I shoved away from the table, then twisted through the crowded Great Hall. Outside, I welcomed the silent chill of the desert night and moved into the shadows of the palace garden. I inhaled the cool darkness.

The flame-red chaos of the festival seemed a far-off thing amid gnarled fig trunks and the shade of sycamores. I rubbed the sweat
from my neck, let the night air cool me, and closed my eyes with relief. Festivals are for people with nothing better to fill their heads. The room had bubbled and frothed like a vegetable stew over a stoked fire, and I had felt like a chunk of basalt sunk to the bottom of the pot.

Footsteps whispered along the garden path.

If that woman followed me out …

I was dangerously close to telling Tamit what I thought of her.

But it was Axum’s white eyes that faced me on the path, and I held out an arm in grateful welcome. We were men who knew what it was to command, and I admired Axum’s strength of silence.

His voice was low and confiding. “A task for me, Grand Vizier?”

I nodded and drew close. Somewhere in the desert a jackal howled. “Mentu’s murder has caused a disruption in Egypt.”

We moved back to stand under a sycamore.

Axum scowled and his white teeth glowed. “He was a good man.”

“Yes. Yes, he was. I want you to find out who killed him.”

Axum leaned one shoulder against the tree. “Some things only the gods are meant to know.”

I gripped Axum’s elbow, below the gold bands that circled his upper arm. “We must find justice. There will be disorder until we do. I—I fear that there will be other … problems … until ma’at is restored.”

Axum looked into the distance, toward the perfect lines of the pyramid against the night. “Should not the grand vizier occupy his mind with his responsibilities?”

I smacked my palm with a fist. “Egypt is my concern! If there is no divine order, no justice, then all that we work for is of no value.”

“Perhaps you should find this killer yourself.”

I threw my head back to the cold sky above us and tried to let it cool my temper. “The Horizon of Khufu demands my full attention. But I trust you. Will you find justice for Mentu?”

I felt Axum studying me in the dark. “Does the death of one man have the power to change the world?”

The scrape of an approach turned me to the garden entrance. Jackals did not often dare near the light of the palace, but one could never be certain.

A slave boy trotted up the path to the palace entrance. Axum seemed to recognize him and let out a low, curious whistle. The boy stopped and whirled, then ran toward us.

“One of my boys,” Axum said to me, with some measure of pride.

The boy was not a Nubian, and I assumed that Axum must employ him in some manner.

“There has been a death, my father!” The boy panted and bowed to Axum.

I raised an eyebrow at this title of honor.

“Another goat pulled from the flock?”

“No.” The boy’s eyes were wide, and his narrow chest heaved. “No, a peasant woman from the village. She was murdered.”

Axum frowned with the look of a parent who’s discovered that his children have disobeyed.

“Her husband?” I asked the boy.

The slave boy lifted his bony shoulders and held out his hands. “She was found at the harbor, alone, my lord. No one has yet claimed her.”

I crossed my arms and faced Axum squarely. “You see? Ma’at has been disturbed, and now a woman has also crossed to the west.”

Axum squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “No one knows who she is?”

“No one has seen her face, my father.” The boy’s eyes sparked with the excitement that youth feels at any sort of intrigue. “When the body was found, her face was hidden. No one has disturbed it.”

“Hidden?”

The boy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Covered,” he said, “with a beautiful golden mask.”

At the slave’s mention of a mask, I stepped between him and the Nubian and grabbed the boy by the shoulders. Anxiety shot through me and my fingers tingled. “Where did you say this woman was found?”

“At the harbor’s edge, my lord.” His eyes widened and his lower lip trembled. I released him. “Run back to the harbor and be certain no one touches the body. Watch for our approach.”

The boy fled and I turned to Axum. The night around us was still. “You have heard about the mask?”

Axum’s brow furrowed.

I drew close to the Nubian and bent my head to his. “A mask was also found covering Mentu-hotep’s face. I took care that it not be spoken of to anyone. Have you heard people tell of it?”

“I have heard nothing of a mask.”

I chewed at my lip and looked north toward where the harbor lay in the distant darkness. “I must see the body.”

Axum bowed. “I will call for a chair.”

I waved his comment away. “No. I do not have the patience to be borne on the backs of donkeys or men tonight.”

Axum stared at me his blank, white-eyed stare.

“The situation dictates the impropriety,” I said. “I can get there faster on my own feet.”

“As you wish.” I heard respect, laced with amusement, in his voice.

I led the way along the garden path, with a glance toward the palace. I should explain my departure to Khufu. It would be an insult to the king to leave his accession festival early, without explanation.

A tall figure appeared at the entrance, a shadow with the blaze of the Great Hall behind her. I recognized Tamit’s silhouette. She paused between the twin striding statues of Khufu.

“There you are!” Tamit glided to me and wrapped tight fingers around my upper arm, pressing the gold armband into my flesh. “I knew you wouldn’t have left without a good-bye.” She pursed her full lips. “You haven’t even gotten drunk yet.”

The desert and harbor called to me. “I’m afraid I need my wits tonight, Tamit. Will you tell Pharaoh I am needed in an emergency at the harbor?”

She sniffed. “Oh, what emergency? Tell them to wait until after the party to have their foolish emergency.”

I pried her fingers from my arm. “This cannot wait. I am sorry. You will speak to the king for me?”

She crossed her arms in a pout. “I will tell him. But you owe me an evening of your time, Hemiunu.”

I rubbed at the back of my neck. “Good night, Tamit.” Before I turned, I saw the dark flash of her eyes. For all her playfulness, I feared her quest for a husband was fueled by a desperation I did not understand.

But I have other matters to attend.

Axum had remained in the shadows, but he joined me now. He lifted a torch from a post at the edge of the courtyard, and we set out northward toward the harbor.

My half-built pyramid stood outlined against the night sky, a massive, dark angled platform, with only the pale moonlight to set it apart from the desert. It called to me, begging me to spend my attention only on it, without distraction. I averted my eyes and walked with haste, in part to ward off the chill.

Another murder. Another mask.
What did this peasant woman have in common with Mentu? Who would have reason to kill both the overseer of constructions and a nameless woman from the workmen’s village? Or perhaps there was no connection. Perhaps there was a madman in our midst, choosing his victims at random. The thought chilled me further. A night wind kicked up sand, and I instinctively ducked and turned my head.

“We walk toward a killer, perhaps,” Axum said, “with heads down and eyes at our feet?”

I faced the sand and let it punish me.
I should have done more
after Mentu’s death. Should have focused on finding his murderer.
The priest’s words resurfaced. More disorder, because I had been interested in only my own ambition. And now an innocent woman had paid the price for my inattention.

I quickened my pace, anxious that the murder scene may tell me more about Mentu’s death as well the woman’s.

With the quarry behind us, the pyramid lay only two thousand cubits ahead to the west, and the harbor with its valley temple just in front. The harbor had been built at the beginning of the project, five years ago. Ships docked just below the temple, where supplies and stones were unloaded. From the dock, a stone wall tapered off to mud and reeds. A canal connected the deep harbor to the
Nile. During these months of akhet, when the Nile surged over its banks and swamped the floodplain, the canal all but disappeared, with only a short span separating the flooded farmland from the harbor.

The slave boy I had sent ahead must have seen our torch. He signaled us with a sharp whistle, and we changed course to join him at the water’s edge.

The water-logged sand sucked at my sandals, a strange sound in the stillness. The boy stood with the silence of a guardian sphinx beside a tangle of white among the dark reeds. He straightened and threw his shoulders back at Axum’s approach.

“You have allowed no one to disturb the body?” Axum asked.

“No, my father. Just as you said.” The boy’s eyes never left Axum’s, and when the older man gave him a quick nod, he lifted his chin and hid a smile.

I inhaled with eyes closed, strengthening myself for the task. I did not want to miss anything as a result of my weakness in the face of blood. I examined the surrounding scene first, from the water to the dry sand. Papyrus had been planted here years ago and had already grown thick, its stalks reaching higher than my head and ending in fluffed plumes. In the darkness, the reeds and water were black and the half-moon a pale slice of reflection in the harbor.

“She is here,” the boy whispered. I held up a hand, not wanting to be rushed in my inspection.

The grasses had been crushed in a path leading out from the water. Trampled by the boy’s feet? Perhaps. Or perhaps the woman’s lifeless body had been brought here. I followed the path to the sand. Scuffled footprints here, as though she had been dragged or had fought with someone along the way, trying to free herself. The trail led in the direction of the quarry and, beyond, the village.

I returned to the water, again sinking into sandy muck to my ankles. The Nubian and the boy watched silently. My mouth felt as dry as sand, and my blood pounded.

She was a tall woman. I could sense this even with her body on the ground and curled against itself. She lay on her side, but her head had been turned to the sky and the golden mask placed over it. Her natural hair streamed from under the mask, and the edges of it floated in the shallow water, mingling with the reeds. Her white coarse linen dress was torn and muddied, with dark streaks across her midsection. I bent to one knee in the grass to examine the streaks.

The memory came unexpectedly, as flashes from the past always do. Though in hindsight the connection was natural. Muddy reeds, tangled hair, a woman at the water’s edge. Dead. I remembered the certainty that Merit lay at my feet, the guilt and relief at discovering it was Amunet. Now it was as if I had stepped into one of my frequent dreams, only this time surrounded by darkness.

I shook off the memory. I was not a youth anymore. This woman was not Amunet. And I would not shirk my responsibility. I stilled the uneven beat in my chest and looked again at the streaks on her dress. The dark stains were blood. Carefully, I lifted her left wrist from the ground at her side, fearing what I might find.

The hand was bloody.

“Her finger has been taken,” Axum said, shock vibrating in his voice.

I swallowed and lowered the hand back to the grass. I must be methodical about this.
Think of it like an examination of the project
plans.
I must work my way through each section, looking for flaws, for the unusual, or something out of place that might point to the killer. There was no need to involve my heart.

I started with her feet—bare. Examined her legs—muddy. Her clothing bore no clues but the blood wiped from her hand. Did that mean she was still alive when the finger was cut from her?

Logic only. No emotion.

I leaned in to inspect her chest and neck and motioned to the Nubian to bring the torch closer. Blackening bruises covered her bare shoulders, crept up her throat and disappeared under the mask. I steadied myself to examine her neck, expecting the gash I had seen on Mentu. But only bruises marked her skin.

Had she been choked to death? And if so, what did it mean that her killer had not used a knife this time? Was it the same man who killed Mentu?

I rocked back on my heels for a moment, pondered the evidence, and found I had only more questions. I looked over my shoulder, feeling the stares of Axum and the slave boy and the weight of the desert solitude pressing in on me.

Whoever she was, she had died far from anyone who cared. The light of the palace was like a distant star on the horizon, and even torches in the workmen’s village seemed to belong to the night sky. The desolate harbor, with only the pyramid watching over it, was a lonely place to die.

I ran a finger along the fine details of the mask. It was very similar to Mentu’s, with lapis lazuli eyes painted with kohl and a mouth shaped into a peaceful smile that seemed grotesque in such a place. The gold was hammered smooth, and in the gray shadows it seemed to glow with fire.

I could put it off no longer. I curled my fingertips under each side of the mask, just above the poor woman’s ears. The gold piece was not attached in any way. It simply lay upon her face, and I noted that it had to have been placed there after death.

I lifted the death mask slowly, like the god Anubis inviting this nameless woman to live again and join the gods. But I knew as I lifted it that I’d find no life underneath.

A distant cloud chased across the face of the moon, darkening the sky.

I set the mask aside. I leaned over the woman’s face. Axum brought the torch closer.

And then the memories washed over me again. Only this time the nightmare had become truth, and the desert and harbor and pyramid tilted crazily at the edge of my vision and threatened to topple over.

No, it was not Amunet who lay dead beside me.

It was Merit.