City of the Dead (9 page)

I looked again at the god’s symbol engraved on the back of the mask. “I don’t know what it means.”

“There is no other artist’s mark.”

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me something from the design.”

Donkor tapped his bottom lip with a fingertip. “I can think of several talented gold workers in the village. I suppose one of them could have done it, but I couldn’t be certain.”

“You haven’t heard talk of privately commissioned death masks?”

“Masks? There are more than one?”

The two other sculptors had laid aside their tools now and skulked closer to the conversation. I watched them from the corner of my eye.

“I cannot say more.”

Donkor winked. “A mystery, eh?”

One of the other sculptors took a step closer. “The queen’s death,” he said.

I snatched the mask from Donkor and whirled on the man, tension building in my neck. “What do you know about it?”

He retreated. “I know nothing! I only thought—”

“What?”

Both men reacquired their tools and became suddenly engrossed in their work.

I returned my attention to Donkor, who smiled his amusement. “It would seem that our little community knows some of the gossip, but not the gossip you seek.”

I replaced the mask in my pouch, steadying my hands. “Who are these gold workers you spoke of?”

Donkor bit his lip. “I know of only three who do work this fine.” He gave me their names, then smiled. “Now I must ask you a question. This sculpture we will create of you for your tomb,” he eyed me up and down, “do you want it to be realistic, or shall I make it a bit prettier?”

“What do you mean by that?”

Donkor arched an eyebrow. “Hmm. Nothing. Nothing at all.”

I frowned. “Just give me the usual likeness. None of your fanciness.”

“Yes, my lord.” Donkor gave a little salute. “You will be immortal, Grand Vizier Hemiunu, man of justice and mercy.”

I escaped the back room of the shop, limestone dust chalky on my tongue.

Justice and mercy. Donkor spoke of the hands of my sculpted likeness, which would be fashioned with the closed fist of justice and the open palm of mercy. But today I was interested only in justice.

I retrieved my staff and left. Outside the shop, a woman herded several small children past me. Behind me, I heard Donkor squeal, “My children! Come to see your father work!” Despite my bleak errand, I laughed.

It took only a few minutes to cross through several tight alleys and reach the wider street that housed the goldsmithing shops. I called into one of them and asked for the first artist Donkor had named.

A young woman, sweating over a furnace where she worked to refine a small pot of gold, looked up. “Down there.” She pointed vaguely east.

I continued down the street, asked a few more questions, until I stood in the shop of a burly goldsmith hammering a sheet flat. His thick fingers would have seemed to render him incapable of fine artwork.

“Badru?”

The man did not look up. “Who’s asking?”

“I was told you might be the man I seek.”

Badru looked up, recognized me, and straightened sharply before bowing his head. “How can I help you, my lord?”

I pulled out the mask. Badru took it in his hands and flipped it immediately to look for an artist’s mark. My hope flagged. He would not look for a mark if he were the artist.

“I am looking for the man who created it.”

“Why?”

I gazed around the shop slowly. “It’s fine work. I would like him to do something similar for me.”

Badru handed the mask back and retrieved his hammer. “I cannot help you.”

I moved to stand beside Badru. “Tell me what you know.”

Badru pounded his gold again. “It is best you look for someone else to do your work.”

“Badru. Please do not forget to whom you speak.”

Badru growled, a low angry sound, and tossed his hammer to the worktable. “I know who made your mask,” he said. “The eyes give it away. His special feature.”

“Who is he? Where can I find him?”

Badru folded his massive arms across his chest and stared down at me.

“He’s dead.”

Dead? When?”

Badru rubbed his fingertips along his gold piece, searching for imperfections. “The last new moon, I believe.”

“He was murdered?”

He looked up. “Why would you ask that?”

I replaced the mask in my pouch. “How did he die?”

“Fire. The refining furnace in his shop. His brother found him.”

“Where can I find this brother?”

Badru offered me the gold sheet. “His brother will not be able to make a piece like that. If you’re in need of a gold worker, I—”

I held up a hand. “Just the brother.”

“Could be anywhere.” Badru seemed to lose interest in me. “Paki. Ask around.”

I stared him down for a moment, considered his disrespect, then turned to the shop doorway. I had more important matters to attend. “Thank you for the information.”

Badru grunted.

The street had filled while I spoke to Badru. A large group swarmed toward me, heading somewhere together. I stepped aside, back against the shop opposite Badru’s, to let them pass. And then I realized they were headed for me.

“Grand Vizier!” the shouts came from several places in the group.

“Who sent the Great Wife to the west?”

“Was it one of us?”

“Why do you seek an artist?”

I pulled myself back against the wall and swung the pouch behind me. “I am looking for Paki, brother of a gold worker,” I said to anyone who would hear me.

“Is he the killer?” someone called.

“Is he the Scourge of Anubis?” another yelled.

I rubbed the back of my neck.
Gossip blows across the plateau
like sand.

I scanned the mob and spotted Donkor standing at the edge. The sculptor blinked several times, shrugged his narrow shoulders, and raised his palms with a smile that said he loved gossip as much as his coworkers.

The press of sweating bodies grew tighter, until their faces blurred. I took a deep breath and shoved through the crowd. The artist community tugged at me as I passed, still firing questions like tiny arrows that pricked my skin.

“Is it true she was wearing the death mask? Why does Anubis avenge himself upon the royal house? Will Pharaoh protect us?”

One hand reached out from the swarm behind me and dug bony fingers into my bare shoulder, just below my ear. I spun to avoid the touch and faced a dried-up old man. Most of his teeth had gone to the west without him, and those that remained were as
blackened as those of an aged mummy. He pushed up close to my face and lisped out a few strange words.

“We knew it was her, even dressed as one of us.”

The angry hum continued to swirl around us, but my attention focused on this one old man. I stared down into the filmy eyes. “Whom did you know?”

The man gave me a rotted smile. “The Great Wife. Whenever she came.”

“You saw her here, in the village?” My fingers clutched at the pouch I wore.

The old man’s attention wandered to the shouting crowd around us. I pinched his arm and he glared at me.

“Here. In the village. She came many times, dressed in peasant garb, as though no one would know her.” He shook his head in amusement. “A queen is a queen, no matter the dress.” He straightened his shoulders. “She carried herself different, you understand?”

“Why was she here?”

Another man twisted through the crowd to where we stood. “You are asking about my brother, the goldsmith?” Paki was younger than I, with a chest as broad as a grown ox.

I grunted. “Stay here,” I said to the old man.

“What do you know about his death?” I asked the brother, turning him away from the crowd.

“A fire. We were surprised. He was always careful. But it was nothing more.”

I leaned in to speak into only the brother’s ear, though I knew my words would be repeated throughout the village within the hour. “And did he speak of two death masks he had been privately commissioned to create?”

Paki rubbed his chin. “He often worked at night on things he did not let the family see. But I don’t know of any masks.”

I nodded my thanks, then turned to find the old man. Thankfully, he had not disappeared into the crowd. On the contrary, he stepped up to me eagerly, waiting his turn for fame.

“Why was she here?” I repeated. “Did she ever meet with an artist?”

The man made a few unsuccessful attempts to bite his lip, then wrinkled his nose. “Don’t think so. Never saw that.”

I gripped the man’s shoulder. “What
did
you see, man?”

His eyes wandered again, and I resisted the urge to slap him. But this time, his eyes focused on the edge of the crowd. “If you want to know why the queen came here to the village, you should ask the People of the One.”

“What people? What one?”

He raised a withered arm and pointed.

I followed the bony finger through the group of people, to where one woman stood apart, watching, like a goddess too sacred to join the ranks of men.

“Ask her,” he said.

Neferet?

I squinted at the man again, to be sure. The old man grinned and slipped away.

I jostled through the herd, clutching the pouch close to my body. The press of people followed me, a jumbled, disorderly horde that rubbed at my senses and tightened my shoulders. Finally I turned to face them.

“I have nothing for you,” I shouted. “No answers, no information. If I have need of you, or if there is any reason for you to be concerned, you will be sought out. Until then, go back to your
business!” I glared for a few moments, until they began to disperse. Murmurs and sandals crunching over gravel filled the street and finally moved away.

I straightened my belt and turned to Sen’s daughter, Neferet. She wore a filmy dress of white today, the fabric thin enough to see through to the skirt underneath. She smiled.

“You knew the Great Wife?” I asked.

Neferet’s smile faded. “She was a lovely woman.”

“I don’t understand. The old man said—who are these People of the One?”

Neferet’s gaze left my face and focused on something over my shoulder. I exhaled my impatience and turned on the interruption. “Ahmose. What are you doing here?”

My brother’s face was devoid of its customary grin as he strode toward us. “I have been searching for you.”

“What is it?” My stomach clenched, sensing more devastating news.

“It is father. He does not have long. He asks for you.”

I searched out Neferet’s eyes, hesitated a moment, then joined my brother. “I will come.” To Neferet, I said, “I will return to see you later. Please do not speak of this to any other.”

She grabbed my fingers and squeezed. “I will say a prayer for your father.” Her slight smile seemed to flow right into me, and I found myself returning the pressure of her fingers.

“Thank you,” I said.

I hurried to join Ahmose, who was already moving down the street. He spoke without turning. “I am sorry to take you away from your business. Thinking of acquiring a concubine, are you?”

“When did Father’s condition change?”

Ahmose did not slow. “He has been declining for several weeks, which you could not know, of course, since you have not seen him since before akhet began.”

I trudged beside my older brother toward the mouth of the village, where donkeys or slaves would take us to the royal estate and my father’s quarters.

Here in Ahmose’s shadow I was not grand vizier. I was not the restorer of ma’at. I was only Hemi, a man who was losing everyone in the world who meant anything to him.

Ahmose had brought two sedan chairs. He must have anticipated that his brother would be on foot. No doubt he thought my habit of walking most places to be beneath the title I bore. We each climbed into a chair, and the dozen slaves lifted us as one onto their shoulders.

“Father has changed much in the past few weeks,” Ahmose said, across the sandy path. “You will be surprised.”

I settled back into the cushion of the wooden chair. “Is he in pain?”

“Some. He bears it well. At times his mind wanders, and then he usually speaks of Mother. About seeing her again in the west.”

“I cannot imagine them both gone.” I ran a finger along the gilded edge of the chair. It was an expensive piece. Ahmose had done well, despite his constant innuendos about being cheated out of the position he expected to receive as eldest son.

My brother snorted in derision. “I cannot see that it will make any difference to you. You will go on with your important work, just as always. He is not so much a part of your life that you will miss him.”

I tapped my hand on my thigh, in time with the slaves’ measured steps toward the royal estate.
Do you not know that everything
I build, I build for him, Ahmose?
Aloud, I said, “You have been an attentive son. I am glad Father has had you at his side.”

Ahmose looked away. “It matters not. You are the one he—”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

We moved forward with only the sound of the slaves’ feet, until Ahmose spoke again. “He speaks of you more than of anyone. It is always, ‘Have you seen the project today, Ahmose? Have they reached the tenth course yet? The twentieth?’ He follows your progress as if he were still grand vizier himself.”

“His work at Saqqara will outlive him to eternity. He was a great builder.”

“Yes. And it is Hemi who has taken the throne of his father.”

I sat upright. Ahmose had set his face to the road ahead. “You blame me, I know. But it was not my decision. And I have studied much and worked hard to be worthy of the role Egypt has given me.”

“Yes, given you. Despite the man that you are.”

I deflated back into the chair again.
Not now, Ahmose. Not
when I am facing yet another loss.
My brother’s cruelty remained a mystery to me. To everyone else, Ahmose was a loving and pleasant man. Had his jealousy truly poisoned all brotherly feelings?

I leaned my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes. The almond oil, rubbed into the poles to make them smooth on the shoulder of the slaves, wafted up to me and reminded me of the embalmer’s hall. I opened my eyes to break the connection, but the blue jewels inlaid in the gilded sedan chair winked up at me like the eyes of Merit’s golden death mask.

Everywhere, death. Always death.

It was beyond bearing. And yet I must bear it.

We reached the royal estate and were carried directly to Neferma’at’s home, a large building with steps outside running up to the rooftop garden. A slave waited a few steps inside, and he spoke to Ahmose in low tones, updating him on our father’s condition. He led us to our father’s chamber, which had been darkened to already resemble a tomb. While Ahmose poured a libation to the figure of Thoth, god of wisdom and patron of architects and builders, I stepped around the square bathing pool set into the floor. In the center of the room, Neferma’at lay on his great bed, a shrunken shadow of the man that he was, with eyes and cheeks so deep set he seemed only a skull.

Despite Ahmose’s warning, I cried out.

Neferma’at opened his eyes and turned his head slightly. “Is this my Hemiunu?” he asked in his gravelly voice. “Has he come at last?”

“I am here, Father.” I rushed to the bedside, afraid each breath that lifted his bony chest might be the last. “I am here.”

I took my father’s thin hand in my own and knelt beside the bed. An alabaster half moon propped Neferma’at’s head. I touched the older man’s forehead with my hand. He still kept his head shaved, disdaining the prominent ridges of his skull.

“How goes the project, my son?”

I swallowed. “We are pushing forward, Father. And the quarries are breaking out stone as fast as we build.”

“Yes, you must keep after those quarry workers.” Neferma’at took several shallow breaths. “They will hold you back if you let them.”

“I will not let that happen, Father.”

Neferma’at squeezed my hand with a baby’s strength and nodded. “Good boy.” He drifted then, into a half-sleep.

I remained at his side but soon grew drowsy. Incense burned to cover the smell of the sickroom, and its pungency weighted my eyelids.

Neferma’at jerked awake some time later. “Ahmose? Where are you?”

My brother stepped from the shadows. “I will not leave you, Father. I am right here.”

“Call your brother, Ahmose. Bring Hemi to me.”

I could not bear to look at Ahmose. He stepped back again. I touched my father’s chest. “I am here, Father. I have come.”

“Both my sons.” Neferma’at nodded. “Yes, that is good. Come closer, my boys.”

Ahmose knelt beside me at our father’s bedside.

Neferma’at placed his hand on my head, then onto Ahmose’s. “You must love each other, my sons.”

I inhaled deeply but could not look at my brother.

“It has been too long,” my father continued, his voice low and weary. “Too long since that day. You two were once so close. Nothing has been the same since that day.” He grabbed at my arm. “Promise me, son.”

“What, Father?”

“Promise me you will put the past behind you. Learn to love again.”

I risked a glance at Ahmose, but my brother’s face was stony. “I will do all I can, Father,” I said.

Neferma’at would not be appeased. “Ahmose, you too. You changed that day. But the past is not important.”

“You exhaust yourself, Father,” he said. “You should rest.”

Neferma’at seemed to take instruction and closed his eyes again.

Ahmose stood and moved away. I rested my forehead on my father’s arm.

“He seems chilled,” I said. “Is there a blanket?”

Ahmose brought a piece of white linen. “He likes this one,” he said and pushed past me. My brother draped the linen over the old man, tucked it around his legs and hips. I watched as a stranger here, and my throat thickened.

“I am sorry I have not been here more, Ahmose.”

Voices in the outer passage grew closer. The head servant entered the room, his face pale. “Pharaoh Khufu, Beloved of Horus, Ruler of the Two Lands, Son of Ra …” He seemed to run out of titles. “He is here.”

I smiled sadly. “Bring him in.”

Khufu appeared in the doorway. His usual cheerfulness was absent. “When I heard,” he murmured, “I came to—to pay my respects.”

I nodded to my cousin and returned my attention to Neferma’at. “He is fading.”

Khufu slipped to the bedside, and I considered it a credit to the man that he knelt there, beside his elderly uncle.

Neferma’at opened his eyes and squinted at Khufu.

“Ah, my brother has come,” he said. “I have not seen you in years, Sneferu.”

Khufu gave me a half smile and took his uncle’s hand. His large ring seemed to dwarf the frail hand. “How are you, brother?”

Neferma’at managed a slight shake of his head. “The gods are calling me west, my brother. It is my time.”

Khufu patted his hand and Neferma’at grinned, the old spark returning for a brief moment. “But we had some good times, didn’t we, Sneferu?”

Khufu laughed. “Yes, indeed.”

Neferma’at lowered his voice. “Our boys think this pyramid they’re building will be greater than ours, do you know that?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“Let them build
three
of them, that’s what I say. Then let them speak of greatness.”

Khufu smiled at me, a sad smile that spoke of our shared loss.

“Besides,” Neferma’at continued, “those boys owe everything they know to us. We taught them what it meant to build a legacy in stone.”

“We certainly did, brother. Saqqara will stand for eternity.”

Neferma’at gripped Khufu’s hand. “But you must bury me in Meidum, remember.”

“Yes. Beside Itet. Your tomb is grand.”

Neferma’at closed his eyes, energy gone again. Khufu pulled his hand away and placed it on my shoulder. My breath caught, but I focused on my father’s face.

“He is a great man, Hemi. He will be greatly honored in Egypt for his seventy days.”

Khufu stood, and I with him. We moved away from the bed and lingered in the doorway of the chamber. “What have you learned of this killer in our midst?” he asked.

I thought of the old man with the rotted teeth, whispering of Merit’s frequent visits to the workmen’s village, disguised.

“Not much yet, I am afraid. I am still asking questions.” I hesitated. “What do you know of a group called the People of the One?”

Khufu scowled. “Rebellious sect. Have nothing to do with them.”

“There may be a connection to the killer.”

“It would not surprise me. They are Egyptians but claim a connection to the Joktanites and have adopted the god of the east.”

“Which god?”

Khufu snorted. “He has no name.” When I raised my eyebrows in disbelief, Khufu held up a hand. “By Hathor’s horns, I speak the truth. They worship only one god, whom they say has no name that man knows, yet is the only god, the creator of everything.”

“Hmm. Are they a warring sect?”

Khufu shook his head. “They live among us peaceably. Only contrary to all that holds Egypt together. They meet in secret, all around the Two Lands, from what I hear.”

“Why have I never heard of them?”

Ahmose joined us in the doorway. “Perhaps if you two need to speak of official matters, you could move to the palace.”

My jaw dropped. That my brother would speak to Pharaoh in such a way shocked me. But then a look into my brother’s eyes revealed such grief that I immediately dismissed it. I stepped between Ahmose and Khufu. “I must tend to my father, my king. If you will permit me.”

Khufu bowed his head. “Take whatever time you need.” He disappeared toward the outer part of the house, where slaves would bear him back to the palace.

I turned to Ahmose. “We were discussing Merit’s crossing,” I said. “Pharaoh has asked me to investigate her murder, and that of Mentu.”

“Of course.”

I sighed. Neferma’at called out to me once again, but the old man was already unconscious by the time I reached him. A loneliness, deep and heart-numbing, descended on me. The loss of my father, added to Mentu’s and Merit’s, and the distance of my brother
left me weary. I laid my head on my father’s hand and felt the tears flow. My mind carried me back many years, to a day I had cried such, the day my pet monkey had died. My father had comforted me that day. There could be no such comfort at this loss.

I lifted my head sometime later and found Ahmose watching me. I swiped at my face, wishing my older brother had not witnessed yet another weakness. But when I looked at Ahmose, his expression held something other than contempt. Instead, Ahmose looked at me as though I were a stranger.

Ramla, Ahmose’s pretty little wife, came with food and with their son Jafari, who had seen only seven Inundations. The boy talked of nothing but being an engineer, a builder like his uncle, the grand vizier. He sat close to me while we ate, peppering me with more questions than there were lentils on my plate.

I answered each with a small glow of pride that was extinguished each time I glanced at my brother’s darkening expression. Eventually Ramla shooed the three of us back to our homes, promising to sit with Neferma’at. I grasped my father’s hands in what I knew might be our last time together, then walked the short distance home alone and collapsed into my own bed, overwhelmed by the deep well of loss into which I had fallen.

* * *

The workmen’s village housed ten thousand men, with their wives and children, during the season of akhet, in addition to the artists who resided there year round. But there was also a large contingent of men brought from nearby areas who stayed in the village during the ten-day work week then returned to their homes and families
for two days. These men were housed in barracks at the edge of the village, and, when they returned from a day’s labor, they were fed in a large hall located adjacent to the bakery and brewery, which hummed with steady work, keeping the men in bread and beer.

I arrived at the dining hall along with my men, as the evening meal was being brought in on steaming platters and circulated among the men on floor mats by women dressed to please them.

I lowered myself to a reed mat near the wall and surveyed the room with tired eyes. It had been a long day on the work site, with a section of stones misdirected to the south side of the pyramid and a small cave-in where we were shoring up the sides of the king’s burial chamber. When I had gotten free, I sought out Sen and asked my new overseer of constructions where I might find his daughter.

Sen had raised his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth together.

“I have a few questions about a matter in the village for her,” I explained, but the older man only smiled.

“She is usually serving in the dining hall at this time of evening.”

“I don’t understand. Serving?”

Sen’s chest expanded. “She wants to. She knows it is beneath her, and certainly not required. But she cares for the men and enjoys finding ways to help.”

She was not here, however, I decided, as I watched the men hoot at the serving women and bang their empty jugs on the floor for refills. The yeasty smell of the hall mingled with the smell of hard-working men, and I wondered that I found the scene pleasant and much preferable to my usual meals alone.

A young woman approached me and held up a jug. I nodded and she filled a cup, then bent to hand it to me. Her fingers brushed mine, and I looked up apologetically. She smiled through lowered lashes, and I realized the touch was intentional.

She doesn’t know who I am.

For a moment I was tempted to lose myself in the anonymity. Then common sense prevailed and I studied the contents of my cup until she moved away.

I watched the men, how they talked and laughed together, with a shared experience that paved the way for friendship. I had never really felt that level of comfort with anyone.