The Crocodile Makes No Sound

by N. L. Holmes

  “Oh, hello,” she said, her voice nasal from weeping. “You’ve heard, I guess.”

  “Yes, and I wanted to express my sorrow. May the Lord Osir receive him in the happy lands of the West.”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  “Would it be too painful to tell me what happened?” Hani asked. “How he was found?”

  Rekhet-ra stepped back from the door and gestured to Hani to enter. He followed her into the surprisingly spacious, well-appointed salon—a testament perhaps to Djehuty-mes’s good taste and certainly to the financial success of his art. From the corner of his eye, Hani noted the shrine with its proper stele of the Aten and the royal family. The thought that the Great Queen might be after his own humble head was almost too absurd to comprehend.

  “Sit down.” Rekhet-ra gestured to a stool and took a seat opposite him. The little boys ran pattering away into the back of the house. She crossed her arms over herself as if for protection. “Why are you asking? Your girl has lost him now.”

  Hani said in a quiet, confidential voice, “Rekhet-ra, I’m a royal investigator.” It wasn’t untrue. He had investigated many cases in Kharu and elsewhere. And if he could save the Mitannian alliance by protecting Lady Kiya, this one might even come legitimately under his mandate.

  “Will you find out who killed him, my lord?” she cried, hope lighting up her desolate eyes. “I didn’t think I still loved him, but it isn’t right that he should end like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Stabbed in the back by his own chisel.”

  “In the back?” Hani hadn’t expected this.

  “He was sleeping on his stomach, as he often did. And someone... nailed him to the bed, almost, with a bronze chisel. He probably never woke up.” Tears began to flow again from her slitted eyelids.

  “Were there any other details you can remember?”

  “I didn’t see it. It was my father who found him. He and some of the workmen brought him back here.”

  Hani found it hard to swallow. “He’s at the Place of Purification now, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s been over a week. He wasn’t such a bad man, my lord. He just couldn’t keep his eyes off the girls.”

  “I agree, my dear,” Hani said kindly. “He wasn’t a bad man. He didn’t deserve to die like this.” He rose to his feet. “Please tell your father how sorry I am about his loss. If there was anything unusual about the room or the body, perhaps he could tell me.”

  She escorted Hani out, and he thought to himself, Why am I even troubling them about such things? It was almost surely a hired killer who did the deed. What I need is a clue as to the one behind the murder. I only have a theory, and I certainly can’t approach the queen without some kind of proof of her involvement. She could just brush it off and say, “What have I to do with it?”

  He had no reason to go to the Hall of the King’s Correspondence since he had already reported to Lord Ptah-mes about Aziru’s letters, and he had no desire to drift about this accursed city sightseeing. Especially since someone seemed to have an interest in silencing him as they had Kha-em-sekhem. He betook himself to the back lanes and made his way south toward Ptah-mes’s mansion on the River’s edge.

  CHAPTER 7

  Ptah-mes wasn’t home, so Hani sat in the vine-shaded courtyard and watched ten or so jays coming over the wall and taking the ripening grapes one by one. They seemed to be in hot competition among themselves, screeching belligerently, as if there weren’t ample fruit for everyone. Even among the birds, there’s no peace, Hani thought, glum.

  He needed desperately to understand what was happening around the Beloved Royal Wife. Was it, in fact, the Great Queen behind this attempt to discredit her? And if so, how could she be dissuaded? Perhaps it would suffice to warn the king anonymously of the warfare between his wives; it was certainly being carried out behind his back. But then Kiya’s infidelity will come out, and that will be the end of her and the Mitannian treaty. He found it discouraging to think that the queen had so little care for the welfare of Kemet’s borders. Of course, the king himself seemed to be no more concerned. Hani wondered if Ptah-mes had yet passed along the word about the ninety thousand Hittites massing on their frontiers—perhaps Aper-el, the vizier, wasn’t even back in his office after the holidays. He doubted that that news would so much as make a difference to those who ruled the kingdom, hopeless as the thought made him.

  And then Hani had to deal with the fact that someone seemed to be out to kill him. Or had that arrow been a mere warning? Certainly, he’d left any would-be assassin plenty of opportunities, if his voyage into the West were the goal. He heaved a sigh and watched the jays yelling threats at one another.

  ⸎

  When Lord Ptah-mes returned that evening from the Hall of Royal Correspondence, Hani was still sitting in the shade of the arbor, pondering his course of action.

  “Oh, there you are, my friend.” Ptah-mes eased himself into one of the chairs, and although he was too well bred to groan, he couldn’t conceal the painful weariness in his movements.

  “I guess the work was stacked up after the long holiday,” Hani said sympathetically.

  But his superior shot him a somber look. “Aper-el wants to see you tomorrow, Hani.”

  Hani’s stomach tightened at Ptah-mes’s expression. “Is it about the news in Aziru’s letter, my lord?”

  “I don’t think so. But I’ll let him tell you.” Ptah-mes seemed about to leave it at that, but after a moment, he added in a low voice, “He’s going to pass along a summons from higher up.”

  Hani could feel a bitter taste rising in his throat. “Male or female?” he murmured.

  “Female.”

  And here’s the confirmation of my suspicions. Hani reminded his host, “You know absolutely nothing about any of this affair, my lord.”

  “True.” No doubt picking up on Hani’s fear, Ptah-mes’s brittle gaze softened. “It may be something else entirely.”

  “Of course, my lord.” But neither of them was sufficiently innocent to believe that was so.

  ⸎

  The next morning, Hani dawdled over his breakfast so he wouldn’t be seen arriving at the same time Lord Ptah-mes did. But it was effort mostly wasted; the court of the Hall of Royal Correspondence was in large part abandoned to the cicadas. No doubt, many of the officials had yet to return from their ancestral homes where they had passed the long holiday.

  Hani had stopped to gather his courage for the interview with his superior, the vizier, when the cheerful voice of Mane called out from the street side, “Hani, old man! You are back after all!”

  Hani turned with a fixed smile on his face. Much as he enjoyed Mane’s company, he needed to prepare himself for what was coming. “Mane. I’ve... er, got an—”

  “How was the little vacation? How are the family?” Mane strode up to him with purposeful directness, and although his round cheeks were split in a hearty smile, his eyes were a bit too bright. The two men embraced.

  “Look, Mane, I’ve—”

  But the emissary drew closer than normal to Hani and said under his breath, “Our girl is getting anxious. She wants to know what’s happening.”

  Hani whispered, “They’re watching me. The queen has sent for me. I can’t come back.”

  “Send a message through me, then. Or Keliya. He’s still here.” Mane drew back, slapping Hani on the arms in a genial gesture, and said in his usual booming baritone, “Glad I saw you. Let’s plan to dine together some evening before you leave.”

  “Right, Mane. May... may the lord of the horizon bless you.” Hani, too, had raised his voice.

  “And the Dazzling Sun Disk shed his face upon you. I’ll see you soon before we both get away.” Mane receded across the court and into the shadow of the buildings, a rotund little figure of perfect good cheer.

  Distracted, Hani took a deep, steadying breath and marched into the reception room of the vizier. The hall was still almost empty, its lofty ceiling misted p
alely by the sunlight that filtered through the clerestories. Hani’s steps echoed on the plastered floor as he presented himself to the clerk on duty. The man disappeared and, a short while later, emerged and ushered Hani toward the vizier’s door.

  Hani entered and bowed deeply, hand to mouth. Lord Aper-el, vizier of the Lower Kingdom and Hani’s remote superior, sat upon his chair, his hands resting on its arms. He was dressed in full ceremonial garb—the long kilt high under his armpits, knotted over the chest, and his shebyu collars, with their lens-shaped beads, around his neck. Hani was reluctant to look him in the eye; they had not met since nearly a year before, and at that meeting, Hani had provoked Aper-el’s displeasure. But the vizier displayed his usual cool, slightly sour expression, nothing worse.

  Aper-el was in his midfifties, a former military man of Djahyite extraction with a pale, hawkish face. His piercing eyes stared Hani up and down. “Lord Hani.” He had an unpleasantly nasal voice. “I haven’t seen you recently. Ptah-mes tells me the hapiru are chafing in their gilded captivity at your house, eh?”

  “So it seems, my lord.” Hani forced a bland smile to his lips, but he was sweating heavily, the beads starting to dribble down his temples.

  “Sorry I can’t tell you how long they’ll be there. Submit a list of expenses, and I’ll see to it you’re reimbursed.”

  “I thank you, my lord.” He’s purposely torturing me, Hani thought, amused.

  “The queen wants to see you, Hani.”

  There it is—the coup de grace. “I’m honored by her attention,” he said, bowing a little.

  “Present yourself today at the House of Rejoicing in the center of the city. That’s all, unless you have something to report.” Aper-el rose, not hostile but far from friendly.

  “I think Lord Ptah-mes must have reported to you about the massing of Hittite troops inland of our northernmost vassals, my lord.”

  Aper-el nodded once and turned away, already departing through his private door as Hani backed his way from the chamber, bent in a bow, his cheeks burning with apprehension. He left the scribal quarter immediately, trailed by the scent of bread from the nearby bakery, and made his way with a determined stride toward the processional street and the central palace. No point in putting off the inevitable.

  To his left across the street stood the bridge that served as a gateway to the royal precinct, its approach now lined by rows of crouching lions with the head of the king. Upon that bridge was the Window of Appearances, where the king and queen stood to throw gold and grain and cuts of meat to functionaries who were being honored for some service. Hani had seen the ceremony when he felt he couldn’t avoid it—the joyful recipient borne on his friends’ shoulders, surrounded by his family, his colleagues, his tenant farmers, all scrambling for the gold and gifts that showered down from the hands of the living... Aten. Hani no longer knew how the king saw himself or what he wanted to be called, thousands of years of custom having been swept away almost overnight with the abolition of the Hidden One, maker of kings.

  He turned right and followed the long, blinding wall of the palace to its north side, where the public entrance lay through a high pylon gate. The red banners were not to be seen upon their flagpoles—the king himself was not in residence. One of many oppressive weights seemed to lift from Hani’s shoulders at that thought. Although the female of the species is often the deadlier.

  The outer gate was heavily guarded, but Hani gave his name and cited his summons by the queen and was permitted to pass. He found himself in a vast, barren courtyard ringed by buildings. Enormous seated statues of the king were in the process of erection all around the edges. In fact, a crew of workers mounted on scaffolds were chiseling away as he passed, and other sculptures were being painted. Hani was too nervous to take a particular interest at the moment, but he reminded himself to see afterward if Djehuty-mes were there with the workmen.

  At the end of the entrance court, a second, even more monumental gate awaited, with a ramped doorway, no doubt for chariot processions. Hani took a smaller pedestrian gate well to the side, guarded by exotically dressed soldiers from various parts of the empire. And before him stretched yet another court—a long, tiring exposed approach probably intended to soften up petitioners and foreign delegations before their audience. Hani’s knees were becoming a little watery from anticipation. The expanse was all but empty. Here and there, a palace official or a visitor walked, rendered the size of an insect by the enormity of the space. On either side of the main entry of the palace stood two great obelisks with gilded pyramidal caps, flashing in the sun like all-seeing golden eyes.

  Hani passed under a colonnaded porch, where brightly painted palm columns and mural decorations of scenes of nature at last relieved the whiteness of the courtyard. More soldiers. He again identified himself. Finally, feeling small and nervous—as he was intended to—Hani was admitted to the reception hall and turned over to a haughty majordomo with a staff in his hand.

  “Follow me,” the man commanded, and together, they set off through the dazzlingly rich public rooms of the palace, their steps punctuated by the clicking of the bronze-shod staff on the floor. The colors, the gilding, and the luxurious textiles stupefied Hani’s eyes. Servants better dressed than the average grandee passed in silence on bare feet, while Hani’s sandals clopped as gracelessly as a donkey’s hooves through the incense-laden hush. At last, the men paused before a pair of tall gilded doors guarded by Nubians in leopard skins. The majordomo rapped with his staff, disappeared inside, and a moment later returned to usher Hani into the chamber.

  Hani entered an intimate throne room. The queen sat within on a tall chair of electrum set with scenes inlaid in colored stones. At one side, two high windows with carved screens admitted a greenish light filtered through palm fronds. Hani was conscious of a swirl of perfume and color all around him, but his attention was fixed on the Great Queen Nefert-iti Nefer-nefru-aten.

  It was the first time he had seen her not from afar in ceremonial regalia but wrapped only in the glories of a beautiful woman. She had on a short, angled wig of the same style Hani had seen on Kiya, which set off her long, graceful neck. Her heavy-lidded eyes were painted to perfection, her full lips rouged. But only Khnum the Maker had designed those exquisite cheekbones and the square jaw, strong yet made more feminine by a slight overbite. She lived up to her name; she was the Beautiful One.

  Hani tore his eyes away and flattened himself to the floor in a full court prostration.

  “Hani,” she said in a breathy low-pitched voice. “We meet at last. Rise.”

  Hani crawled to his feet, conscious of his awkwardness.

  The queen smiled, but it seemed calculating, without warmth. “We see too little of you, Hani.”

  “My lady has only to command,” he answered. His initial anxiety over the queen’s summons had firmed into his usual diplomatic smoothness.

  The queen observed him silently, letting her beauty work its devastating sorcery. She wielded it like a sword. “Someone has told me that you frequent the King’s Beloved Wife, Lady Kiya. Is it so?”

  “I’ve seen her once since I brought her from Naharin, my lady. Hardly frequentation, I think.”

  “And was there a particular reason for that visit?”

  Hani’s heart began to beat faster despite the fact that he was prepared for this question. “She wanted to reunite with her old companions of voyage. The Mitannian ambassador was in town, and so she summoned me and our envoy to Naharin, who was also in the capital.”

  The queen nodded thoughtfully. “Is she happy? Is her life going well?”

  “I’m sure she’s very happy. The favor of the king is the breath of life in the nostrils of all of us who serve him.”

  “Indeed.” Nefert-iti’s lips twitched in an unreadable smile. Then, in a frontal attack, she asked, “Is she pregnant?”

  Hani spread his hands helplessly. “How could I know, my lady? She didn’t look pregnant.”

  Her voice hardened with a
n avid edge. “Because there are rumors. And rumors that someone other than the Living Face of the Aten might have something to do with that.”

  “I would be the last to know, great lady. I’m hardly an intimate of the royal women.”

  “That is as it should be, Hani. Your duties toward the Mitannian princess ended when you delivered her to Neb-ma’at-ra.”

  That’s a warning. She’s the blackmailer, all right.

  “I’m completely in agreement on that. I have another assignment now that is quite demanding.”

  “Good.” Nefert-iti rose from her chair. Below the slim shoulders and small bust, Hani saw that she had fleshy hips and a protruding, slightly pendulous stomach. She was, after all, the mother of numerous children—all, alas for her, daughters. But her movements, even in this formal setting, were sinuous and catlike, only enhanced by the fullness of her lower body that was so eloquent of fertility. She was well aware of the effect she had on men. “We understand each other, then. I hope to be able to count on your expertise. One has need quite often of a discreet service.”

  “I am yours to command, great lady,” Hani said gallantly, thinking he was well and truly caught.

  “You are dismissed.”

  He bowed low and backed from her presence. The door opened behind him as if by magic—Did the majordomo listen to the entire conversation from behind the panels?—and Hani caught only a glimpse of the queen, still standing before her chair in the magnificent femininity of a mother goddess, before he rose and the door closed with an echoing clang.

  ⸎

  Hani had sufficient presence of mind left to remember that he intended to speak to Djehuty-mes before he departed the palace complex. In the enormous courtyard, he sought out the work crew swarming over one of the royal statues. A figure who looked like the sculptor—rag over his head and all—was drinking from a wooden ladle in the shade of the unfinished image.

  Hani approached him, and the man looked up. His dust-whitened face opened in a red smile. “Lord Hani,” he called in his high-pitched voice.