by Paula Guran
Kamose smiled at the thought—a mocking, blasé smile. All this careful art, perfected down the generations, to preserve a corpse intact in the belief that the spirit could not survive without it—and the first step in the process was to scrape out the brain and discard it like rubbish! Could there be a finer example of the power of tradition to immobilize the wits? Doctors knew the various effects of blows to the skull and brain injuries. They knew them well. Medical scrolls listing the symptoms dated back to Imhotep’s time. Surgeons even opened the skull to relieve the pressure of bleeding or a depressed fracture, and the result—on occasion, at least—was a wondrous benefit. Yet established lore said the heart was the seat of mind and spirit, so even those with the strongest reasons to know otherwise, took it for granted.
So be it. Kamose did not intend to correct the error. As archpriest of Anubis, jackal-headed lord of the mortuary and embalming arts, he controlled vast estates, properties, and endowments because of that fatuous belief. Let him contradict it, and his enemies would swarm over him like gleeful crocodiles. Even the queen-widow and her son, Prince Rameses, heir to the Double Crown, would turn against him. At present they were his friends.
Setekh-Nekht, I’ll see you embalmed and coffined, and preside at your funeral since your survivors command it. But assuredly it is a step down for me. I performed the obsequies of Usermare. You reigned a scant three years.
Leaving the wabet, Kamose paused a moment in the hard, hot sunlight beside his pole-chair and four brawny servants. For that moment, his brain spun and his legs felt weak. Betraying no sign of indisposition, he climbed into the pole-chair and ordered his bearers to proceed.
“The Temple of Amun-Ra.”
He wasn’t himself, he thought grimly. After the stresses of his recent sorcery, he would be lucky if he was himself again in two seasons. His physical vitality had worn thin, his temper become raw, his control over it uncertain, and his sight dimmed on occasion. He carried the slash of a demon’s quadruple talons across his chest beneath his robe to remind him of an almost mortal mistake. And his enemies must not know it, which meant, of course, that Kamose’s few friends must not know it either, for once they did, his enemies soon would.
He’d been foolish to go about the city in a pole-chair, when he normally traveled by chariot or his black galley. Chariot, next time, with a great show of vigor, no matter how wearing it might be—and once the pharaoh was duly entombed, a request to be allowed a retreat to his mansion at Abdu. Even though his enemies might gain political ground, Kamose could regain it when he returned, especially with his greater lifespan.
Politics, to him, was a tiresome necessity, not sport or a serious affair.
From such political necessity, he paid his respects to the local chief priest of Amun-Ra. Minor though this Delta edifice might be compared with its immense mother-temple at Thebes, still it was rich, still a fane of the most powerful priesthood in Egypt. Even Kamose took care to stay on amicable terms with them. (He enjoyed the never-failing enmity of the Temple of Thoth, and one priestly feud was enough.)
Kamose proceeded to the treasure room. Penma’at arrived and joined him shortly. The various substances and appurtenances needed to complete the preparation of the king’s body, once it came out of the natron, had been stored here awaiting use. The largest temple of Anubis in the Delta was neither large enough nor secure enough for such a purpose. Having been appointed Controller of the Mysteries (chief embalmer, in plain speech) by royal command, Kamose must now take inventory and arrange to transfer it all to the per-nefer, the “house of beauty”, where the embalming process would culminate.
Oils, balsams, spices, and resins took a good deal of space, along with myrrh-filled cloth pads for stuffing the body cavity. Despite their immense cost, they were cheap beside the array of amulets meant for planting within the royal corpse or wrapping between the layers of mummy bandage. Casket after casket Kamose opened, under the watchful witness of two priests of Amun-Ra, to record the contents after he had noted them against a master-list. Golden djed pillars, scarabs winged and plain, sun disks, Eyes of Horus, lions, bound gazelles, couchant jackals, little figurines of at least twenty gods, stylized papyrus columns, horizons, paired feathers, and more and more, in gold, electrum, and gemstone, were taken out, itemized, and meticulously packed in their caskets again. The least article in the array would set a man up comfortably for life—and, if he were caught stealing it, cost him a less than comfortable death.
The greatest talisman lay within a box of jointed ivory. There was no visible lid or hinge. Two of its five hidden catches had nothing to do with opening it; they merely released poisoned needles, and breaking it would unleash a fine dust deadly to breathe. Even Kamose, who knew its secrets, placed bronze stalls on his finger-ends before touching it.
Closely nested inside blazed the pharaoh’s heart scarab, an emerald the size of a man’s two fists, carved in the shape of the beetle of resurrection. Heavy gold clasped the base, on which was engraved a prayer.
Kamose repressed a scornful smile, unmoved by the jewel’s splendor.
It was supposed to prevent the pharaoh’s own heart from testifying against him in the judgment hall of the gods. In that respect it had about as much power as a pebble, to Kamose’s certain knowledge; and besides, a few generations at most after Setekh-Nekht’s funeral, it would have been taken by tomb-robbers.
Briefly, then, the archpriest’s face and eyes altered. He bent over the emerald scarab once more. Lifting it in his sinewy hands, he stared at nothing for a space, seeming to brood like a vulture high in some burning sky; intent on a portent below that only his eyes could discern. Then he replaced the gem in its box with a steady hand.
“Let this be taken to the per-nefer under no ordinary guard,” Kamose ordered. “Twenty warrior princes will suffice. Only porters of our temple, who have served long, are to bear it, and you and I will accompany them, O Penma’at. Then the divine body of Pharaoh is to be carried there—after cleansing, as always.”
Penma’at bowed. “As you command, holy one.”
He spoke a little stiffly. Kamose supposed his language to the man in the wabet still rankled. He would concede it had been ill advised, especially before underlings, but he had a larger matter on his mind than any grievance of Penma’at’s. A discovery just made had briefly brought him close to panic, as though he were a normal mortal man.
The emerald scarab was false as a harlot’s affection.
II
Mertseger laughed, a tippling susurration like wind in dry grass, the mirth of the serpent she was.
“Oh, no! Indeed? This great gem is nothing but paste?” Kamose smiled with her. It was rather a joke, for those who could appreciate it, and he had found the lamia to be among the few able to share the blacker depths of his humor. Jesting with her of course was dangerous. That had to be borne in mind.
“The great gem is real. There has been a substitution. Malachite and gilded lead, not paste, if I may be laboriously exact. One cannot tell the difference by sight because the thief has cast an illusion of similitude over the counterfeit. He must have placed them side by side to do that.”
“That might have been anyone, at any time, my lord,” she said pensively. “Even the temple artisan who carved the jewel, if he knew magic—and if he did not, any priest down to the most minor would have been able to supply his deficiency.” She ended in a tone fit for discussing the most remote abstractions, “There are corrupt priests.”
“Even priestesses,” Kamose replied just as gravely. “Now hear me, marvelous one. The risk alone means this can be no ordinary theft. The robber chose to chance his act being noticed before the scarab was hidden forever inside a king’s carcass. One supposes he must be daring, bold, without scruple, and confident—even over-confident, reckless. The qualities of youth.”
“And greedy. Or desperate.”
Kamose agreed. “I have such a fellow under my eye. He’s the lector-priest taking part in the mummification, an
d I have not known him before. He’s some sort of cousin to Prince Rameses. Wenching, betting, and racing his chariot are his chief delights; he gives as little time as possible to priestly duties. It shows, I may say. His knowledge of the rituals is slipshod. I’d confine him on a plain diet and have him study day and night until he was perfect—not in any hope of making him devout, my serpent, but to teach him that I expect my priests to be meticulous, at least. It cannot be done because he’s royal. The vizier at Hikuptah appointed him to this task. I wish—quickly—to learn if he pilfered the emerald.”
Mertseger stretched, smiling. “For that he must run free.”
“He might be desperate for wealth. His favorite pleasures are costly. Assume the guise of a courtesan, O Mertseger, and cross his path; learn if he is guilty. But that is all! Control your deadly appetites where he is concerned! He’s not to be harmed, nor is he to guess what you are. I will deal with him if he is the thief.” Kamose looked her in the face with a gaze more lethal than her own. “Flout this command and I turn the blood in your veins to vitriol, serpent.”
He could do it, and would. Mertseger knew it beyond doubt. In her human shape as a priestess, she was a tall woman, supple to the point of seeming boneless, and here in Kamose’s private quarters she had cast off her temple robe to be easy in her skin, unconfined. But as anger possessed her, that skin colored in serpentiform mottlings, black and yellow, while actual scales broke out in places. Her fingers tensed.
“Vitriol?” she said fiercely. “To hold me captive, even for you, Kamose, is to keep vitriol in a tube made of unwaxed reed. Have a care to your flesh!”
“I shall. Meanwhile, go fascinate this youthful lector-priest—or lecher-priest may be more appropriate. His name is Reni.”
The ophidian patterns faded from Mertseger’s skin. She said woefully, “Will you allow me nothing in the way of pleasure?”
“Of your own peculiar pleasures, from this man, no. He’s highly connected. And I cannot always find traitors or criminals for you, O Mertseger. Discover all there is to know about Reni, and I make large effort in that direction.”
Mertseger departed, seething, but intent on her task and hopeful.
Kamose experienced a certain relief. She would do as he ordered, and do it well, but in all likelihood there was no need. The young lector-priest did love chariots and fine horses and exorbitant wagers; but such was his skill that he generally won. He was unlikely to be the culprit. This, Kamose had already ascertained.
He preferred, though, to have Mertseger occupied, and at a distance from himself. Let her discern his current weakness, and there would probably be no choice for him but to destroy her. Holding her under his control, just as she said, formed a circumstance of extreme peril, but until he had done so her depredations had imposed terror on the entire Delta. By bringing an end to that, Kamose had vastly increased his own reputation.
Besides, the lamia made a fearsome weapon when his enemies overstepped the mark or some criminal—tomb-robbers in particular—grew too egregious. And she was a remarkable lover.
Kamose’s expression became bleakly amused. Until he recovered, it was fortunate that he possessed elixirs and potions which could renew a man’s vitality even at the point of extinction. Although they could not be taken too often, he would assuredly never conceal the truth from Mertseger without them.
She had shrewdly said that the emerald might have been stolen at any time since it was carved. Still, Kamose had his own reasons for thinking the theft a recent one, and the motive one other than greed. The emerald scarab being his responsibility, the most likely reason for stealing it (almost the only one to justify such immense risk) would be to discredit him. Kamose knew numbers of folk who dreamed longingly of such an outcome.
So. Recent theft reduced the number of suspects. Reni, though not eliminated yet, ranked among the less likely. Any of the half-dozen lesser priests involved in embalming Setekh-Nekht had had opportunity. They might be desperate on their own account, or the compelled tools of a greater man’s scheme. Kamose had given secret commands already, and meant to know everything there was to know about all of these men within three days.
That left, in positions of far greater trust and authority (and therefore opportunity), Penma’at and Djeseret. Both possessed more than ordinary integrity, Penma’at in addition valued his honors as Second Prophet more than any conceivable wealth, while Djeseret had always been removed from worldly matters to a nearly grotesque degree, wholly steeped in religious concerns. Besides, he was growing senile.
Penma’at did have a large family, though, and if one of them should be in serious trouble or threatened with disgrace—that would make him vulnerable to pressure, honest as the Second Prophet was. No. Penma’at could not quite be discarded from consideration as a thief and traitor. Both Penma’at and Djeseret possessed more than the modest degree of magical ability needed to perform the theft. For that matter, most of the lesser priests probably had it.
Kamose pondered. It would be interesting to solve this riddle by his own knowledge and wit, not by divination or the aid of spirits. Simply giving the culprit enough rope for his own noose might provide the answer.
He began early next day in the per-nefer. Unlike the wabet, a closed and heavy vault, this place admitted air. Little square windows near the high ceiling let in light while keeping out oppressive heat. The plaster walls carried bright paintings. While their subject matter was solemn—embalming rites, funeral processions, the judgment of souls—one wall showed happy spirits in the Afterworld, and all were decorated in vivid hues.
Even the mortuary bench was very different. Procedures in the wabet had been carried out on a heavy stone table, sloping and channeled to drain away fluids. Here the royal cadaver lay on a magnificent lion-headed bier.
Kamose, washed and purified, entered in his ceremonial vestments as Controller of the Mysteries. A black jackal-mask with crystal eyes covered his head. He wore a kilt of many intricate pleats and a sort of linen corselet to his armpits. It almost hid the lacerations of the demon’s claws. The fresh red scars just showed. His collar, armlets, belt, and short oblong apron glittered with crusted jewels. From behind the belt a long black tail hung down.
The lector-priest Reni came late, and through the mask’s eyes Kamose saw that he looked somewhat worn and wilted. Flagrantly against the ritual purification rules, and the sanctity of the rite in which he was engaged, he had been wenching and carousing the night before, and Mertseger—abroad in a rich litter—had contrived to catch his attention. She worked swiftly. Kamose had heard her description of events when she returned an hour before dawn. The lector-priest assuredly did not behave like a man with aught on his mind but merriment.
Kamose rebuked him sharply for lateness. The rituals began. Setekh-Nekht’s gutted corpse had been washed clean of natron before Kamose’s minor priests carried it to the per-nefer. Much shrunken by the desiccation process, it stared from empty sockets while the minor priests rubbed milk wine and juniper oil into the skin—all but the face, which had already been covered with a thin coating of resin.
Kamose’s part began. Personifying Anubis, he chanted an invocation. That complete, he removed the temporary stuffing which had filled out the bereft body cavity until now. The lesser priests placed it aside in a basket. Kamose, each movement slow and solemn, began to restuff the body with linen pads containing fine sawdust, powdered myrrh and cassia. He had to reach in through a deep slanting cut above the groin to accomplish it.
“O royal falcon, Setekh-Nekht, go forth into heaven as the lion-god Ra, who has eaten the thigh and divided the carcass. Be justified; inherit eternity. Your heart shall speak for you, it shall be found true.” Kamose reached out his hand. The lector-priest took the great scarab in a grasp that trembled. Its green blaze illumined his face. He appeared distinctly out of sorts. Passing over the jewel, he intoned the prayer engraved on its underside, working hard to speak clearly.
“O my heart, which I had from my
mother! O, my heart of my coming into being! Do not stand as a witness against me. Do not contradict me with the judges, or be my enemy in the presence of the guardian of the balance . . . ”
Kamose took the scarab, watching his subordinates as he did so, his masked gaze intent and assessing. Penma’at had pressed his lips together in disapproval as the lector-priest stumbled once or twice in his phrasing.
Old Djeseret echoed the prayer silently, moving his withered lips. He could have recited it in the midst of a whirlwind. He was old and death hovered close to him. Hardly a time of life to take theft and sacrilege on his soul. What could it gain him now? He always had seemed more concerned with the Afterworld than with life, and Kamose had known him when he was a green youth in the temple gardens.
And yet someone in this chamber must be sweating with fear lest the theft be discovered. Kamose held the scarab longer while he stared at the six minor priests, all of whom he knew, and wondered if one of them had been corrupted so far—or even if someone in the Temple of Amun-Ra, while the emerald had been stored in its treasure room—
Enough. Kamose thrust the great jewel deftly into the pharaoh’s body, settling it next to the heart, and packed more myrrh-laden pads around it.
Systematically he filled the thoracic hollow from the collarbones down, until the torso presented a natural appearance again, and covered the incision in the lower belly with an engraved golden plate. This, too, Reni handed to him, speaking the appropriate incantation in a slurred and thickened tone.
I’ll teach you better in time, Kamose thought grimly, whether or not you are a thief. Not even whelps of the royal house conduct lax rites in my temple, or guzzle and swive during a mummification.
The lesser priests now rubbed the corpse with a paste of spices, while new resin melted over a brazier. Using wide brushes, they coated the entire cadaver with it, sealing the golden plate in place thereby. If the thief was present, he must think that danger no longer hovered close above his head.
