by Brad Geagley
Nenry tried another tack. “My brother has one virtue, however, Great Lord—he speaks the truth.”
Toh leaned back in his throne, sighing. “That, too, I have heard.” He groaned—all his joints ached when a sandstorm raged. He peered irritably from beneath his wig in the general direction of Semerket. “I have heard your brother tells the truth like a woodcutter wields an axe.”
Toh called for beer sweetened with honey. His scribe, sitting on the floor next to him, put down his pens and poured from a jar beside him.
“So,” the vizier said, “let me have a sample of this truth-telling of yours. Tell me something that none dare say to my face.”
Nenry was instantly alarmed. “Great Lord!” he began, sputtering. He feared the outcome of such a request.
In the dim light, Toh held up his hand to quiet him. “Go on.” He continued to level his piercing gaze on Semerket. “Amaze me.”
Semerket seemed to be considering what words he would use. “The Great Lord’s bones are a misery to him today.”
“Aye,” Toh agreed with a suspicious sigh, “my bones are indeed an agony to me. I am old, old.”
Semerket’s voice was clear. “Why do you not retire, then, and leave the rule of Egypt to a younger, more vigorous man?”
The expression on the vizier’s face at that moment caused Nenry to fling himself from his chair to the floor, trembling.
“What?” Toh rumbled in a low, dangerous growl.
Semerket continued, “You’ve made the mistake of believing what every long-lived despot does—that what is good for you is good for the country.”
Toh’s lips quivered. “Insolence. I should have you beaten!”
Semerket shrugged. “How can you know the truth about a priest-ess’s murder, then, when you want only to silence it with beatings?”
“By the gods—!” Toh began to rage, then stopped. The mention of the priestess had quieted him. He sat back on his throne, breathing hard, and his fingers drummed the filigree of its inlay. “They spoke correctly about you. Your manners should have gotten you killed long ago.”
Quietly, Semerket said, “I will never lie to you, Great Lord, no matter how unpleasant the truth. Nor will I again make sport in truth’s name.”
So the man had been joking, Toh thought. This realization soothed his wounded pride—somewhat. “How long will it take you to solve this crime, then?” he asked.
“There is no guarantee that I can solve it, Great Lord. I don’t know how long it will take. Weeks, months perhaps.”
“I suppose you will soak me in expenses.”
“My keep; the usual bribes…”
“You will take this badge proclaiming you to be my envoy.” Toh gave him a necklace of jasper beads from which hung the vizier’s insignia. “You may draw from my treasury all that you need. Travel will be unrestricted. All access will be granted. Spare nothing and no one in finding the truth. I expect reports, but only when you’ve something to tell me.” The vizier snapped his fingers and his scribe handed him a leather sack. He threw it to Semerket. “This should get you started.”
Inside were rings of gold and silver, and bits of snipped copper. Semerket felt the bag’s weight. “It’s enough.”
“If you need anything else while I am in the north, you will see Kenamun here. He is my eyes in the south.” At this he indicated the scribe who sat cross-legged on the floor next to the throne. The man rose politely and bowed to both Semerket and Nenry. He had an intelligent, kindly face.
A sudden scent of musky perfume made them cease their conversation, and Toh sniffed irritably in its direction. At the doorway to his chambers stood five ladies, each covered from head to toe in gauzy vestments, protection against the storm. The lady at their center was the only one of them to pull away her net covering.
The woman who emerged into the dim light was older in years, but her dark-skinned beauty was very pronounced. She was dressed simply, almost to the point of severity. Only the asp in her wig caused Semerket to instantly stretch his hands out at knee level; none but members of the royal family were allowed the insignia of the sacred cobra. Nenry also dropped face down on the floor.
The vizier had a sour look on his face. He moved stiffly to genuflect. “My lady,” he said.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Vizier Toh.”
Her voice, thought Semerket, was one of the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard, light but resonant with warmth and maternal concern.
“Queen Tiya’s presence is like the sun after a storm,” said the vizier stiffly.
Strange that the vizier’s words of homage sounded so cold on his tongue. Semerket glanced surreptitiously at the renowned but rarely viewed queen.
“Please sit down, old gentleman,” she said, crossing to Toh and assisting him back to his small throne. “I will be only a moment. It’s Semerket I’ve come to see.”
Nenry hiccoughed in shock. How had Semerket come to the notice of so high a personage as Queen Tiya? From his vantage point he could see only her gilded sandals as she moved to his brother and touched his shoulder.
“Please,” she said in that magical voice, “I dislike ceremony. Come sit beside me, that we may talk together as people do.”
Semerket moved to do as the queen said. He hesitated before sitting, and she smiled and patted the seat of the bench beside her. He sat, though only on the edge, his back rigid.
The queen held out a hand and one of the shrouded figures came forward to place a metal object in her palm. The queen turned to Semerket, seized his own hand, and placed the object into it, closing his fingers around it.
“I came here today to give you this. It will protect you, and also assist you in this terrible… this awful crime that has claimed the life of that lovely old lady.”
Incredibly, Queen Tiya began to weep. Semerket’s tongue immediately fused to the roof of his mouth, and he could only stare at her. She still clutched his hand in hers.
“I looked on Hetephras almost as a mother,” she said after she had taken a moment to gather herself. “We met as sister priestesses, but became far more than friends over the years. When I think…” her lip trembled again, but she firmly composed herself. “When Paser told me you had been chosen to solve the mystery of her death, I knew I must do everything I could to assist you.”
“Thank you, lady,” said Semerket, prying his tongue loose.
She laid her wet cheek upon his hand, and kissed it. “I know I am only a weak woman, but you must believe me when I tell you that this amulet is very powerful. I have also sent such charms to the Medjays guarding the Great Place as well. You must keep it with you always.”
Semerket nodded.
“May the gods bless and keep you, Semerket. Know that if you need anything, you are to come to me at once.”
He nodded again.
She rose from the chair then, saying that she must not be late for her choir practice at Sekhmet’s Temple. Once again she draped the shroud around herself. The men all bowed low again as she and her ladies silently withdrew.
“Hmmmph. Females and their magic!” said Toh after the women had gone. He gestured wanly, wearied by the sudden appearance of the queen. “I am tired,” he said, “and the sand is chafing my eyelids. You may leave me now as well.” The vizier’s voice took on a bemused tone and he regarded Semerket with something akin to mischief. “I really must bring you to see Ramses. It would do him good, hearing the truth from you.”
Outside the justice building, where the spiraling sands were intensifying to a furious crescendo, Nenry and Semerket took shelter behind an alabaster sphinx of the great god Ramses II, a distant ancestor of the present pharaoh. He yelled to Semerket through his shawl, “You play a dangerous game, brother—tweaking Toh like that about his age!”
“I play no games,” Semerket shouted back. “I only use the least time necessary to achieve an end.” Semerket suddenly grasped his brother’s arm in the howling winds, and Nenry felt its strength. Even in the swirli
ng sands, Nenry saw his brother’s black eyes glittering. “Can I count on you, Nenry?”
Nenry looked at him unwillingly but at last said, “I know I am a coward and a fool, of no use to anyone—for my wife tells me this—but you are my brother. Yes, you can count on me. For what it’s worth.”
Semerket nodded. “I’ll send word when I can,” he said. Then in the churning sands, Nenry thought he saw a flash of his brother’s teeth. “Tell your wife she can come out of her room now.”
Nenry was suddenly alone. He saw only his brother’s shrouded form disappearing into the waiting vortex of sand.
THE SERVANTS OF THE PLACE OF TRUTH
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” THE BOY HAD OPENED the large wooden door with a sullen grunt. He used a finger to dislodge a seed caught between his molars, then casually wiped his hand on his filthy loincloth. He stared at Semerket, or rather at the jar of strong beer he held.
It was midday. The air was heavy with fine sand left over from the storms, and summer-like heat baked the landscape, trapped by the lingering haze. Semerket had deliberately chosen noontime to visit the House of Purification, knowing the priests and their servants would be taking their rest. But he also knew that this was the time when the smell in the house would be at its sharpest.
“Does Metufer the Ripper Up still live?” he asked.
“He’s old, and his hands shake, but, yes, he’s still the Ripper Up.”
Semerket held the beer up to the boy. “Take me to him.”
Eagerly the boy seized the jar. He tore off the soft clay seal and smelled the brew. “Ah! Fresh, too. Not like the piss they normally bring us.” A suspicious look shadowed his face. “But you bring no one to be purified. What is it you want with Metufer anyway?”
“I’m his friend. Semerket is my name.”
The boy snorted. “A friend who doesn’t know if he’s alive or dead. Maybe you bring him trouble.”
“If you don’t want the beer…” Semerket shrugged and reached out to take the jar. The boy quickly stepped back, just out of Semerket’s reach.
“I’ll take you to him. I’ll take you,” he said in a wheedling tone. “We don’t get many visitors, is all. I’d be beaten if I brought someone Metufer didn’t want to see.”
The boy opened the door a fraction wider. Semerket took a last breath of fresh air and crossed the threshold into the dim interior of the House of Purification. The boy closed the door.
Slowly Semerket’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. He was in the entry hall where Osiris’s shrouded limestone form loomed, blackened with generations of oily incense. The god was still garlanded from the festival, though the flowers were limp. An equally filthy Anubis stood to Osiris’s right. Windows set near the roof admitted the hall’s only light. Beneath his sandals Semerket felt the soft crunch of natron, the fine granular soda quarried in the desert.
“Wait here,” the boy said. “I’ll fetch the Ripper Up.” Semerket realized he had not taken a breath since he entered the house. Steeling himself, he exhaled. Even before his nose drew in its next breath, he could smell the cloying spices. Heavy resinous myrrh clashed with the effluvia of sweet floral attars. Juniper resin, salts, and above all the salty smell of natron conspired to make his gorge rise. But it was the intense underlying odor of rotting meat that made him gag—a pervasive stink the perfumes failed to mask.
Semerket fumbled in his sash for the bag of cedar chips he’d brought and inhaled deeply of the aromatic wood. Though he could still smell the rot, it was fainter now.
With knowing steps he made his way through the entry hall, cedar bag held resolutely to his nose, finding his way through the gloom to the rear of the compound. A wooden shutter was propped slightly ajar, noon sun streaking through its slats. He pushed it farther open and stared, blinking, into the gauzy light of the yard.
The sheds were to the left of the yard, as he remembered them, placed tightly next to one another, each monotonously alike. Built to the fringes of the desert, with layers of tight shelving, every level was covered in mounds of yellow natron.
At the far end of the yard, Semerket saw furtive movements at the desert’s red edge—pariah dogs nervously worrying the rim of the estate. The dogs eyed the sheds avidly, ears pricked in their direction. The boldest of them, his scrawny beige flanks a moving carpet of ticks and fleas, crept toward the farthest shed. The sentry boys had withdrawn to sleep through the hottest part of the day. Only one youngster was on guard at that hour, and he ran forward to fling stones and yell at the curs.
The lead male dog stood his ground, head down and snarling. When struck by a piece of broken pottery, the dog ran at the boy, barking ferociously. The young sentry instantly turned and fled, screaming for the other boys to help him.
Seeing the sheds temporarily unguarded, the dog immediately seized his chance and ran to the nearest one. He pawed furiously at a mound of natron, the dust flying up in yellow clouds between its legs. In seconds, his quarry was exposed—a thin, shriveled, human arm.
Seizing it by the wrist, the dog yanked. The rest of the body soon emerged from the yellow dust, a woman in the last stages of her purification. Her hair was bleached yellow by the natron, her body a thing of leather, taut, dry, and stringy.
With a sharp crack the dog snapped the arm off at the elbow. Two ragged bones and a hand with blackened nails were his reward. The pariah dog ran as fast as he could back into the desert, growling fiercely at the other hounds who now hurled themselves at him, tearing at the arm for a morsel of the desiccated flesh.
Semerket saw other sentry boys emerge from the house to bury the woman once again under the heaps of natron. The woman’s relations, if she had any, would never know she lacked an arm, for the embalmers in the House of Purification would supply her with one of clay, or perhaps a palm frond whittled to the correct shape. Under her tight wrappings no one would be able to detect the forgery.
Semerket returned to the reception hall to wait for Metufer on a rickety bench. The heat, together with the nauseating smells, combined to form a kind of narcotic vapor. As he waited for the Ripper Up to appear, his eyelids began to close against his will. Soon he was oblivious to the omnipresent droning buzz of black flies that swam lazily around him.
A distant laugh that erupted into a wracking cough exploded in Semerket’s head. “By Anubis’s shiny red pizzle, it’s Semerket! After all these years!” The dry hacking filled the gloomy hallway. Semerket awoke, almost choking as he swallowed his wandering ka once again into his body. His eyes opened calmly, and he beheld his old friend and former mentor, Metufer.
“But here you are,” the old man coughed out, “snoring away in my house, when I expected you to be up and amazed that I am still alive!” Metufer was grotesquely obese. Though it had been ten years since they had last seen one another, Semerket was surprised to find the Ripper Up so little changed. His hands did indeed shake a bit and his voice seemed a trifle querulous, but Semerket marveled that not one line or wrinkle creased his face.
“Metufer.” Semerket clasped his arms as far as they could reach around his friend. “You look fit.”
The old priest threw back his head and laughed, which again induced a fit of savage coughing. “Never… better… in my… life,” the old man managed to gasp between breaths.
As long as Semerket had known him, Metufer always had the cough; he claimed that natron irritated his lungs. But if the cough had robbed him of clear speech, it had somehow enhanced his powers of intellect. Metufer in fact was regarded as something of an oracle in the House of Purification, both for his intelligence as well as his skill with the basalt dagger. It had been the reason he was appointed the Ripper Up.
Something of the oracular seized Metufer at that moment. As he regarded Semerket, he ceased laughing. “Something troubles you,” he remarked, his mouth drawn down. “But if I remember correctly, that’s nothing new. You were always a surly youth.”
“Trouble does bring me here, Metufer,” Semerket answered. “A priestess is d
ead. If it is murder, I am to find her killer.”
“So once again you are the clerk… of…” The old man clutched his wide stomach and bent double to retrieve his breath.
“Investigations and Secrets,” Semerket finished for him. “Vizier Toh appointed me.” He lifted his mantle and revealed the badge inscribed with the vizier’s insignia. It hung about his neck on the long chain of jasper beads. “I must first determine if the priestess’s death was accidental,” he said. “Her body was found in the Nile. She might have drowned. A crocodile might have made the wounds, or perhaps they were made after her death; I don’t know. I only know that you, Metufer, are able to hear the dead speak long after their lips have ceased to move.”
“Your timing is fortuitous,” Metufer said. “Hetephras’s body has been here in the natron baths, as the tradition prescribes. I was just about to open her up when you came along. Come and help me, then, as you did in the old days.”
The room to which he followed Metufer was the largest in the compound. Like all the others, it nestled in gloomy, torch-lit twilight. A large pool, filled with Nile water stained yellow with natron, took up most of the southern corner of the chamber. Here Semerket could pocket his bag of cedar chips once again, for the smell of rotting meat had been replaced by the harsh medicinal smells of juniper resin and bay.
Beyond the pool, in neat rows, were large stone tables upon which lay bodies in various stages of purification. Boys, wakened from their noon naps, began again to sweep the floor, sluicing it down with jugs of water. This was a necessary chore, for drains on the altar tables carried a constant stream of fluids from the dead. Other youngsters carried baskets of natron that they scattered about on the floor, which helped to absorb the runoff from the tables.
Metufer went to a table that was free and from there directed a man to fetch the body of Hetephras from the pool. Seizing a pole with a large bronze hook at its end, the man began to poke through the cloudy water. One by one he dredged bodies to the surface, hooking them beneath the chin, bringing them into the dim light to be identified. Semerket watched closely, peering with his black eyes.
