Year of the Hyenas

by Brad Geagley

  “Did you want something?” the young priest in the tomb-makers’ school asked.

  Semerket shook his head and hurried away. But at the temple gate he stopped again, hearing the familiar voice of the scribe Neferhotep.

  Semerket could tell from the scribe’s tone that his conversation was acrimonious, though the persons he spoke to were well hidden behind the temple wall. Treading slowly in the deep shadows, keeping to the taller tufts of brown grass, Semerket approached a large boulder and hid behind it. From there his view was unobstructed.

  Astonishingly, Neferhotep was speaking to a trio of beggars. Their leader was brown and shaggy, and, as Semerket peered closer, he could see that the man was shorn of his nose and ears—sure signs that he had once been punished for some terrible offense. Even at a distance Semerket caught the beggars’ sour, unwashed scent.

  He kept to the shadows. Straining to hear, only the sibilant sound of half a word came to him: “…meses,” Neferhotep said. Creeping closer, hoping to hear more, he was disappointed to find that the scribe and his unlikely companions had reached a satisfactory end to their discussion. Smiles were shared all around the motley group. At that point Neferhotep brought out a large sack from a niche in the temple wall. Whatever its contents, they were weighty, for the scribe staggered as he handed the sack over to the beggars.

  Noseless peered inside, staring raptly, and a slow smile spread across his toothless maw. He nodded to Neferhotep and wrapped a cord tightly about the neck of the sack. A final word of farewell and Neferhotep departed quickly for the cliffs above the village. He was no more than a few feet away from where Semerket hid, but the scribe stared only at the ground as he passed and remained oblivious to Semerket’s presence.

  The beggars still huddled together at the temple wall, talking in low voices. Once, years before, Semerket had been a familiar figure in the murky world of the Beggar King of Thebes, doing him a service in the course of an investigation. In return he had been taught the secret signal that gained him protection in the king’s realm.

  The beggars jumped apart as he approached, and stood as a human wall in front of the sack. Though Semerket made the secret sign to them with his fingers, their eyes remained hard and wary and they gave no sign in return.

  “A copper piece, my lord?” Noseless implored, thrusting out a monkeylike hand to grab at Semerket’s cloak. “Amun’s blessings upon you for a bit of silver…?”

  “Alms! Alms!” cried the other two beggars in unison.

  Semerket fished out a copper from his belt and tossed it to Noseless. “I’ve not seen you here before,” he said. “How did you get past the Medjays?”

  “Do not beat me, my lord!” Noseless whined shrilly. “We’re only poor beggars looking for a copper, a bit to eat.”

  “What business do you have with the chief scribe?”

  At this the man’s face became sly. “I might ask you, my lord, what business is it of yours?”

  “I am the new foreman here—tell me at once.”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but you’re not the foreman. You’re that one who labors for the vizier. We’ve heard of you…”

  The other two beggars began to circle behind him. Semerket pressed himself against the wall of the temple to prevent being attacked from behind. In the fading rays of the sun he saw knives suddenly glinting in the beggars’ brown hands. They lunged at him then and he jumped to the side, hearing their blades scrape against the temple wall where he had stood. They mumbled curses beneath their breath at having missed him.

  At a signal to one another they separated, one going to either side of him. Noseless, Semerket noticed, remained steadfastly protecting the sack.

  The other two beggars were advancing on him from the left and right, to force him away from the wall and make his back vulnerable. He saw the beggar on his left carefully aim his knife to throw it. Semerket was on the verge of yelling for help when he saw a light streak of fur shoot past him. It was Sukis. The beggars stared at her, briefly entranced at seeing a cat so close by. Only nobles or temple acolytes possessed cats. In that moment, Semerket made his move and fled.

  He was lucky to encounter a horde of children rounding the corner of the temple. The priest had dismissed his class for the day, and his students were babbling in high childish voices to one another. They stopped abruptly, mouths agape, seeing Semerket. As he sprinted into their midst, the children shied from him, but the beggars did not dare follow.

  At a sign from Noseless the trio melted away into the shadows of the cliffs. The last Semerket saw of them, they were headed down the northern trail that would take them over the Gate of Heaven, and from there to the Nile.

  Though most of the class had run away, a few children still lingered, staring at him. “Tell me,” he said to a boy, “did you see Neferhotep just now?”

  The boy’s older sister stepped forward to punch her brother’s shoulder. “Don’t tell him anything!” she said. She was a stringy thing, with the same buckteeth as her brother and the same precocious look. The boy hit her back, but it was a ceremonial jab, nothing that would bring real pain. He continued to stare at Semerket, more from curiosity than fear, his obsidian eyes as black as those of the man he faced.

  “A copper piece says you’ll tell me,” Semerket said, bringing out a piece of gleaming metal from his belt.

  “Tell him!” said the boy’s sister immediately.

  “He’s in the cemetery,” said the boy. Eagerly he took the copper from Semerket. As he hurried away, Semerket heard the ensuing argument between the siblings, the boy’s sister claiming half the prize.

  Semerket trod the short, steep distance to the village cemetery and entered through its bronze gates. He had every intention of confronting Neferhotep about the beggars—who were not beggars at all, or else they would have known the secret sign—but as he walked through the deserted streets of the graveyard, there was no one to confront.

  Each tomb faced the east, and in their courtyards were sycamores and flowering shrubs, gardens made exclusively for the enjoyment of the dead. Statues of the deceased inhabitants faced the sun from far niches at the ends of their respective courtyards, while small pyramids of brick crowned the vaults at the rear.

  There was no sign of Neferhotep, and Semerket was beginning to doubt the schoolboy’s veracity. But at that moment echoing voices came to him, carried on the winds that blew from the north. Stifling a sense of foreboding, Semerket followed the flow of words to a tomb near the center of the necropolis.

  He passed through miniature pylons and into the courtyard. An old acacia tree, stunted from lack of water, grew in the center of the garden, while ivy crept around its base like a spider’s web. Semerket gave a start when he saw the statue within the family niche. Hetephras herself stared back at him. The life-sized image had been freshly painted and the priestess smiled benignly, clad in her blue wig of vulture wings and linen sheath. To the side of the vault was another statue, that of Djutmose, her long-dead husband.

  Suddenly Neferhotep’s querulous voice echoed from a well in the center of the verandah. Semerket crept forward to peer into the hole. A steep stairway within, almost a ladder, led into a faraway crypt illuminated by distant wavering torchlight. He recognized the second voice as Foreman Paneb’s. Straining to hear, Semerket bent farther into the shaft to listen.

  “When will you make an end of this?” Neferhotep was saying. “You’ve done no work in Pharaoh’s tomb for weeks. Now I hear you’ve put the rest of the team to work in Hetephras’s tomb.”

  “We owe this to her, Nef. She shouldn’t have died.”

  “Don’t preach to me what I have said to you all along.”

  “Her tomb will be the finest in the cemetery. Maybe then, gods willing, she can forgive us.”

  “Gods! I’m sick of gods. A man has to look out for himself—”

  Neferhotep’s voice suddenly broke off in surprise. When he spoke next, the scribe’s voice could barely contain his anger. “All the devils of S
et! What are those?”

  “What…?”

  “Over there—those pillars!” There was a sharp gasp. “Sweet Osiris, they’re the ones from Pharaoh’s tomb! You’ve stolen them—cut them out and brought them here! I can’t believe it! Have you gone completely insane?”

  “No one will notice, Nef.”

  “One investigation is not enough for you, now you want another?” Semerket heard the sound of pacing, and the light in the tomb wavered.

  “Nef—”

  Neferhotep’s voice was a nagging irritant. “Well, I won’t help you this time if you get in trouble. You’ve really lost all reason. And for what? Because of some simple-minded old woman—”

  Paneb exploded in anguish. There was an aborted cry from Neferhotep and then sounds of choking came up the well-shaft. From experience Semerket could well imagine Paneb’s hands around Neferhotep’s throat, crushing the life out of the scribe.

  Semerket was about to climb down the shaft to intervene, much against his will, when he heard Neferhotep abruptly sucking air into his lungs, gasping and coughing.

  “Get out, Nef.” Paneb panted, and his voice was low and angry. “Don’t come down here again.”

  Neferhotep was sputtering. “You’ll be sorry! I won’t forget this!”

  “I’m sorry for everything. Sorry for believing you when I did.”

  Neferhotep was rapidly climbing the well shaft. Semerket ran silently to hide behind the statue of Hetephras before the scribe emerged into the dying light of the courtyard, staggering. Neferhotep turned and screamed into the direction of the well, “And stay away from my wife! I’ll bring you up on charges of adultery, both of you— see if I don’t! I won’t lift a finger when they stone you!”

  The scribe lurched through the pylons and out of the necropolis. After a moment Semerket crept from his hiding place to the well shaft. The noises of construction resumed from within the tomb. Then, to Semerket’s surprise, the sounds of sawing and hammering became mixed with Paneb’s sobs.

  THE WEEKS PASSED and gray clouds gusted over the desert, bringing to Egypt the scent of unaccustomed rain. Within the cemetery the new chamber that Paneb had created in Hetephras’s tomb was finished, its curved ceiling supported by the four ornate columns purloined from Pharaoh’s tomb. Satisfied that a sturdy tomb awaited his aunt’s body, Paneb walked slowly through the burial chamber, holding a torch close to the walls to inspect every detail.

  Now, he hoped, his duty to his aunt was discharged and life could resume its normal thrust. He and his team would go back to work in Pharaoh’s tomb, and all would be well. But the sudden stab in his heart reminded him that Hetephras’s terrible death had robbed the village of any peace it once had—of any it could have again.

  In the flickering torchlight he instinctively reached for the jar of wine beside him and lifted it to his lips. A thick glob of bitter dregs filled his mouth. Gagging, he spat the mess back into the jar.

  “Rami!” he called out automatically. “Bring more wine from the village!”

  There was no reply, and Paneb dimly remembered that he had sent the lad home hours before. Paneb still had a long night ahead in the tomb, intending to apply fresh color to his uncle Djutmose’s coffin and to the smaller coffin that was beside it, both of which had dulled over the years. He did not sleep well in his own house any longer, and actually preferred the comfort of his aunt and uncle’s tomb during the long nights.

  Well, he thought, wine would comfort him still further. Resolutely, he climbed the steep stairway up the shaft and went through the tomb’s courtyard, past its ancient acacia tree, and out the cemetery gates. In his haste he did not notice he was being observed.

  Semerket peered at the departing figure from behind the wall of an adjoining tomb. He intended to search Hetephras’s vault; Paneb’s refusal to be questioned—or even to emerge from his aunt’s tomb for days at a time—made Semerket itch with suspicion. Once the foreman was out of sight, he quickly went through the pylons and into the tomb. Though he carried an unlighted torch for himself, he was surprised to see that Paneb had left a torch still burning in the crypt below.

  “Hello… ?” he called into the shaft. Perhaps someone was there.

  When no one answered, he quickly eased himself into the shaft and climbed down its stairway. A few steps and he found himself in the new room carved by Paneb and his team. Its walls were painted a vivid ochre, lending the light its special golden hue. As Semerket’s dazzled eyes adjusted to the torchlight, the art on the walls revealed itself to him. He laid down his torch and flint and simply gazed.

  Though all her life Hetephras had lived in a desert, the tomb-makers had ensured that her afterlife was verdant with painted sycamores and acacias, palm trees laden with dates, and swirling grape vines that grew up the lintels. Semerket felt himself transported into another world—which, he knew, was the exact purpose of the tomb.

  That was how Paneb found Semerket—staring raptly at the paintings. The foreman’s deep voice made him jump. “Well, now,” Paneb said. He loomed large in the doorway, preventing any escape, and his lips were thin with suspicion. “People who go where they’re not wanted usually end up badly.” He took a step forward.

  Semerket forced himself to smile. “Yes,” he said, “it seems all my life I’ve gone into places I shouldn’t—a hazard of my profession, I suppose.”

  “I don’t much care for your ‘profession,’ ” Paneb said. He slowly put the jar of wine down on the tiles, and his hands curled into fists.

  “I apologize,” said Semerket hastily. “The moment I realized that you weren’t here, I should have left. It’s just…” His words trailed off.

  Paneb cocked his head.

  Semerket indicated the tomb with a gesture. “It’s just so beautiful.” His tongue froze in his head again. He resorted to ineffective gestures to convey how impressed he was.

  When Paneb spoke, he slurred his words. “Do you think she’d be pleased?”

  Semerket nodded. The foreman, he realized, was drunk.

  Paneb’s expression softened a bit. He poured a bowl of wine and held it out for Semerket.

  Semerket shook his head ruefully. “I mean no offense, but I can’t drink it.”

  “You have a problem with wine? So did I, once.”

  “How did you deal with it?”

  “I decided that everyone else had the problem—and that I was fine.”

  Semerket laughed out loud, caught by surprise. He was joined by Paneb’s low rumbling chortle. Then they both stopped, surprised, and regarded one another with renewed suspicion.

  “Was it over a woman?” Paneb asked, drinking. “It usually is.”

  “Yes,” Semerket answered reluctantly. “My wife.”

  “What happened? Did she die?”

  “No. She left me because I couldn’t father the children she wanted.”

  Paneb looked at him sympathetically. “I began to drink when my wife left me, too. I was bedding too many other women, she said. I warned her at the time we broke the jar together, though, when you marry a snake you can’t expect it to fly.”

  “At least not for very long,” Semerket answered.

  This time it was Paneb who laughed out loud. He took another drink of the wine and threw his arm about Semerket’s shoulders. “Since you’re so appreciative of our work here, let me show you something else you might like.”

  Paneb dragged Semerket to the far wall. A host of small figures were painted in several rows across the surface, each only a few inches high.

  “Look closely,” Paneb commanded.

  Staring at the tiny people, Semerket gave a start when he realized that they were actually cunning portraits of the villagers themselves. In the wall’s corner, the loveliest figure of all, a woman plucked at her harp.

  “Why, it’s Hunro!” Semerket said, impressed. “Exactly like her.”

  “Well,” slurred Paneb with a dirty wink, “not like we men know her, eh? We have a legend around here, says a mosqui
to bit Hunro on her private parts—and she developed a permanent itch for it.” His raunchy laugh boomed drunkenly in the chamber, but the foreman stopped when he saw Semerket’s sober expression. “What’s this? Sulks?”

  “She’s a married woman, Paneb.”

  The foreman poured himself more wine. “Don’t tell me you haven’t lain with her yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re the only man around here who hasn’t!” He peered closer at Semerket, swaying slightly. “Say—you really don’t care for this sort of talk, do you?”

  “I thought we could speak of who you thought might have killed your aunt. I’ve asked everyone else in the village for their opinion, but not yours.”

  Paneb stared at him.

  “It was a foreigner,” he said thickly, after a moment, trying to focus his eyes, “or a vagabond.”

  “Paneb—”

  “A foreigner or a vagabond!” The foreman stood over Semerket, his wide mouth clenched in rage. Semerket knew Paneb was mere moments away from either attacking him again or passing out. But the foreman’s expression abruptly changed with a new thought, and he leaned eagerly toward Semerket. “You know, if you like the work in here, let me show you some real craftsmanship!”

  Paneb pulled Semerket up the well, out of the cemetery, and into the village, dragging him to his house. The first thing Paneb did was to pour himself more wine from a jar he kept in his larder. Then, putting a finger to his lips and winking, he beckoned Semerket to his sleeping area. Digging into a chest, he brought out an alabaster canopic jar from beneath some skins.

  “Look at this!” Paneb handed the object reverently to Semerket, who took it in his hands. His host staggered about looking for a candle, for by now the sun was behind the mountain and the house was dark. He lit the wick inexpertly, his thick fingers clumsy with the flint. The fire caught and the candle flared.