by Gary Corby
“I’d rather not know,” I muttered. But my paying client had urged me, and I saw that our witness had become friendly under Herodotus’s relentless interest. I took off my sandals and climbed into the man-shaped box.
It was surprisingly comfortable, except for my arms.
“Fold your arms over your chest,” Tutu said. “Like this.”
He demonstrated. I copied his pose.
“It’s a bit too roomy,” I said, getting into the spirit of the thing. “Do you have something in a smaller size?”
The embalmer appraised me in the sarcophagus with a knowing eye. “We will need the extra room after your body has been wrapped,” he said. “Now you will object that the chartreuse of the inner case isn’t suitable for a man of action such as yourself, and I must say I would agree. For you I might suggest something in crimson. Or perhaps a sky blue. We have an excellent portrait painter who will place your visage on the face of the casket. Rest assured, too, that the inside will be perfectly smooth. No one wants to spend eternity looking at some carpenter’s sloppy woodwork.”
“I see that you take everything into consideration,” I said.
“We are professionals. My family have been embalmers to the highest in the land for countless generations, including Pharaohs, I am proud to say.”
“I’m sure you have many happy customers,” I said.
“Most of them tend to be dead.”
“Oh, good point.”
He helped me out of the casket, then led me by the arm. “Now do please come over here and relax while I demonstrate how we’ll remove your organs.” Tutu held up an iron probe that looked perfectly innocent. “This is what we use to remove your brain. It goes through your nostril into your skull, then I twist like so—”
I stepped back so he wouldn’t demonstrate on me. The embalmer rotated the tool rapidly in the air. “The trick is to catch the brain stem,” he said knowingly. “Then the whole organ comes out in a long stream. It goes straight into one of these jars, to which we add preservative.”
Herodotus was making rapid notes. “Is that normal?” he asked.
“Quite so. The brain, liver, kidneys, intestines . . . all have to be removed, else they rot and the earthly remains become a little . . . er . . . squishy.”
I felt this was more information than we or any other sane people needed, but Herodotus was scribbling furiously, Maxyates leant forward in concentration, and even Diotima was following closely.
“Is that important?” Diotima asked.
“Of course it is. The ka and ba must have their house in good shape for eternity.”
“Ka and ba?” Diotima frowned.
“The life force and the eternal spirit. The patient’s heart must remain in place, of course.”
“Why?” Herodotus asked.
“I should have thought it was obvious. It’s so that on the deceased’s journey to the Afterlife, his heart can be weighed against the Feather of Truth. If the heart weighs less than the feather, then he passes on to eternal life in the Field of Reeds. But if his heart weighs more than the feather, then the deceased goes to the Devourer of Souls.”
If all it took was a heart heavier than a feather, then the Devourer must eat well.
Tutu added primly, “Of course, in the case of a Pharaoh there can be no doubt that his heart will be pure.”
“Of course,” I agreed, while reflecting that the most recent Pharaoh had cut the throats of innocent children.
Tutu put down his hideous brain-remover tool.
“May I offer you refreshment?” Tutu spoke directly to Herodotus.
“We would be pleased.”
Tutu led us to comfortable seats. These were not dining couches, but upright chairs. It was an odd custom of the Egyptians that they expected to eat while sitting up. I thought this must be bad for the digestion, for surely when upright the food must fall through you faster. Perhaps that was why Egyptians always seemed so argumentative.
A girl servant appeared with trays of barley bread, dates and a meat that she said was duck. Diotima immediately reached for the dates. She loved anything sweet. I thought the duck excellent, the best meal I’d had in Egypt.
Herodotus and Tutu set to talking about different ways of burying people. It was an odd subject for any meal, but they spoke with enthusiasm and seemed charmed with each other’s company.
A man appeared with cups of beer. I asked if they had any wine. They didn’t.
The embalmer overheard my quiet request. “I’m a traditionalist, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” he said. “The ways of my forefathers were good enough for them, and they’re good enough for me. This wine you speak of is an import from your own lands. Here in Egypt, real men drink beer.”
“You speak knowledgeably about the funeral customs of the Pharaohs,” Herodotus prompted. I could tell he was displeased that the subject had changed.
“I have dedicated my life to the proper treatment of the dead. I should hope to have some small expertise.”
“Have you really been embalmers to the Pharaohs?” Diotima asked.
“I may say without undue pride that for countless generations we have served Pharaoh in this most delicate of personal needs.”
“Then it was you who buried Psamtik, the last native Pharaoh?” Herodotus said.
“My father was the embalmer, in fact.” Tutu gave a moue of distaste. “I was only young, but I remember it well. The whole affair was most unsatisfactory in every way.”
“Oh?”
“It was a rush job, I’m afraid. The Persians turned up with Pharaoh’s body and gave us three months to embalm it. Three months! In the days of our forebears it would have been three years.”
“Unfortunate,” I commiserated.
“You know Egypt has fallen on hard times when not even a Pharaoh can get a decent funeral.”
Diotima, Herodotus and I went tsk-tsk in unison.
“In the old days, the nobility of Egypt came to our house for all their embalming needs. I am horrified to say I can’t remember the last time a client of good birth crossed our threshold.”
“Business is bad?” I asked.
“Business is booming, but the clientele isn’t what it used to be. These days we see a lot of newly rich. Members of the public service, mostly.”
“Oh dear.” I looked about rapidly, for fear some of them might be present.
“You may well say so,” Tutu said. “In the old days, gentlefolk of distinction would gather here in our lounge, to relax with fine food and cold beer and share their plans for eternity in an atmosphere of refinement and culture. Try doing that with these new rich. They walk in and expect to be served quickly.” Tutu shuddered in horror. “They demand a mausoleum bigger than their neighbor’s, then complain about anything that costs more than a coffin of paper mâché. It would never have been allowed back in the days of our forebears. How I yearn for those past times. On my days of rest, I take my personal chariot into the desert, to Saqqara, I look upon the pyramids and I weep at the thought of how we have fallen from glory. Weep, I tell you.”
“So am I right in thinking you never spoke with the last Pharaoh?” Herodotus pressed on the point he cared about. “You were young then, as you said, and when he arrived at your house he was dead.”
“It would be remarkable if he were not. Psamtik came to us in two parts, the body on a bier, his head in a bag.”
“That does seem conclusive. Then Psamtik was decapitated,” Herodotus said. “What did the Pharaoh do to deserve such treatment?”
“One doesn’t like to enquire,” Tutu said. “Not when the people bringing him are the executioners.”
“Understandable.”
“A most undignified way for a Pharaoh to die,” Tutu said. “But I must say it made it so much easier to remove his brain.”
Herodotus said, �
�I imagine the Persians didn’t bring any grave goods with them.”
I suddenly saw what Herodotus was driving at. My hopes lifted.
“None,” Tutu said. “These Persians are barbaric.”
My hopes fell again. This was depressing news.
Herodotus shrugged and said, “Oh well, I’m sorry, Nicolaos. I thought perhaps the General knew where the crook and flail were and had come to retrieve them.”
“It was a good try, Herodotus,” I consoled him. “Even the best detective sometimes ends up in a dead end,” I said.
Then it occurred to me that dead end was perhaps not the best description for a funeral home.
“Thank you for your time, sir,” I said to Tutu, to cover my mistake. “Rest assured sir, that if I die I could think of no one better to embalm me.”
Tutu rose from his seat. “I assume your next visit, since I could not help you, will be to see the General himself.”
“Alas, sir, that will be impossible,” I said. “The Blind General died last night.”
“Dead?” Tutu’s face turned a shade of gray. “This is terrible news. He didn’t seem ill yesterday.” Tutu sighed. “But I suppose that’s the way with the elderly.”
“Not in this case,” Djanet said. “The General was murdered.”
Tutu staggered as if he had been struck. “May Amun-Ra preserve us! Who killed him?” Tutu demanded.
“We don’t know,” I said.
“It will be the Persians,” Tutu said, almost to himself. “It has to be. They still hate him, after all these years. A defenseless old man.” He brought himself up short. “Where is the body?” he demanded.
As far as I knew it was still at the warehouse. I said as much to Tutu.
Tutu clapped his hands. Two young men came running. They were assistants, dressed like their master in a white loin cloth. Tutu gave them instructions to collect the earthly remains of the General.
“Bring his body to my embalming table,” Tutu finished. “You must hurry. He has already been out in the heat of the day far too long. Take the cart and the fast horse. Now go. Quickly!”
The young men went.
“So the General did have an arrangement with you, for his funeral,” Herodotus said. He shot a triumphant look at Djanet. “I thought as much.”
“Not at all,” Tutu said. “The General was my country’s last link to a bygone era. You know he was descended from the nobility, don’t you? I don’t care if he didn’t have a coin to his name. The General will receive my best service. I promise you his ka and his ba will be provided for as befits a man of his noble spirit.”
“You are kind.”
“No, I am Egyptian. To you I may seem only an embalmer. I know how you foreigners look down upon my honorable profession. But I am also a true Egyptian, the son of a true Egyptian. For countless generations my family has paved the way for good Egyptian souls to reach the Field of Reeds. I will not fail in my duty to the last great Egyptian.”
“The last great Egyptian? What about Inaros?” I asked.
“Nobody in their right mind thinks Inaros is an Egyptian, let alone descended of the Pharaonic line. It is a lie we accept in order to rid ourselves of the hated Persians. Still I could wish he were of the true blood.”
“What if Inaros produced the crook and flail?” I asked.
“That would be a different matter,” Tutu said to me. “Though you are a barbarian, you surely know that the true Pharaoh is the living incarnation of Horus.”
I hadn’t known that, but I wasn’t going to give Tutu any opportunity to think less of me, so I nodded.
“Pharaoh is also the son of Amun-Ra, as all men know,” Tutu continued. “It is inconceivable that Amun-Ra and Horus would allow the crook and flail to fall into the hands of an imposter. Thus, if Inaros were to exhibit the insignia, it could only mean that the Gods had selected Inaros to represent them on earth.” The embalmer shrugged. “It would not be the first time that a dynasty has changed.”
Well, that was one way of looking at it.
“You would be happy, Tutu, if this were to pass?” Djanet asked.
“Anything would be better than what we have now,” he said fervently. “I cannot credit that a Persian king is the living Horus. The insult to Egypt is great.”
“Know, then, that we sought the advice of the General to present the crook and flail to Inaros,” Djanet said. “He told us there was someone who might be able to help us, that he would make enquiries. That was yesterday. Today, he is dead. In between, the only person he visited was you, Tutu.”
“The General agreed to assist you?” Tutu asked.
“He did. I fear that might be why he was killed.”
“The General was such a man as to recognize the chosen of Horus,” Tutu muttered, half to himself. He added politely, “May I ask you to refresh yourselves while I think upon this matter?” He clapped his hands. More food was brought.
We ate in silence, while Tutu considered whether he would help us.
There was a knock upon the front door. A man entered. He went straight to Tutu and handed him a piece of papyrus, then bowed and exited the way he came. Tutu read the letter with raised eyebrows.
Tutu turned to me. “You said your name is Nicolaos?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus?”
“Yes.” How did he know my father’s name?
“I have just received a message about you.”
Uh oh.
Tutu held up the papyrus. “This is an official notice from the Public Service. It warns that you are a dangerous seditionist who works against Egypt. Anyone who gives you aid will never again receive business from the government.”
I groaned. The bureaucrats had stopped me at the last moment.
Tutu tore the official notice into little pieces.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
Into the otherwise stunned silence, Maxyates said, “You’re ignoring a government directive?”
“I certainly am. I don’t know who you people really are, I’m not sure I believe you work for Inaros, but the Public Service hates you, and that’s good enough for me.”
“But they’re your biggest customers!”
“Did I not already explain what boors they are? How lacking in nobility? Do you not know the bureaucrats work for the Persian against the Egyptian?”
“We want to know what the General said to you,” I told the embalmer. “Most of all, we want to know where to find the crook and flail. The General said he didn’t know where they are.”
The youths returned. They carried the Blind General between them. Tutu watched them pass by and disappear through the doorway to the embalming room. He suppressed a sob. Then he said, “Bide a moment.” He spoke in such a commanding voice that we all stood still while Tutu paced back and forth with his head in his hands. He walked over to a corner where he stood before a statue of the jackal-headed god Horus. Then the embalmer stepped sideways to a statue of Amun-Ra, where he remained for some time with his hands clasped like a supplicant. Herodotus, Diotima, Djanet, Max and I watched this with some astonishment, and sidelong glances at each other.
Tutu returned to us.
“I find that to act honorably to one man, I must break a vow to another.”
We waited.
“You wanted to know what my friend the General came here to say.”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t come to say anything. He came here to ask me something. The General told you the truth when he said he did not know where the crook and flail were. He wanted to know if I could tell him.”
“I suppose you don’t know either,” Herodotus said.
“On the contrary,” Tutu said calmly.
“What!”
“The crook and flail are in Psamti
k’s sarcophagus.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I put them there.”
The Mummy’s Curse
“It was the perfect hiding place,” Tutu said. “After the Persians delivered Psamtik’s body, my family got to work very quickly. Fortunately, we had been the embalmers for Psamtik’s father, the Pharaoh before him, who had died not two years before. There are special rituals that attend only to the burial of a Pharaoh, you see.”
“So it was entirely predictable that the Persians would come to you,” Herodotus said.
Tutu nodded. “We were the natural choice. Perhaps the only choice. What other family could embalm a Pharaoh with the speed the Persians demanded? We were the only House with everything still set up from the previous job.”
“Go on.”
“A few nights later, there was a knock on the door. My father opened it personally to reveal a blind man, with a rag wrapped about his eyes, led by a child.”
“The Blind General.”
“He was a young man then, and I was younger still. Yes, we have known each other that long.” Tutu wiped away a tear. “He knew we had Psamtik. The General carried a parcel, wrapped in rags. It looked like any rubbish that a beggar might carry, but within were the crook and flail of Egypt. He said that he had been in the palace where Psamtik had been kept prisoner. The General had taken the crook and flail when Psamtik was removed to be executed. He knew that sooner or later the Persians would notice the insignia gone, and then they would search him. He wanted my father to hide the insignia.”
“Which your father did,” Herodotus said.
“Not quite. The General left before my father could decide what to do with them. The General didn’t want to know where the crook and flail went, so he could never be forced to reveal the location.”
Djanet nodded. “That was sensible.”
“Then my father said these words to me. You must understand that he was a very wise man. He said, ‘Tutu, I am old, and you are young. When the day comes that a new Pharaoh arises, I will surely rest in the Field of Reeds, but you, my son, might still be here to advise him where he might find the crook and flail. Take the insignia of the Pharaohs, and hide them where you think best, but never tell me what you have done with them, nor tell any other person, until you think the time is right.’”
