The Mammoth Book of Egyptian Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  “Your tefteftef?” Khnemes asked. “Your grandfather’s father? So we are closer to knowing the year of this man’s death. If he was a servant of your great-grandfather Rekhseth, then this man lived during the reign of Amun’s-Beloved . . . when Egypt was strong and the throne undivided, and even the lowest people prospered.”

  From a pouch at his waist, Perabsah took a twist of linen containing a chunk of spiced natron. He tore off a pinch of this, popped it into his mouth and chewed furiously, talking with his mouth full: “What was it like, do you suppose, to have lived in the golden noon of Egypt’s prosperity? I dislike our modern times, with proud Egypt torn into halves.”

  “Egypt has always been two separate nations: the realm of life and the realm of the dead,” said Khnemes. Just now the ferry came abreast of the Isle of Amunhotep, the white limestone crag just north of Thebes which marked the midpoint of the Nile’s breadth. Beyond the ferry’s prow stood the eastern bank of the Nile: the land of fertile soil and swarming cities. Astern of the ferry’s rudder lay the Nile’s western bank: the land of the dead, where the pyramids stood vigil among the cemeteries which Egyptians of grim humour have nicknamed “the plantations”. The few living people who dwelt on the Nile’s western shore were mostly funeral-workers . . . who sometimes called themselves “farmers” because of the crops which they tended.

  “You know my meaning, Nubian,” said Perabsah. “For the past three years, Egypt has been sundered north and south, and the parts squabbled over by covetous priests and false kings. There is violence in the provinces, from bands of rebels who would carve Egypt into splinters.” Perabsah shuddered, and drew his kilt more closely round his loins. “The sooner my wife and I are gone from Thebes, and we return downriver to our sweet northern home in Lower Egypt, the happier I will be.”

  “All parts of Egypt are north to me, for I am a Kushite of Nubia,” said Khnemes. “But if I remember rightly, you have told me that your forebears were from southern Egypt.”

  “Your memory speaks truth,” said Perabsah as they neared the eastern riverbank. On the quayside, several labourers ran forwards with gaff-hooks, eager to assist the arrivals and hopeful of receiving gratuities. “My grandfather’s father Rekhseth was an assistant overseer in the goldfields of Bendet, near the Red Sea. Rekhseth worked long and well, and it was he who built the proud estates which have prospered and grown under the guidance of my grandfather and my father. Ahai, and I too have done all I can to continue my family’s tradition of honour and dignity.” Perabsah bent across the ferry’s portside strake and spat a gob of natron into the Nile as he spoke. Khnemes shuddered at this vulgarity, but he knew at least that the natron had its benefits. Perabsah had wretched teeth and diseased gums, and he relied on frequent chewings of “holy-mouth” – netra, or some other spiced natron – to sweeten the stink of his breath.

  Now the ferry was brought to the quay. Khnemes assisted Qesf and the other slaves in the unshipping of the sledge and the coffin, while Perabsah barked orders and acted important.

  The eastern bank of the Nile, at its crossing near Thebes, is the place of the Redu ni-Temi: the sixteen-step staircase which serves to measure the Nile’s water-level. Just now, the Nile was at low ebb, so the ferry rode low against the riverbank and only the lowermost step of the staircase was underwater. Raising the sledge to their shoulders, Khnemes and the three slaves conveyed their burden uphill to the high redstone pylon arch of Kheft her-en-Nebset, the sentry-gate at the western entrance of Thebes.

  It is said that a man can walk across Thebes in an hour. Beneath the weight of the coffin and sledge, this seemed impossible to Khnemes. Even with three strong slaves to assist him, the sledge and its contents tallied a considerable weight.

  Perabsah led the way eastwards along the edge of the Kamur, the main canal of Thebes. The western district of Thebes holds the royal temples, and so the pathways here were cobblestoned. But the cobbles dwindled into a rude footpath as Perabsah and his attendants reached the market-district. Here the canal was filled with its usual obstructions: nude bathers, men watering their cattle, and women washing their children and laundry.

  The coffin’s progress was encumbered by a whim of the calendar. By chance or design, Perabsah had brought his wife and attendants to Thebes just in time for Opet, the festival of the Nile’s annual rebirth, lasting 24 days. Today was Arqi Paopi, the first day of the festival, and the revelries were in full cry. As Khnemes proceeded through the greasy streets of Thebes, his way was repeatedly blocked by masked celebrants, while musicians plucked their harps and rang their ankle-bells. A squadron of acrobatic girls, clad in loin-belts but otherwise naked, flung themselves into handsprings and backward walkovers directly in Perabsah’s path, whilst older women shook rattles and drums, and beckoned for alms. “You see, Khnemes,” chuckled Perabsah, “the streets are filled with starveling beggars, and rebellion is everywhere, yet the people are kept happy with drumming and acrobats.”

  Three attractive young women, with fishnets draped across their nakedness to indicate their profession, and wearing cowrie shells to symbolize their female organs, made gestures of enticement. “Lay down your burden, wanderers,” purred the comeliest of the net-maidens. “Come with us, and be refreshed.” Qesf growled beneath his corner of the sledge, and the net-wenches withdrew. But now the path was blocked by a crowd of shouting men. Mindful of his duties as Perabsah’s bodyguard, Khnemes lowered one hand from the sledge and reached for the dagger in his belt’s scabbard. But now he saw that these men were seeking employment. As part of the Opet festivities, a local priest-guild intended to stage a mock battle between the armies of Good and Evil, and strong men would be paid a day’s ration of bread and beer to act as soldiers in this counterfeit battle.

  And now, thank the gods, Perabsah turned off the main road and down a side-lane, leading into the Padmai district of Thebes. Khnemes was greatly relieved when Perabsah reached the crossroads of the Sedge and the Two Plumes, for here was the lodging-house where Perabsah’s wife Merytast and her attendants were waiting.

  “Manu! Excellent!” said Perabsah as the coffin was set down in the house’s antechamber. “Qesf, bring the mummy to my sleeping-quarters. I wish to inspect his person, so that I can deem which anointments and amulets will be suitable for his reburial. Khnemes, I shan’t need your services until tomorrow morning. You other lot, help my wife’s attendants. Merytast and I will be joining the revels this evening.”

  * * *

  “Can you read hieroglyphics?”

  The scribe had been peering at a scroll which he held open to the starlight; now he looked up in reply to this question. He wore a long kilt and was wrapped in an even longer rhetu monk-cloak, and the flickering light of the festival-torches gleamed against the top of his bald head: only the top of it, for the scribe wore his hair in a fringe all round his scalp, with his ears exposed and a clean-shaven tonsure above. He sat hunched against the glazed tiles along the threshold of the lodging-house. His Thoth-case of writing-implements was on the tiles beside him, tethered to his waist. A pastille of incense smouldered in a brass tray nearby.

  The scribe squinted into the darkness, then saw Khnemes standing over him. “Greetings, Nubian. I nearly failed to see you in the dark: your black skin mingles with the night. Yes, I can read hieroglyphics . . . and I can also read men. You are a long way from Kush. What can I do for a former bowman of the King’s troops?”

  Khnemes was impressed by this deduction, but he sensed the flow of its logic. His service in the Medchay infantry had ended two years ago, yet Khnemes still wore a wig of the anhu style favoured by the foot-soldier bowmen of the Medchay: rows of tightly-sewn echelon curls, long at both sides to cover his ears, yet tapering hindwards so that his nape was left bare. The padded anhu of brown hair protected an infantryman’s scalp from the sun. In the hot weather of Egypt, where it was difficult to keep natural hair clean and free of lice, most men shaved their heads and wore wigs of the same tight-curled style that Khnemes wore . .
. but only the archers of the Medchay regiments kept their hairpieces short at the back of the neck, so that the wigs would not catch against a longbow or a bundle of arrows. At this moment, Khnemes carried the leather sling-bag – his kha’ai – which he always wore across-shoulder as he had once carried his arrows. As for clues that Khnemes was a former infantryman . . . well, he was in civilian garb now, and at 30 years of age he was rather old for active duty.

  “So you can translate a man by his haircut?” Khnemes asked. “Yes, my skin proclaims me as a son of Nubia, and my accent tells you that I am a Kushite, and I boast that I stood eleven years’ service in the garrisons of the Medchay. But I have dwelt in Egypt long enough to learn the symbols of its professions . . . and I believe that your trade leaves you idle just now.”

  “Ehi?” the scribe’s tone was mocking. “This is the first night of the Opet festival. Unless you were blinded by one of your own arrows, archer, you see that I am a priest . . . and even a farmboy from Kush must know that the priests of Thebes are busy during Opet.”

  Khnemes pointed at the scribe’s tonsure. “Your hair is barbered in the fekhet style, worn only by priests who serve Hathor and the lesser goddesses. Opet is the festival of Amun-Re and his bride-goddess Mut: even Egyptians who favour other deities will give homage to Amun-Re while there is some chance of receiving Opet-gifts from the sun-god’s priests. But the goddess Hathor takes no part in Opet’s rituals . . . so you and all the Hathor-monks may be caught idle for the next few days.”

  “You know much about Hathor, Nubian.”

  “I should. Under her older name Athrua, she was the war-goddess of Nubia . . . before the priests of Egypt abducted her northwards, changed her name and countenance, and deemed her a goddess of Egypt.” Khnemes appraised the monk again. “You are younger than I am, but your kilt is of a length more typical for an older man . . . so you have advanced in your profession, and you are respected. These signs reveal that you are qualified for the task which I offer, and the Opet has not made your time heavy with priest-tasks.”

  The scribe-priest rose to his feet, passing one hand through the looped cord of his Thoth-case as he stood. His other hand raised the incense-tray towards his nose, and he sniffed the sharp fumes. Khnemes was slightly surprised that the scribe-priest stood nearly as tall as himself; he had seemed shorter. “You intrigue me, Nubian,” said the scribe. “I am Nask, a fekhet-priest of Hathor.”

  Khnemes made the traditional Egyptian male’s greeting, touching his hand to his chest and then extending his cupped fingers as if to offer his heart while he introduced himself: “Enuk Khnemes.”

  The priest nodded slightly but did not repeat the gesture of the heart-cup: a subtle reminder that his social rank was above that of Khnemes. “Now give us a look of those hieroglyphics.”

  From his sling-bag, Khnemes took the fragments of cartonnage. He had taken them from Perabsah’s offering-table while Perabsah was busying himself with a skinful of tamarind-wine. “These belong to my sovereign lord, who requires a scribe to decipher them,” said Khnemes. Three weeks ago, Perabsah’s longtime scribe Seshem had died of river-sweats, in the midst of the long-delayed task of reorganizing Perabsah’s family archives. Perabsah – with no assistance from Khnemes – had personally engaged a new scribe for his household in Aneb Hetchet. But Perabsah had chosen not to bring the untested scribe on this long journey upriver to Thebes. Earlier today, Perabsah had declared his intentions to find a scribe in Thebes to translate the cartonnage . . . but Khnemes knew that tomorrow’s sunrise would find Perabsah fuddled with wine, and unfit to interview journeymen scribes, so Khnemes had taken it upon himself to engage a scribe. Now he showed Nask the scraps of papyrus. “Can you read these?”

  Nask took the fragments, raising them to his face and moving nearer to the portal of the lodging-house so that he could borrow some light from its flickering lantern. “You told me, Nubian, that these were hieroglyphs.”

  “Are they not?”

  “These are not god-words. They are book-words: hieratic text. But they are fragments, not a complete text . . . and the places where red ink was used, to mark the first word of each new passage, have faded badly.” Nask squinted at the uppermost flake of papyrus, scanning its marks from right to left. “Here is something: ‘The new overseer Rekhseth is cruel to myself and to all of the mine-workers.’ ”

  “Miners?” Khnemes accepted this as proof of Nask’s ability to read the text, for it verified Perabsah’s boast: his tefteftef Rekhseth had overseen the labourers in the goldfields of Bendet. “Yes, that must refer to the gold-mine. Continue, please.”

  Nask gave the translated fragment back to Khnemes, and raised another scrap of cartonnage to his face before speaking again: “ ‘Each morning, Rekhseth passes through the sentry-posts and brings into the work-camp a birdcage containing . . .’ Hmm! This next word is obscure. It’s pronounced ‘bai’, and I think it means a brown-necked raven. That’s all it says.” Nask gave the fragment to Khnemes. “Here’s another: ‘Every night at sunset, Rekhseth goes alone into the hills beyond the mines. He sacrifices the raven to an unknown god, before returning to us and . . .’ No more there.” Nask started to read another piece of cartonnage, but now the fekhet-priest suddenly stiffened: “Gods and infidels!” cried Nask. “This speaks of murder!”

  Khnemes instinctively felt for his dagger as he stepped towards Nask. “You are certain?”

  “Indeed.” Nask raised his incense-tray again and fortified himself with another draught of its billowing smoke. His other hand thrust the cartonnage towards Khnemes while pointing a forefinger at two hieratic symbols, ligatured together one atop the other in a scrawl resembling a coiled snake. “This word is pronounced ‘nik’.”

  Khnemes was unimpressed. “Many words of Egypt’s tongue have more than one meaning. ‘Nik’ has several meanings . . . only one of which is ‘murder’.”

  “Aye, Nubian. But see you this after-mark?” To the left of the coiled snake, Nask indicated a hieratic sign resembling a triangle with three appendages. “This means ‘enemy’. The word ‘nik’ followed by the enemy-sign means ‘murder’.” Before Khnemes could examine it closely, Nask passed the papyrus fragment directly underneath his nose as if he was reading its scent. “This says that a man named Teknu was murdered at moonrise.”

  “By whose hand?” Khnemes asked the monk Nask. “And why?”

  “I can’t tell. It speaks here ‘nik-en’f ma tep Teknu’ . . . so the papyrus says that he murdered Teknu, but ‘he’ could mean any man. Each of these scraps has several lines of text, but I’m getting only the middle bits of each.” Nask turned away from Khnemes towards the light, and read aloud from several papyri: “ ‘. . . has slain our work-brother unjustly’ . . . ‘vengeance of the gods’ . . . ‘sacrifice of the raven at sunset . . .’ That’s the lot, I think.”

  “Then I thank you, priest Nask.” Khnemes reclaimed the cartonnage. “What barter do you ask for your efforts?”

  Nask appraised Khnemes carefully. “You served eleven years in the Medchay, you said? The Medchay are ill-known for never paying their debts.”

  Khnemes frowned at this familiar accusation. The bowmen of the Medchay had reaped a dark reputation for accumulating long tallies of debts at one outpost, then departing for another garrison without squaring accounts. Gazing steadily into Nask’s eyes, Khnemes murmured evenly: “Smaa-i ma’at shes ma’at. I pay my debts . . . always.” From his sling-bag, Khnemes produced a small bar of copper weighing five qed’tu, which he tossed towards the priest. Nask lunged to catch the bright ingot. His sandals clattered hollowly against the tiles beneath his feet, and he tottered uncertainly for an instant. Nask was adjusting his long monk-cloak and his tonsure as Khnemes turned and strode into the night.

  The next day was Tepi Hathyr, the second day of the Opet festivities. As the rays of dawn touched the portals of the sun-god’s temple Opet-Uret in Karnak, the priests of Amun-Re entered their sanctuary to waken the statue of their god. When the stat
ue awakened, the priests would dress their sun-god’s effigy in his sacred robes. He would then be anointed and fed, after which the priests would convey the statue of Amun-Re to his seat in the Barque of the Sun. Atop the shoulders of twoscore priests and acolytes, this sacred ship would then be borne through the streets of Thebes to the Nile’s quayside, thence towed southward upriver along the Holy Mile to the Temple of Mut, where the sun-god would claim his bride-goddess. This was a day of high sanctity and holiness for all true believers, in which the people of Thebes would devote the hours from dawn until sunset to the sacred task of becoming stinking drunk.

  When Khnemes knocked discreetly outside the upstairs sleeping-quarters of his master, the only replies from within were the sounds of Perabsah and Merytast snoring in tandem. Swiftly, Khnemes restored the borrowed fragments of cartonnage to the offering-table outside Perabsah’s bedchamber. Then he noticed something strange.

  On the surface of the table, and the floor beneath, were several tiny mounds of dark glittering powder. Khnemes touched the nearest mound, then examined his fingertips: the stuff gleamed like gemstones. It seemed valuable, but Khnemes knew his master well enough to suspect otherwise. In recent days, Perabsah’s estate had lost much of its value, and Perabsah – who had always been covetous – had lately become more wealth-thirsty than ever. If Perabsah had permitted this glittery sand to pass the night unguarded on his table, then the sparkling dust was clearly worthless. Khnemes shrugged, and transferred several pinches of the stuff to a small drawstring pouch from his kha’ai, hoping to learn its nature later.

  Downstairs, as Khnemes entered the main hall of the lodging-house, he saw the loyal slave Qesf standing vigil. Several porters and chambermaids, attendant to this lodging-house, were busied with their tasks. Beyond the main hall’s outer doors stood the antechamber. By now the sunrise was well past; through the closed outer doors, Khnemes could hear the streets of Thebes ringing loud with cries of revelry.