by Mike Ashley
As Khnemes approached, Qesf gave the traditional greeting which a slave of Egypt offers to a free citizen: he extended both arms, with his wrists crossed as if bound in invisible shackles, his palms upturned and open to show that he carried no weapons. “Meden-i, emir per,” Qesf’s deep voice rumbled. “I obey thee, steward of my master’s house.”
Khnemes greeted Qesf with the gesture of the cupped heart, even though Qesf was not a free citizen of Egypt. “Did you sleep well, friend?”
Qesf grunted. “I slept as a slave always sleeps: with one eye open. Djeb and Huti and I took it in turns to guard the house last night, emir per. Between vigils, I had a few hours’ sleep.”
Khnemes brought forth his pouch, and shook some grains of the dark sparkle-dust into his open hand. “Do you know this powder?”
Qesf took a brief glance. “It is tahn, sir. That is to say, mica: a glittery dust of no value.”
“Has it any purpose?” Khnemes asked.
“Only one, sir, to my knowledge. It is an ingredient in eye-paint. The apothecaries, when blending their wares, sometimes add a bit of mica if the eye-paint is destined for a lady’s eyelids. Some women of Egypt believe that a sparkle of mica in their eye-paste will increase their beauty. I am certain that this dust has no other use.”
Just then a shout erupted from abovestairs: “Ahai! Landlord! Send a eunuch to my wife’s room with two portions of breakfast!” With a belch in his voice and a lurch in his step, Perabsah came downstairs and through the inner doorway to the main hall. Perabsah’s steps were unsteady, his headcloth was askew and his shent apron-kilt was more clumsily knotted than usual. A gold ring glittered in his left ear. Now he belched again, and gestured at a nearby porter. “You there, boy! Give us some air, will you? Open the doors!”
The porter bowed, and flung open the antechamber’s doors to reveal the lodging-house’s doorkeeper on duty in the vestibule. This servant saw Perabsah, and made haste to open the outer door leading to the Street of Two Plumes. The second day of Opet was in full cry, and as Khnemes looked through the doorways, he could see some portion of the festivities.
Outside the house, a crowd of revellers had assembled. Some of the men and women wore revel-masks of linen and papyrus, painted and shaped to resemble the heads of various animals. At the centre of the crowd, two women were performing a mirror-dance. They stood facing each other, so that Khnemes beheld them both in profile: they were dressed identically and wore matching wigs. While several female minstrels played flutes and six-stringed harps, the two women swayed in unison: approaching each other, then backing away. Each dancer’s movements and steps were a perfect copy of the other’s, but reversed right and left: as if each woman was her counterpart’s reflection in a mirror. Khnemes was vastly impressed: these two women were so skilled in their art, it was impossible for him to tell which was leading the other.
“Do the ladies entice you, Khnemes?” Near his elbow, Khnemes scented Perabsah’s foul breath, seasoned with sour tamarind-wine. “Forget those wenches, my servant: their favours grow stale. Let me show you a beauty that is eternal.” Perabsah dug into a pouch at his waistband, and brought something forth. “Mah’ek! Behold thee!”
Perabsah was clutching a huge emerald, nearly the size of his fist. The emerald was raw and uncut: a bright green six-sided prism, in the shape of a near-perfect cube. Sunlight from the open doorway lit the emerald, filling it with a quiet deep glow like green sea-water. Green, the colour of rebirth: the colour of life beyond death. Perabsah smiled proudly, turning the precious stone one way and then another: Khnemes could see no flaws within it. But now he noticed a familiar odour, in unfamiliar quantities: the scented oil from Perabsah’s vanity-phial. Was Perabsah anointing himself more liberally than usual?
“I bartered for this in the marketplace last night, from some jackal of a tomb-robber who failed to reckon the worth of his own plunder.” Perabsah smugly pouched the green stone as he spoke. “When the fool plucked this bauble from an unknown tomb, he likely thought that he was snatching a pretty piece of coloured glass. Naturally, I indulged his misbelief.”
Khnemes was scandalized. “Heri sa’ur! That jewel belongs to the dead.”
“The dead own nothing except their own dust.” Perabsah slapped the bulging pouch at his waist. “Should I search all the tombs of Egypt, and ask the dead to claim their property? If any corpse owns this bauble, I shall keep it safe for him until he meets me in the afterworld.”
Suddenly, from the courtyard came the sounds of battle, and Khnemes drew his dagger. There was civil war within the provinces along the border between the two Egypts; had this warfare now reached Thebes?
Khnemes stepped into the antechamber as the women finished their mirror-dance and gathered the trinkets flung to them by the crowd. As the dancers’ audience dispersed, Khnemes saw what he had overheard: the mock battle between Good and Evil had begun.
In the public square outside the lodging-house stood two armies, arrayed with wooden swords and leather shields. On one side, their bodies painted red, stood proudly the gallant Companions of Horus. At the far end of the square, hunched and lurking in their yellow-painted stealth, stood the insidious Accomplices of Set. The outcome of this war was preordained, of course . . . but first the crowd would be treated to some spirited fighting. At the edge of the throng stood two tall men, wearing kilts of coarse grey linen, and clutching tipstaffs with heavy bronze knobs. Recognizing their uniforms, Khnemes was grateful that the constables of Thebes were on duty. The Opet festival was notorious for its violence . . . but for now, at least, the violence was counterfeit. With a loud clack-a-kack of wooden swords, the mock battle began.
“Does the battle arouse you, Khnemes?” asked a female voice nearby. Merytast was here, clothed in an elaborate gown and her favourite wig. Perabsah’s wife stood by his side in the antechamber, both of them watching Khnemes as he sheathed his dagger and observed the staged battle. At a discreet distance, two of Merytast’s handmaidens awaited her command.
“Yes, neb’t-i: sovereign-my-lady. The battle indeed arouses me,” Khnemes answered, carefully studying the eyes of his mistress. Merytast’s eyes were brightest green, like smaller versions of Perabsah’s stolen emerald. The lady’s eyes were rimmed with black smedyt, yet her dark eye-paint showed no glitter of tahn. Khnemes continued: “I mean of course the true war between Good and Evil. Not the struttings of these soldier-dolls.” Khnemes gestured scornfully at the counterfeit warriors while he peered over Merytast’s shoulder at the faces of her two maidservants. Their eye-paint was plain black as well: it is unwise for a maid to be more gaudy than her mistress.
“We leave for home today, Khnemes,” said Perabsah, stepping towards the doorway and spitting a gobbet of natron into the streets, then turning away without bothering to see if his offering had spattered any human target. “You recall the dead man who served my tefteftef Rekhseth? We must convey him and his coffin to my estate, and give him a respectful burial. Summon all the slaves and porters of my retinue, and bid them to prepare for our journey downriver.”
Merytast beckoned to her handmaidens. “Attend me, vessels of my whim. Let us go abovestairs, to make ready for the journey home, and leave these men to their busy cleverness.” Merytast patted her husband’s arm affectionately, then led her attendants away. The obedient Qesf, overhearing his master’s words, had already gone off to notify the other slaves.
Khnemes turned towards Perabsah. “Is a river journey wise just now, neb-i? The course of the Nile between Thebes and Karnak must be kept clear during the Opet festival, so that the barge of Amun-Re can have free transit through the Holy Mile. Each morning, the god’s barge is towed upriver so that Amun-Re can visit his goddess-bride. Then, each evening until the last night of Opet, the barge of Amun-Re goes downriver to Karnak again, and . . .”
“Would you prefer that we journey overland, by camels or chariots?” Perabsah straightened his headcloth. “The borderlands between Egypt’s torn halves are filled with
bandits and violent factions of the civil war. I would rather see my wife ungentled on the turbulent Nile than place her within range of a bandit’s arrows. After we pass downriver from Karnak, the Opet rituals need not concern us. We will . . .”
“Pardon, my sir.” A doorkeeper of the lodging-house came pattering towards Perabsah, and made an obsequious gesture. “A visitor asks for you.”
“Ehi! Yes, that must be the scribe I sent for.” The shouts of the mob grew louder as the mock battle neared its climax, while Perabsah turned towards Khnemes: “Did you think, my steward, that I wasted all the first night of Opet in drunken revelry? Last night, after you left, Qesf informed me that a scribe-priest from one of the local guilds was offering his services to anyone who might give a donation to his temple. I wish to have those cartonnage fragments read before we leave Thebes, so . . . ahai! Here he comes now.”
Khnemes assumed that this scribe must be Nask, and he was about to tell Perabsah that the fekhet-priest’s services had already been rendered. Yet now a man came through the portals, carrying a Thoth-case on a loop of cord, and Khnemes looked up, expecting to see once again the tall monk of Hathor’s temple. But, nan’t: this was some other man.
This scribe was shorter than Nask, and the pattern of his hair was different from Nask’s tonsure as well. This man was a sem: above his right ear, he wore the long braided sidelock of the semu scribe-priests of Ptah, whose scalps are otherwise shaved bare. This particular sem had a week’s worth of stubble on his head, and his sidelock was poorly braided: these signs told Khnemes that this sem was probably a less scholarly man than Nask. Indeed: the sem’s kilt was short, and had no apron, which showed that his priestly rank was not especially high. His face was smudged, too. Egypt has indeed fallen, Khnemes thought, if the priest-guilds of Ptah are recruiting men such as this.
The sem made the heart-cupping gesture of greeting, and introduced himself: “Enuk Uaf,” he said, with his mouth full, revealing the worst set of teeth Khnemes had ever seen. His breath conveyed the stench of the tombs. This scribe Uaf was chewing a large wad of natron, yet the powerful desiccant failed to perform its traditional task, for the odour emerging from Uaf’s diseased gums made Khnemes want to retch. A trickle of black drool formed at the corner of Uaf’s mouth; he wiped this away with the back of one hand.
Khnemes was on the brink of telling Perabsah that Uaf’s services were unwanted, because the cartonnage-text had already been deciphered by Nask. But this sem-scribe might be useful after all. Although Khnemes was illiterate, he knew that hieratic text could conceal many subtle layers of meaning. If Uaf’s reading of the cartonnage fragments resembled Nask’s version, Khnemes would be confident that both scribes had read the papyri truly. “Wait here, sem,” he said now to Uaf. “I will go upstairs, and fetch your study-text.”
Khnemes stepped past Uaf and towards the staircase. But Uaf stepped forward at the same instant. The two men collided, causing Khnemes to lose his balance and jostle Perabsah. “Take care, sir!” cried Uaf, dropping his scribe-case and reaching forward to catch Perabsah’s waist.
“Touch not my master, you of Ptah!” Khnemes doubled his fists, but the slovenly sem-priest let go of Perabsah and extended his hands – palms empty and upraised – to show he meant no harm. Uaf’s fingertips were stained black from the ink of his scribe-tasks, with a few flecks of red ochre. Uaf stepped away from the outer doors leading to the antechamber, to let more sunlight into the main hall while he shielded his smudged face with one hand and gestured broadly with his other arm. “I only meant to help . . .”
“Really, Khnemes,” said Perabsah. “The scribe touched my person, but he did not diminish me. In fact, I . . .” Perabsah’s eyes widened in panic. He touched the bulge at his waistband, then he sighed with relief. “Praise be to Osiris, god of green things: my prize is still safe.”
A sudden roar of triumph from the courtyard made Khnemes turn. The Companions of Horus were about to defeat the Accomplices of Set. Through the open doors of the antechamber, Khnemes saw one warrior break free of the battle and rush towards the lodging-house. This man wore a revel-mask resembling a bird of prey. It made him seem like a hawk-headed god, and Khnemes had a sudden recognition: Today is Tepi Hathyr, the first day of the month named Chamber-of-Horus, honouring the hawk-god. This man must be one of the Companions of Horus in the priests’ mock battle.
But something was wrong. The hawk-headed man clutched a longbow, with its arrow already nocked: a strange weapon indeed for a staged battle. Khnemes had just time to shout a warning as the hawk-headed man raised his longbow and let the arrow fly. Something whistled past Khnemes, and then Perabsah screamed and fell, with an arrow piercing his chest.
“Rehan tu! Stop, assassin!” With his dagger drawn, Khnemes ran towards the antechamber. The doorkeeper came forwards, but the hawk-masked slayer swung his bow and sent the doorman sprawling. Khnemes helped this man to his feet while keeping his frantic gaze on the figure of the fleeing bowman. “You! Seal the doors of this hall from within, with yourself inside to guard my master!” Now Qesf came running, and Khnemes shouted to him: ‘Qesf! Seal this door from without, and the hall’s other entrance as well, and summon a physician! Keep the doors sealed while you stand guard. Hurry!” Khnemes shrugged off his sling-bag and flung it to Qesf, then raced down the steps of the lodging-house, into the street.
The assassin was running into the Street of Two Plumes: this was a wide straight avenue, giving Khnemes a clear view of the archer as he fled. As Khnemes ran into the courtyard with his dagger drawn, suddenly he was surrounded by masked men with swords. They attacked him, and Khnemes had just enough time to see that he had blundered into the mock battle between the forces of Good and Evil: each set of warriors had mistaken Khnemes for a soldier on the other side of the battle. The legions of Horus and the legions of Set were all thwacking at Khnemes with their wooden swords, and he had to defend himself without harming these play-warriors who thought this was a game. “Sebenthen! Away, fools! Give me room!”
Harp-pluckers and flute-toodlers scattered as Khnemes rushed on down the Street of Two Plumes. He kept one eye towards the fleeing back of his quarry while he searched the crowds for the familiar grey kilts of the city’s constables. There’s never a policeman around when I need one, Khnemes thought angrily. He could see the assassin ahead, running westwards, with his longbow clutched fast in his left hand, and a bundle of arrows slung over his back. The masked bowman had a considerable start, but Khnemes swiftly narrowed the distance until he was close enough to observe a distinctive scar on the right shoulder of the hawk-masked assassin. Suddenly, at a crossroads ahead, the murderer turned leftwards and fled down a side street.
Khnemes cursed as he ran. Now he turned at the same crossing, and was met by two women in fishnets, who blocked his path while gesturing enticingly. “Tarry with us, proud Nubian,” said a wigged harlot, beckoning at him with her fingernails dyed in bright henna. “Does your dagger seek a sheath?” Khnemes lowered his weapon, and held his other hand empty to show these harlots that he had nothing to barter for their services. “Eunuch!” “Boy-lover!” the net-wenches cursed him as Khnemes rushed past.
In a street ahead, the bowman stumbled. His bundle of arrows came loose and scattered. He turned to face his pursuer, and Khnemes saw the eyes of the hawk-mask peering into his soul as the killer raised his weapon and flung it at Khnemes. The longbow fell into a puddle, as from round the corner a crowd of half-naked Egyptians in carnival masks came rushing towards some unseen revel. Up ahead, Khnemes heard distant drumbeats: Doom! Doom! The hawk-headed predator changed course, and vanished into the crowd.
Khnemes reached the puddle and snatched the longbow as he ran, hoping it might yield some clue to the killer’s identity. The crowd was moving towards the drumbeats. The murderer had vanished in the wave of celebrants . . . but his sudden invisibility meant that he was moving in the same direction as the crowd, or else his movements would be seen against the current of the mob. Khnemes
ran along the edge of the throng, searching the sea of bright masks.
A face rolled past him in the gutter, and Khnemes recognized the hawk-faced mask of Horus: lost or flung away by the fleeing assassin. Khnemes reached to claim the mask, but a ragged boy snatched it and clapped the mask over his own head, then ran away whooping in triumph: “Enuk Heru! Mah’ethen! I am Horus! Behold ye all!” With an oath, Khnemes plunged into the throng, and the drumbeats grew louder as the mob of revellers reached a crossroads.
The crowded streets of Thebes became suddenly empty, and Khnemes felt a dark dread as he saw where he was: the killer had fled directly into the Avenue of Rams, the broad concourse of western Thebes leading to the docks of the Nile. The central portion of the avenue was clear, for the mobs had stepped back to make way for their god.
Forty chanting priests of Amun-Re came striding towards Khnemes, bearing on their high shoulders the immense golden Ship of the Sun while they intoned in unison the Hymn of Opet. From the prow of the sacred barque, a massive effigy of Amun-Re glowered down at his lowly disciples. Doom! Doom! Doom! beat the oncoming drums. At the head of the procession strode a tall man in the robes of a priest, his height made even more imposing by the high bottle-shaped headgear he wore: the Stethta, the White Crown of southern Egypt. Khnemes felt his heart turn cold with awe, for this man could only be Piankh-Himself, the High Priest of Thebes who had taken advantage of the civil wars to declare himself king of Egypt’s southern lands.
Doom! Doom! Doom!
Nine thousand citizens of Thebes stared at Khnemes, as he stood in the middle of the bare street with his dagger in one hand and a longbow in his other hand, while the Ship of Amun-Re came striding towards him.
“Seize him!” shouted someone in the crowd, and Khnemes saw a thousand outstretched hands pointing directly at him, while a thousand tongues cried sacrilege. “Seize the Nubian! He seeks to murder Amun-Re!”
